by Jerry Cole
“Nice to meet you, Bjorn,” he finally said. “My name is Michael Campbell, but my friends call me Mickey.”
“Mickey,” Bjorn replied, looking him up and down. “I can’t tell if that fits you or not.”
“It probably doesn’t,” Mickey replied, shrugging his shoulders. “But you know, I’ve gotten quite used to it over the years. So I think I’m going to go ahead and keep it.”
He smiled at Bjorn. Bjorn smiled back at him, his cheeks red and his heart leaping in his chest.
Chapter Nine
“So are you going to get anything, or…?”
Bjorn looked down at his hand. He had been holding change in his palm all this time, and he hadn’t even decided which drink or candy he was going to buy. He shook his head and smiled, slightly amused at himself. He was being ridiculous. He knew that he was being ridiculous and he couldn’t help himself. He was happy that Atlanta—Mickey, he had to start thinking of him as Mickey—was right there, next to him, but what did it mean? Being around this guy made him overanalyze everything. It made him question everything that he thought was real. It made him question everything, period. Mickey was standing so close to him that the last thing Bjorn could think about was candy.
“Here,” Mickey finally said, standing so close to Bjorn that their shoulders touched. “How about I make the choice for you, and then you can decide how much you hate me?”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“American sweets,” Mickey said. “There’s only a few of them which are any good. English chocolate, now that’s something to write home about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s nice chocolate here too, but it’s kind of few and far between. I’ve been spoiled.”
“You don’t look spoiled,” Bjorn said, then practically clapped his hand over his mouth. Being around Mickey clearly led him to do things without thinking about them, and that was never a good thing. He was sure that things would get very messy for him if he didn’t start thinking things through. Whatever that meant. “I meant—I don’t know. I don’t know what I meant. I swear I didn’t mean anything bad by it, though.”
Mickey laughed, throwing his head back. He crushed the can of beer that was in his hand, moved over to the trashcan and aimed it at it. He threw it and missed, shaking his head and laughing as he bent down to pick it up. It wasn’t the typical way a person would bend down; at least, Bjorn didn’t think so. He was on all fours like—like a girl or something, his ass sticking up in the air. Bjorn wasn’t sure, but he thought that there was a chance that Mickey was showing off. He had told him he was gay. Maybe this was the way he showed off when he wanted to. Maybe he had misunderstood Bjorn. Bjorn had tried to make it clear that he was straight, after all, but there was a chance that he hadn’t gotten it. He did get the feeling that people very rarely said no to Atla—Mickey. He got the feeling that people rarely said no to Mickey. Maybe that was why he was showing off like that in the first place.
The realization that Mickey’s antics may have had nothing to do with Bjorn and everything to do with himself made Bjorn’s heart flutter in his chest, but not in a good way. Before, the heart flips had been pleasant, almost welcome. These made him feel panicked. Inadequate.
Bjorn knew that he was terrified. He just wasn’t sure what he was terrified of.
“Earth to Bjorn,” Mickey said. In the time that he had zoned out, all while staring at Mickey’s ass, Mickey had stood up and had walked back to where he was. He was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Bjorn, looking up at the vending machine, as if nothing had happened. As if things were just totally normal and made perfect sense.
“Sorry,” Bjorn said, shaking his head. He liked the way that his name sounded in Mickey’s mouth. He liked the way Mickey’s mouth moved. “I’m just, I don’t know. I guess I’m really out of it. The last few days have been really surreal.”
“Get the peanut butter cups,” Mickey said. Bjorn wondered if he was ignoring him. “If there’s one thing Americans know how to do right, it’s peanut butter.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Bjorn said, glad to change the subject. “I love some peanut butter. Do you want anything?”
“No,” Mickey said. “I can get my own sweets.”
“Yeah, but,” Bjorn replied, swallowing. “You did come with me. After I bothered you. So really, it’s the very least I can do, right?”
“No,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “I think that’s kind of bullshit. Just because I walked you to the vending machine?”
“Well, it’s not just because you walked me to the vending machine,” Bjorn said, feeling a little bit embarrassed, which he was sure was going to turn into mortification the more he kept explaining it. “It’s because you’re—okay, so I didn’t tell you this last time, but I’m such a fan. You’ve been such a huge inspiration to me.”
Mickey raised his eyebrows, his eyes shimmering under the yellow light bulb. “I have?”
“Yes, you totally have,” Bjorn said, probably far quicker than he should have. “I’ve been such a fan and, to be honest, from the moment you were first talking to me, I couldn’t believe it. It was a life-long dream, well, okay. Maybe not a life-long dream, but a long enough dream that I thought it would never happen. I thought maybe I would get to shake your hand when you were giving out autographs or something, and then you were like, right next to me, talking to me. As if I was somebody.”
“Right,” Mickey replied, tilting his head. “Until I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” Bjorn replied. “You really didn’t. It may not have been what I was expecting, and it—”
“What?”
“I’m straight,” Bjorn said, when he saw Mickey’s face. He didn’t want to crush his hopes, but he had looked so happy. Almost exhilarated, as though Bjorn’s words were the prequel to a rappel jump or something like that. But Mickey shouldn’t have been that hopeful, because Bjorn was straight. He could have said something to Mickey about how he had made him feel lately, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, exactly. He wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to act, how could he be sure about what to say? He wished he hadn’t picked the words he had, though, because as soon as he said them, Mickey’s eyes widened and he took a couple of steps back. Any intimacy that they had had before, any time that they had spent bonding—if that was what it could be called—had instantly evaporated the moment that Bjorn had chosen his words. He wished he could take them back, but he was. That was how he felt. He was straight. Whatever was going on with this person, it could have been a million things. But it didn’t stop him from being straight, at least not as far as Bjorn knew, and Mickey had to be aware of that.
Even if it hurt. Though it had no reason to hurt, because he barely knew Bjorn. And that was a statement of truth. It should have been as easy as saying “the shirt I’m wearing is white” or “My favorite food is lasagna.” Except he was pretty sure that not one of those sentences would have the consequences that this one had, and he didn’t like it at all.
“I know,” Mickey said. “You don’t think I know that? I know that.”
“I’m sorry,” Bjorn replied. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, it’s just that—”
“I’ve come on to you, and now you’re afraid the great gay boogie man is going to get you,” Mickey replied, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t worry, I promise that the gay isn’t catching. Trust me, I’ve tried to give it to enough people. It doesn’t fucking work.”
“No, no,” Bjorn said, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean anything like that.”
Mickey raised his eyebrows, looking extremely skeptical. “Look, what you think, what you don’t think —it’s none of my damn business, really. If you’re telling me to back off, then I totally get it. Really, I should have when we first started talking, but…”
He trailed off, looking away from Bjorn. There was no way for Bjorn to tell, but he thought that Mickey might be upset. Which made no sense. Mickey coul
d do so much better than him. Bjorn had proved that by the way he had decided to talk to him.
Bjorn opened his mouth to tell him it was okay, but then he looked at the floor and blushed again. “It has been really surreal,” he said, swallowing. “And I—I don’t know. Meeting you rattled something in me. Like, when I say I’m straight, it’s not because of you. It’s kind of to remind myself that I am. That I am straight, if that makes any sense.”
Mickey’s eyes widened and he dropped his arms to his sides. “Wait, are you telling me that you’re not sure?”
“No,” Bjorn said, shaking his head. He replied far too quickly, which he was sure made it sound like he was lying. But he wasn’t lying. At least he didn’t think that he was lying. Though maybe he was lying, maybe that was why his heart was going so fast and beating so hard in his chest during this conversation. “I mean, I am. I’m sure, I’m like, a little confused. It’s just, there’s something about you. Being around you, it—”
“Yes?” Mickey was staring at him, intently.
“It’s weird,” Bjorn finally said. He knew that it was probably underwhelming, but that was the best he could do. Being around Mickey was weird. Being around Mickey was different than being around any other human being he knew or he had ever known.
Mickey cocked his head and smiled. “Weird bad or weird good?”
Bjorn closed his eyes as he considered Mickey’s question. He didn’t want to say something that might offend him, but he also wanted to be honest. “Weird everything. Being around you, it’s like all my senses are firing. Like your presence touches me in ways that I’ve never been touched before, and oh my God, that sounds really stupid, but I swear it’s how I feel.”
Mickey’s face stopped looking playful, acquiring an expression that Bjorn didn’t quite understand. “It sounds serious.”
“It is,” Bjorn said. “It’s really serious. I don’t understand it.”
Mickey nodded. “Do you want to?”
“Yes,” Bjorn said. Then he shook his head. “No. I don’t know. I’m afraid.”
Mickey nodded again, this time deliberately, slowly, looking right into Bjorn’s gaze as he did so. “Well,” he replied, after a little while. “It’s a good thing that I’m here, then.”
***
After Bjorn had finally decided which drinks and sweets he wanted to get, Mickey wasn’t really sure what to do. He could have left, that would have made sense. He could have gone back to his room on the twenty-seventh floor and enjoyed the view as he rubbed himself raw thinking about this guy’s beautiful lips, the way his mouth would probably look when it was wrapped around his hard cock. But things had gotten more complicated as soon as Bjorn—Bjorn, a ridiculous name for someone with such All-American looks, Mickey thought—had told him how he felt. It was one thing if Bjorn didn’t want him, which was what he had expected in the first place. It was another, much more complicated thing, if Bjorn didn’t know if he wanted him.
Mickey didn’t want to influence Bjorn’s journey, if it could even be called that. By Bjorn’s own admission, he was Mickey’s fan. That meant that he was much more likely to be influenced by the idea that he liked Mickey, rather than actually liking Mickey. Any other time, with anyone else, Mickey wouldn’t have even bothered to make that distinction. But Bjorn looking so lost and so beautiful at the same time, the fact that he had decided to share that with Mickey at all, that was enough to steer Mickey away from him. He was sure that, in a way, that was some sort of cruel irony. He had never been much good at literature, but he did like Shakespeare. Without all the blood and the gore, this felt very Shakespearean. As if life was intentionally making fun of him, tricking him because he was trying to be a good person.
And because Bjorn was so goddamn enticing.
And he was right there, all beautiful and quivering and afraid. Admitting he was afraid, even. Mickey wanted to hug him, tell him that it would be okay, and then he wanted to kiss him on the mouth. But he couldn’t do that, no matter how much he wanted to, because it wouldn’t have been okay.
If Bjorn wanted him, he would have to come to him.
He decided that, then and there, and he knew that he would stick to it for the rest of his life. Maybe, one day, Bjorn and him could be friends. Bjorn was a good player, more than decent, and Mickey knew that he had potential to be one of the best. Maybe, once the tournament was over, Mickey could teach him. He wouldn’t mind a protégé, someone to mentor. Mickey wouldn’t always be an e-sports player, and though he had made plenty of money, he had to admit that he quite liked the world. Drama and gossip notwithstanding, he had found some incredible people that also enjoyed playing, that enjoyed learning with him. He had made friendships that he knew where going to last forever, just from World of Heroes. He knew Syn’s parents; he had even been there at his half-brother’s baptism. Maybe this would be something like that, where he would eventually get to know Bjorn really well, and they would email and run into each other at tournaments.
He swallowed. He thought that the idea of that would make him feel better, but it just made him feel worse. He didn’t want just a little of Bjorn, this man he barely knew. He wanted all of him. He needed all of him. He just wasn’t allowed any. Mickey had to come to terms with that, so he nodded toward Bjorn and smiled. “Well, anyway, I better get back to my room. Y’know how it is and all.”
“No,” Bjorn said. “Please don’t go.”
He looked down at the handful of candy and cans of soda in his hand. Mickey raised his eyebrows, which made Bjorn clear his throat. “What am I going to do with all of these?”
“Eat them, I expect,” Mickey said, unsure of why he was asking.
“By myself? That kind of seems like a waste,” he replied. “And also, it seems kind of greedy. After all your help.”
“Yes, all my help with choosing peanut butter,” Mickey said. “How could you have coped without me?”
Bjorn looked down at the ground. “Look, if you don’t want to, that’s—that’s fine. It’s just that you were the one standing outside my door when I left and I thought maybe—I don’t know. This is probably stupid. I probably bought a bit too much candy, and I think it’d be nice to share.”
“You want to share your candy with me?”
“Yes,” Bjorn replied, nodding. “I mean, if you want. You absolutely don’t have to. I just thought maybe—okay, I’m going to shut up now.”
Mickey smiled. Part of him didn’t want to go with Bjorn, because it was just going to rub it in that he couldn’t have him. Another part of him really wanted to go. He had been sweet and vulnerable and incredibly open, the least that Mickey could do was take him up on it.
It was just sharing a few sweets in the middle of the night. It couldn’t have been more innocent. They were just going to go outside and share a soft drink.
“Fine,” Mickey said. “Alright, lead the way.”
Chapter Ten
Bjorn and Mickey sat in an enclosed garden on a bench near the pool. The little outside lights gave the whole thing a magical touch; the illuminated vines and roses climbing and covering the black fence made the unassuming garden look far fancier than it did during the day. Bjorn thought that it might be romantic, even, if he had been there with anyone else. With Mickey, it was just—well, it may have also been romantic, but it was surreal.
Bjorn grabbed the packets of sweets out of his pockets and handed a few to Mickey. Their gazes met for a second. Mickey’s eyes looked almost black under this light, instead of their normal green. The tiny lights around him illuminated the rest of his features, his high cheekbones, his straight nose, his perfect smile. Bjorn could hardly believe that someone that looked like that was real, even as he was busy staring at him.
Staring, that was what he was doing. He immediately looked down at his hands and started to tear a pack of candy open.
“So,” Mickey said, leaning back. His arm was now extended over the back of the bench, right behind Bjorn, so Bjorn couldn’t lean back himself.
Even if he wanted to. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”
“Well,” Bjorn started, still fumbling with the crinkly container. “I have a sweet tooth.”
Mickey chuckled. “I meant stuff I didn’t already know. I figured that out the moment that you decided to buy almost everything in the damn vending machine.”
“I don’t know,” Bjorn said. “I’ve never been very good at talking about myself.”
“Okay,” Mickey replied, nodding. “I get that. But you did ask me to come out here with you, so…”
“Yeah, to share candy,” Bjorn said, smiling. “Not information.”
Mickey cocked his head, looking right at him. “You don’t want to share information? I’d much rather have information than sweets.”
Bjorn’s eyes widened. “Look, if you don’t like sweet things, I don’t know if we can be friends.”
Mickey chuckled, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. “No, I love sweets,” Mickey replied. “I just have to look after myself. Like, obsessively.”
“Why?”
“Because part of my career are my looks,” Mickey replied. “Sugar makes my skin bad, so I need to be careful. I mean, not my e-sports career, though honestly, it kind of helps.”
Bjorn furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand. How does it help?”
Mickey was still looking up and, therefore, away. Bjorn wondered if he was trying to remember something, then Mickey spoke. “It kind of makes no sense, right? Why would my looks have anything to do with playing e-sports? See, I wasn’t always like, this confident.”
Bjorn raised his eyebrows. He could hardly believe that there was a time Mickey hadn’t been confident. “You weren’t?”
“No, I wasn’t,” Mickey said, laughing and shaking his head. “I used to be a lanky kid with bad posture. I mean, don’t get me wrong, deep down I’m still that same person. But things changed for me, and, I don’t know, I guess I realized that I could be whoever I wanted to be. That this career would let me get so far away from who I was that I could be anybody.”