Growing Pains

by Cass Lennox

  By the time he’d led them back to the parking lot, Gigi felt on top of the world. He’d taken them through the forest. He had. Okay, so maybe orienteering was easy when you knew the landmarks already and didn’t have to worry about being sweaty and disgusting because you were so fit from dancing. All that shitty hiking when he was younger and his sexy, energetic job had totally paid off.

  And by the looks of a very bored and alone Julian, they were the first ones back.

  Keith cheered when he realized, punching his fists in the air. “Yeah! Fuck yeah!” He turned to Gigi. “And it’s all on you, Local Hero!” He raised his fist and Gigi fist-bumped him. Ed and Luc clapped his back too.

  Goddamn. Gigi had had fun. In nature. With straight guys.

  What the hell was even happening anymore? Gigi needed some lip gloss or something, because this so wasn’t him.

  Only, it kind of was.

  Not everyone was so lucky as to have a local guy in their group. No one else showed up until the last half hour, emerging from the forest group by group until they were all back. Even Brock’s group was amongst the last to arrive, which Gigi found weird, because he was pretty sure Brock and his dad would’ve known this park better than he did.

  Brock shook his head when asked. “Nah, we didn’t do the course once we realized the coordinates were wrong. We just went to the quarry and back.”

  Dad grinned. “It was a good hike.”

  Brock nodded, and Gigi glanced between the two, wondering what had happened. They seemed to be all . . . chummy. They must’ve talked during the two hours in the forest, and if Dad had let any childhood Toby stories slip, Gigi definitely wasn’t going to let him give anyone away at any wedding, ever. But maybe Brock had talked to him about the fight as well? Dad was really good to talk to. He’d always been awesome at helping with problems. If his dad knew what was going on, Gigi felt better already. He’d help.

  All the other groups were waving the instructions at Keith, yelling about the mistakes. Julian had to step back on the fence and yell at everyone to calm down because, “It’s not about the course, it’s about having fun and bonding and shit, right, Alan?” (Alan shrugged.) “And anyway I hope you’re all hungry because it’s time to wash up and head out for food.” (Approving roar.)

  Gigi drove Brock, his dad, and an uncle back to the Rosenberg house. Brock was looking pale and kind of woozy all of a sudden, the big dummy—nature wasn’t kind to the injured, everyone knew that—so Gigi planned to get him home and lie him down on a sofa as soon as possible.

  At home, he found his sister amid a gaggle of women in the rec room—right, they were having a girls’ evening tonight—which put paid to the idea of stretching his guy out. Brock walked away into the house before Gigi could order him around anyway. His dad waded into the room to give Sophie a sweaty dad hug that made her squeal, and Gigi went to see if the shower was free. It wasn’t, so he decided now was probably as good a time as any to Talk To His Boyfriend, and he found Brock with a plate of food on a counter in the kitchen, scarfing it down as though lunch hadn’t been three hours ago. Unbelievable.

  “We are literally eating in an hour,” Gigi said.

  Brock swallowed. “I was hungry, and these are almost as good as Grandma’s eggs.” He took a big bite of mashed potato, and Gigi’s stomach roiled at the idea of all that cream and butter.

  “Ugh. Your waistline.”

  Brock winked at Gigi. “You’d still be interested.”

  “As if.”

  “You like meat too much.”

  Oh ha-ha. This reminded him of an evening last year, after they’d had dinner with Tyler and Evie, and Gigi had gone straight to the mirror in his bedroom to guess the age and weight of his food baby. Brock had followed, sighing, and told him he was wasting his time.

  Gigi had glared at his stomach in the mirror, slightly distended and wrong. God, he was never eating fried anything anymore. Raw, organic food from now on. In tiny portions. Lots of vegetables. Nothing but vegetables. And just enough healthy carbs to let him dance. A guy could live off of quinoa, right? Right.

  When he told Brock this, Brock leered. “Like you would ever give up meat.”

  Yeah, he saw the bait, but he didn’t bite—just glared at him. “I could! Do you see this?” He gestured to his stomach.

  “No. I really don’t. And I’d love you if you were fat and bald, so it doesn’t matter anyway.” Brock stood behind him and wrapped his arms around Gigi, pressing a kiss into his neck.

  “Maybe, Brock, it’s not about your love for me.” He angled his neck for another kiss though, and received it.

  “Uh-huh,” Brock murmured into his skin, slowly dragging his hands up Gigi’s chest.

  Gigi raised an eyebrow. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Sure.”

  He let Brock pull his shirt completely off. “Somehow I don’t think you are.” Brock’s stubble rasped against Gigi’s throat, and he shivered.

  “You’re so hot,” Brock breathed.

  Excuse him? Were they even looking at the same person? “Uh, the food baby and fat oozing out my pores right now say otherwise.”

  Brock drew him in against his chest and rested his chin on Gigi’s shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Gi. Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Seriously.”

  “One meal isn’t going to do shit. Even if it did, it doesn’t matter. You’re not your weight.”

  Had Brock completely forgotten the way Toby had looked back in the day? Gigi had tried, and it wasn’t so easy. “Uh, do you remember what I looked like at seventeen?”

  Brock grinned. “Yeah. Cute.”

  Gigi groaned in frustration. “Brock.”

  “So you were bigger—”

  “I was Fatty McFatfat—”

  “—but it didn’t matter. You were still amazing. And super cute.”

  Oh my God. This guy. How did he just say these things? Gigi was struggling to hold back a smile.

  Brock’s hands ran back down Gigi’s body. “What’s your deal with your weight anyway? As long as you’re healthy, that’s all that matters. And you exercise so much anyway. Flipping out over one burger doesn’t make sense.”

  Gigi hands raised to Brock’s and pressed them against Gigi’s abdomen, right next to his waistband. “It’s simple, my sweet, loyal subject. When I was a chubby teen stuck in Maney with unenlightened hicks, I was miserable. Now that I’m a smoking-hot queen dancing and acting in Toronto, I’m happy.”

  Brock frowned. “But you danced and performed in Maney too. Your weight didn’t stop you. Weren’t you miserable because of all the homophobic shit?”

  A lump had risen in Gigi’s throat. “Well. Yeah.”

  “So what does your weight have to do with that?”

  “It didn’t help, Brock. I wanted to be fabulous and beautiful, and everyone knows that means crack-whore thin.”

  Brock didn’t laugh. “You’d still be fabulous and beautiful if you gained weight. That stuff’s not related to weight.”

  “Oh my God, are you a closet chubby chaser?”

  Brock did laugh then, chest shaking against Gigi’s back. “No. Babe. You’re just not making sense. I’m bigger than you are, and you find me attractive.” His thumbs rubbed Gigi’s abdomen, distractingly close to Gigi’s dick. “Do you think you’ll stop being a smoking-hot happy queen if you gain a few pounds?”

  The thought clenched his insides. Yes. But actually, no. Because Gigi would never let that happen. And even if he did gain a little, it wouldn’t matter because he was a queen and he would make it work. “It just doesn’t help,” he mumbled.

  Brock kissed his shoulder. “I get it. You’re at your happy weight. Would you love me if I got fat?”

  Gigi blinked. “What? Yeah.”

  “Okay. Same logic applies to you.” A hot breath on Gigi’s skin made him shiver. “Good to know I won’t be dumped because I gained a few pounds.”

  “Oh my God. I am not that shallow.”

&nb
sp; Brock’s thumbs inched closer to Gigi’s dick, possibly helped a little by Gigi’s hands. “You are totally that shallow.”

  “Uh, I was a fat femme? I don’t propagate that shit.” Well, he tried not to. There were enough asshole gays out there demanding no fats, no femmes, no Asians, no bis, no uglies, etc.

  “Then don’t think it about yourself.” Brock turned back to Gigi’s neck as his fingers dug under Gigi’s jeans and shorts to brush the head of Gigi’s cock. Electricity charged up Gigi’s spine, and he closed his eyes in bliss, pushing Brock’s hands deeper into his pants.

  Damn, that night had been hot.

  Here in his parents’ kitchen, Brock waved his fork in front of Gigi’s face. “Gi? You here?”

  Gigi had a semi now. Great. “Yes. Stop distracting me. I’m not here to talk about you stuffing your face. We need to talk about your actual face.”

  Brock shrugged and went back to his food.

  “Your. Parents. What happened?”

  Brock’s fork paused above his plate. He took a deep breath, then said, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  Gigi stared at him.

  Brock stared back.

  “Not an option, boyfriend. Your face is hurt. You’re hurt.” Gigi reached over to stroke his hair. “You don’t get to avoid this.”

  Brock’s throat worked, and he stared back down at his food. “Look . . . this is not a big deal, okay? It was a long time coming.”

  It was?

  Brock shrugged. “But it’s okay. I think I’ve been disowned, which honestly is such a relief.”

  Holy shit. Holy shit. Gigi hadn’t been expecting that. “Why?”

  Brock watched him, brown eyes heavy with all sorts of emotions. “Because I’m gay. Because I’m not the son they want.” He sighed, his fork trailing through the carby mush on his plate. “I just can’t be in that family anymore. I don’t want to be.”

  Gigi’s heart ached. How could anyone hurt this guy? This one?

  “Babe,” Gigi breathed. He reached forward and pulled Brock to him, letting Brock’s head settle in the curve of Gigi’s neck. Gigi ran his fingers through Brock’s hair, cursing himself for not being more demanding. He should’ve ordered Brock to stay here. “You don’t ever have to see them again.”

  Brock chuckled sadly against Gigi’s skin. “Thanks.” Brock’s stomach growled, making them both laugh. Gigi scratched through his hair gently, and Brock closed his eyes. “Sorry about that—” he waved at his stomach and the plate of food “—I didn’t have lunch.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Nah. I, uh, didn’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Omigod, Brock.” Gigi dropped a kiss on his hair. “Honey. Sugarplum. Why didn’t you say? They have these things called smartphones, you know? You could’ve told me, and I’d’ve brought you food before orienteering.”

  Brock shrugged. “I’m telling you now. That feels really good.”

  Honestly, it was kind of nice to be touching him like this. Like, he’d been mad at Brock for so long that just feeling his hair now was so . . . peaceful. And easy. Easier than being mad. And Gigi was spitting mad. Not at Brock, but at his parents.

  Though, something was niggling at him. Gigi kept circling his fingers through Brock’s hair. “They disowned you for being gay? They left it kind of late. What a shitty weekend to do it.” It seemed so out of the blue. All of this was.

  Brock put aside the food, then settled his hands on Gigi’s waist and pulled Gigi even closer against the counter, pressing their bodies together, his face against Gigi’s clavicle, eyes closed.

  “Brock?” Gigi prodded gently.

  He exhaled long and deep, breath hot on Gigi’s chest. “I hadn’t told them before this weekend.”

  Huh. Well, that was annoying. It meant that over a year ago, when Brock had literally been on his knees in the street, declaring he was out to everyone and begging for a second chance, he’d been lying. And when Gigi had asked him later if he was out to his family, and he said yes, he’d lied again.

  The thing was, Gigi couldn’t work up any anger at that. Seeing the bruises on his face totally excused Brock. “Because they were going to do this?” He ran his fingers lightly over Brock’s cheek. It was more swollen. They really needed to put ice or something on it.

  “Or worse. I haven’t spoken to them in, I don’t know, like five years or something? A long time.” Brock opened his eyes and looked up. “I thought you’d be way angrier than this.”

  The hell? “Are you serious? Babe, we all know the bad coming out stories. I never expected you to be one of them, though. Why would I be angry at you for this?”

  “Don’t you remember what you said to me when we hooked up again?” Brock asked. “Right afterwards?”

  Gigi frowned. “Not . . . really?” He remembered sex. Really hot sex. Mmm.

  Brock scowled. “Seriously? The talk we had?”

  Oh. Maybe?

  Their first night, the one that had started with Gigi and Sarah setting Evie and Tyler up and ended with Gigi and Brock getting together, had been fucking magical and of course involved somehow magical fucking. That was literally the only reason Gigi could give for the sex being that amazing—magic.

  He’d lain next to Brock afterwards, hand lazily playing with Brock’s pecs. He’d finally fucked Brock Stubbs, and been fucked back, and it was everything he’d thought it would be. Exciting. Sexy. Sweet. Gigi’d pressed a hand over his smile, embarrassed at how pleased he was that this man was lying there.

  This was what he’d wanted at seventeen.

  His eyes flew open on that thought, because suddenly it was like he’d never left Maney or aged or slept with another guy. Gone was the ease and sexiness, back was the excitement and stupid, stupid hope of adolescence. Oh shit.

  Toby took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to figure out where his queen had gone and why his dumb awkward teenage self was lying here instead. This was going wrong. He’d wanted to bring Brock back and fuck him crazy several times over, to be witty and sexy and fun and memorable, not lie here feeling like he was going to explode from the awkwardness and inadequacy and sweetness of just lying here with this man. Gigi had retreated, actually disappeared, and Toby was on his own, next to the first guy he’d ever done anything with.

  Brock, somehow sensing a change in the mood, turned his face and kissed him. Toby’s chest swelled, because Omigod Brock is here and interested and still likes me, but deep in his stomach was this growing sense of it all being too good to be true, too raw and perfect.

  He broke the kiss and put his face against Brock’s shoulder, trying to figure out what this was, why he felt like this. He’d fucked dozens of men here, just like tonight, and lain here afterwards, just like this, but only as Gigi. Never Toby.

  “What’s up?” Brock said.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Hey, look at me.”

  “No. Go to sleep.”

  Brock kissed his hair and gently pushed Toby’s face away from his chest so they could look eye to eye. “What’s wrong?”

  Everything. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But totally everything because you make me feel things and I don’t know why. Why you? Why us? Why me?

  “This doesn’t make us boyfriends,” Toby blurted out.

  Brock’s eyes widened. “Uh, okay?”

  “I sleep with guys all the time. Like, all the time. So this is nothing special. At all. So don’t think this is special. Because it’s not.” Shit. Shit. What was he saying? See, this was why Toby was never in charge. Word vomit, and none of it was even funny.

  Brock had given him a searching look. “Can we sleep together again?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “But not as boyfriends.”

  “No.” Shit. “Maybe?” He had to rescue this somehow, before he ran his mouth and made sure Brock would never want to see him again, let alone fuck him like he’d done tonight. “Like, it’s not that easy.”

  Brock�
��s expression softened. “Oh. You mean . . . because of what happened? When we were teens?”

  “Yeah. Exactly. You don’t get to make that up to me by fucking my brains out. I mean, that helps. Totally helps. But I’m still pissed about it.”

  Oh God. Who did that? Who stayed pissed about something that happened like a gazillion years ago? Gigi would never have admitted that.

  Brock’s thumbs rubbed along the side of Toby’s face. “I told you how sorry I am about that. I really am. Gigi, I’ll do whatever I have to to make it up to you.”

  And why did Brock have to be so fucking nice about it? How was Toby so lucky? Just coming back here, still wanting him even though he’d seen Toby at the worst point of his life, was kind of enough.

  Toby’s eyes were starting to get all prickly. The words No, it’s okay, I get it, I’m just glad you’re here were on the tip of his tongue.

  Fuck. Abort! Abort! Abort!

  He dug deep inside and somehow brought Gigi LaMore up, fitting back into her like a comfy pair of sneakers. No, gloves. LaMore was classy as fuck. Classy, and a little annoyed for some reason, but always ready to help him out.

  She tossed her head, mentally squared her shoulders, and prodded Brock’s chest. “You better, sugarplum. I don’t give second chances to anyone. This is it, and you are going to work so hard for this.” There, that was more like it. Sassy. In control. Gigi could relax now.

  Brock’s eyes darkened. “Work hard, huh? That a promise?”

  “That’s a requirement.”

  “You got it, babe.”

  “That’s madame to you.”

  Brock grinned, so devastatingly handsome Gigi wanted to swoon. When he pressed his lips to Gigi’s ear and breathed, “D’accord, madame,” Gigi might’ve actually done it.

  Then they’d fucked again and woken up and blown each other, and somehow had kept doing that for over a year.

  But what part of that night was making Brock glare at him now? What had he said? Was it the making him work for it part? Maybe. Had Gigi even said exactly that? He’d said something like that.

  “You might have to jog my memory,” Gigi said.

  “You told me you don’t give second chances.” Brock’s eyes bored into his. “And I believed you, because in your shoes, I wouldn’t give second chances either. Not to me.”