What They Want

Ugh.

Asher, a reflective expression on his face, ran a hand through his messy and wild blonde hair, allowing the strands to fall around his forehead in a reckless fashion. His eyes were distant, almost lost in thought, as he stared intently out the office window. The sun was beating down brightly, illuminating the broad city of Los Angeles in a golden, warm hue, causing the city to appear as alive and bustling as ever before. However, despite the lively scene in front of him, his mind wasn't exactly in the here and now; instead, it was elsewhere entirely—somewhere firmly planted in the past, tangled up in a jumbled memory that had haunted and pursued him relentlessly for years.

"Sir, aren't you going to look through the candidates?"  Geraldine’s voice cut through the silence, polite yet persistent.

"No, Geraldine." His voice was softer and more subdued than normal, Geraldine knows why Asher is like this. "I don't like this shit, y'know?" 

Geraldine of course does.

Asher's mind had already wandered far away, transported back to a summer which appeared to belong to another era, to a sunny lemonade stand on the busy sidewalks of San Francisco.

The venture had been planned as a class project—a learning exercise aimed at teaching the fundamentals of how business worked. The task itself was straightforward: sell something, earn a profit, and gain the fundamental knowledge of money's worth in a hands-on fashion. His parents, being the practical and down-to-earth individuals that they were, had sensibly suggested he set up a lemonade stand. The choice was not only low-cost but unbelievably simple to set up, and with the scorching heat of the summer months, it was a near certainty that parched commuters would be ready to make a purchase.

That, however, was the limit of their involvement in the matter at hand. They offered no assistance or support in any form. His nanny had been explicitly instructed to keep an eye on him, but her brief was limited to watching what he was doing. So Asher had to do everything by himself, with no help or guidance from those around him.

The first hour that had elapsed was nothing short of a complete disaster.

He was quite a shy boy, frequently getting overwhelmed by human interactions. He was so painfully shy that even the prospect of shouting out to passing strangers appeared challenging for him. He tried multiple times to raise his voice, but his voice could hardly make any noise at all. At the moments when he attempted to pour the lemonade, his tiny and fragile hands trembled violently, causing him to spill the beverage everywhere. The sticky liquid that collected on his fingers, the unsold cups of lemonade that remained untouched in the scorching sunlight, and his growing frustration—it all got too much for him to bear.

His parents had always told him that life was hard. That no one would hold his hand. That he would need to figure it out. But there, scrubbing away tears of shame, he wished someone would.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a boy who seemed to be looking at him. The boy was slightly older, perhaps by two years, and was dark brown-haired in a way that caught the sun perfectly and reflected it back in a warm and welcoming glow. He had originally been walking with his cousin but stopped his progression and stood still to get a good look when he noticed Asher stumbling.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he moved ahead, in the direction of the lemonade stand.

"Can I get a lemonade?"

Asher looked up, taken aback.

He nodded quickly in agreement, his face set in a look of concentration, and held out both hands for the pitcher, determined to get it right this time and not spill anything. Despite this determination, however, his hands were still shaking from the nervousness that was coursing through him, and once more, as he poured, the juice splashed over the rim of the glass, spilling messily onto the counter beneath. Asher swallowed hard, his cheeks burning with the rising flush as frustration washed over him, but despite these feelings, he still managed to muster the strength to pass the boy the half-full glass, hoping that it would suffice.

The boy showed no signs of irritation. Instead, he smiled kindly as he reached out his hand to Asher, holding out a new, crisp dollar bill. "Thank you," he said gratefully.

However, rather than taking a sip of the refreshing lemonade that had been presented to him, he chose to set it back down in the very spot where it had originally been, in front of Asher.

"I purchased it for you," he said, nudging it toward him softly. "Take a drink. The weather today is especially hot."

Asher blinked. Perplexed.

The boy just laughed and handed him a tissue.

"Can I do something for you?" he inquired.

Asher hesitated. He was so used to fighting alone, to being told figure it out yourself, that he wasn't sure how to take help when it was offered freely. But there was something in the boy's easy smile that made him nod. Slowly.

The boy grinned.

And thus, he walked quietly beside Asher, not taking over or dominating him in any way, or making him feel incompetent or irrelevant, but rather offering his support and assistance.

He scooped the lemonade in a smooth and gracious motion, handing it over to the customers easily without hesitation, as Asher waited beside him, taking their money, counting the dollars carefully with his tiny, exact hands that moved with what appeared to be caution. The boy did not tell him to speed up. Rather, he continued to work beside him, shoulder to shoulder, as if they were indeed in this together, both of them bearing the burden of attending to their customers.

Slowly but surely, step by step, the little lemonade stand started to grow and thrive.

Customers began visiting the shop more frequently, attracted by the boy's warm and hospitable demeanor, along with Asher's diligent and responsible approach to his job. The sum of coins in Asher's tin slowly accumulated, with each addition causing the metal to feel weightier and more satisfying in his hand.

The aged nanny, comfortably seated on the porch, observed them with a weak, melancholic smile that reflected what she was feeling. A while back, she had genuinely wished to assist Asher during his time of need, but unfortunately, she had found herself unable to do anything. She had precise instructions to adhere to, which she was bound by. But upon seeing the boy standing beside him, offering counsel in a manner she knew she could never do for herself; it filled her heart with a silent sense of gratification and relief.

By the time the sun had begun to set below the horizon, the stand had made a lot more money than Asher ever thought possible. Enough to make his parents proud.

The boy stopped to look at the whole tin set before him, his gaze coming back to Asher, and a self-satisfied smile crept onto his face, reflecting his pride.

"Isn't it excellent, don't you think?" Asher could only nod in response, still lost in the throes of the battle with the incredible revelation that, for the first time in his life, he had not failed.

"Thanks a lot for allowing me to assist you," the boy told him, stopping to wipe his hands carefully. "I'll be seeing you, okay?" And then, in an instant, without warning or notice, he simply disappeared from our lives. Asher never saw him again after that summer. Did not even know his name. Yet that specific day had lingered in his mind. The generosity he had been shown. The love that surrounded him. The fact that, albeit for a mere instant, someone had decided to be by his side, supporting him and making it all feel that little bit more bearable and less frightening.

Ugh.

Asher exhales once again, rubbing his temples.

"Geraldine, you go ahead and choose one. just choose one that will not be too much trouble or pesky. While I step outside for a cigarette."

Without pausing to wait for a reply or any kind of reaction, he gets up, effortlessly pushing his hands into his trousers' pockets, where his fingers brush against the familiar shape of the pack of cigars and the lighter within.

That is a good sign.

He begins his ascent to the rooftop, and upon arriving, the refreshing cool wind warmly welcomes him as he enters the lush, serene company garden. The great city sprawls out below him, a gigantic vista marked by a snarled web of steel skyscrapers, shimmering glass facades, and a thick haze of smog, but Asher is not intimidated by any of it. He lounges effortlessly against the railing in a pose of indolence, deftly inserting a cigar between his lips before lighting it with a swift, practiced flick of his lighter. The initial drag burns harshly as it rips through his lungs, but the second brings a wave of comforting ease, which wraps around him in a calming mist.

As the smoke gracefully drifts upward, curling and twisting into the vastness of the sky, so too do his thoughts begin to rise and wander.

Another memory.

A summer's afternoon. The sun overhead, the sidewalk warm, the wind whipping by as he rode harder, holding on to the handlebars for dear life.

He and his neighborhood friends were excitedly racing their bicycles, their voices echoing with cries of laughter and glee as they rode down the steep incline with thrilling speed. It was not a leisurely ride; it was a competitive ride to determine who among them would be the first to reach the bottom. While Asher didn't think he was the most skilled rider in this group of friends, he was certainly not going to lose the race either and was going to give it his best shot.

Then—

His front wheel wobbled.

Too fast.

Too steep.

He pulled on the brakes too roughly, and instead of coming to the planned stop, his bike slid off to the side—

"Ah—!"

There was a loud crash.

Limbs tangled in a disorganized manner. The sharp and burning sting that comes with scraped knees. The heavy weight of his bicycle lying on top of him, forming an uneasy pressure.

Next to him, Jessica groaned, cradling her own scraped elbows. Her bike lay tangled beside her, the front wheel bent beyond repair. "You bloody idiot!" she shouted with a voice wavering unsteadily between hot fury and the acute need to cry. "Look at what a mess you made!"

Asher winced, not knowing if the sear in his chest was due to the fall or her words. His own bike wasn't much better—his brakes completely shot.

Their friends rushed to assist at once. Three of them got together to make a tight circle around Asher and Jessica, busily cleaning their cuts and scrapes, and two of them took off in a rush, running and yelling back over their shoulders— "Jessica's brother is home! We are going to get him!"

The air was thick with the enticing aroma of grilled meat blending beautifully with the pungent aroma of charcoal, all while a faint hint of motor oil lingered in the distance, a reminder of hard work and labor. Jessica's brother stood guard outside in the yard, busily turning over sizzling burger patties on a hot grill, sending tempting smoke signals into the air. Several of his coworkers from the auto shop had gathered informally around him, lounging lazily as they sipped from their cold cans of soda while speaking animatedly about cars, ongoing projects, and the daily grind of their workday.

Then, two kids came crashing into the scene—panting, red-faced, and desperate.

"Jess completely wiped out!"

"And Asher ran into her!"

"They're bleeding!"

Jessica's brother looked over his shoulder, his eyebrow rising in a questioning glance as he placed the tongs on the counter with a clang. "What's up? And what are you attempting to say?"

"And, their bicycles are busted!"

That got his attention. He let out a sigh, wiping his hands on a rag smeared with grease before crouching down to their level. "Alright, where's the damage?" he asked, his voice gentle but amused.

The two kids, their eyes wide with excitement and urgency, wildly gestured toward the direction of the street where something was taking place. Jessica's brother let out a second deep sigh, showing his reluctance, as he rose from the sitting position he was in. "You all go ahead and start without me," he shouted out to his friends who were waiting on him. "Looks like I need to deal with some troublemakers and straighten some things out."

His friends erupted into laughter, cheerfully holding up their cans of soda in a waving goodbye as he gave a hand gesture, calling the children to follow.

They saw Jessica and Asher sitting on the curb, scraped and sulking. Jessica, as dramatic as always, had her arms firmly crossed over her chest. Asher simply sat silently, fingers gripping the hem of his shorts as he refused to lift his head.

Jessica's brother got down on his knees to examine them first.

"Let me see," he said, stretching out his hand towards Jessica's arm in a gentle manner. She gave an exasperated sigh but eventually held out her arm for him. He then drew out a small rag from the bottom of his back pocket, dampened it thoroughly with a bottle of water that he had, and with careful precision began to wipe away the dirt that had accumulated on her elbow. While he did this, she winced slightly at the touch.

"Ow."

"Cut it out, baby," he kidded, grinning. "You'll live."

Then, he turned to Asher. “You next, kid.”

Asher paused but slowly extended his knee. It burned, the skin raw and red, but he did his best not to flinch.

No sooner had the cold water come into contact with his grazed skin than he involuntarily recoiled in response to the sudden sting.

Jessica's brother chuckled, shaking his head. "Not so tough now, huh?"

Asher's face burned with a deep color of embarrassment, and he couldn't help but pout, stubbornly looking away from the scene before him. Yet, even as he tried to remove himself, his ears were still keenly aware of the calm steadiness that rang in the older boy's voice, along with the easy confidence that was apparent in the manner he efficiently performed his tasks.

A few minutes later, after they had dressed their wounds, both of them were seen with fresh bandages conscientiously applied to their scrapes.

"Now the damage," Jessica's brother muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles in shock as he shifted his gaze to the bicycles. He whistled low when he witnessed the complete destruction that had been wrought because of the accident. "Yeah, Jess, you completely wrecked yours beyond recognition."

Jessica let out a frustrated groan, tossing her arms up in the air theatrically. "I know that!" she exclaimed emphatically.

A broad smile spread across his face, and then he turned towards Asher's bicycle, bending down into a crouch beside it. As he got into this crouched position, he reached out with his hand and ran it tentatively along the bent brake handle, feeling it gingerly with his fingertips to determine how it was.

"This one's repairable," he muttered, largely to himself. "Just requires a bit of adjustment."

He grasped it tightly, grabbed a wrench from the toolbox, and with a quick, even movement that attested to his skill, went to work at it purposefully.

And Asher… simply stood by.

How he worked, with so much grace and fluidity, easily turning screws and carefully tinkering with gears, left Asher's eyes wide with wonder. There was not a single moment of hesitation in what he was doing, no second-guessing that would suggest doubt—just a silent concentration and hands that did not shake once throughout the whole ordeal. He did it with such incredible ease and an unmistakable confidence that Asher could not tear his eyes away from the remarkable sight.

Yet what truly attracted his attention, even more than the amazing talent that he possessed, was the fascinating manner in which the bold fluorescent lights in the garage cast a reflection on his dark brown hair. The light made his hair almost darker than usual, appearing a deep, rich chestnut hue when viewed in the soft, artificial light of the lamps. The tousled strands of hair appeared perfectly unkempt, cascading around his face in a style that seemed completely natural, effortlessly cool, and totally unforced.

Asher could barely breathe. This older gentleman, who was engaged in his work with an air of calmness and a remarkable sense of confidence, emanated a vibe that was simply. incredibly cool. And there it was—his very first moment of clarity that hit him like a train. Asher yearned to live that way, longed intensely to surround himself with that effervescent energy and vivacity.

It was not merely the manner in which he fixed things with such ease that attracted attention, nor was it merely the manner in which he had some gift or another to make Asher feel so incredibly small and so absolutely insignificant compared to his grand skills. Rather, it was something far deeper—something elemental about the manner in which he perceived the world around him and with the effortless way in which he made even the most complicated of things appear deceptively easy.

On top of that, it was also apparent in the way his dark brown hair always seemed to fall perfectly into place, as if without any conscious awareness on his part whatsoever. The little kid in Asher, with a glimmer of hope and excitement in his eyes, smiled inwardly to himself. Maybe someday in the future, I'll be fortunate enough to be cool like that.

Asher smiled to himself, the cloying sweetness of the memory enfolding him. But it was short-lived, and a second later his hand crushed the cigar into the ashtray. His thoughts flashed back to another place, one which was not so sweet, and much more complicated.

Jessica's brother's wedding.

The memory was a bruise in his chest, painful and awkward. He remembered the fit he had pitched, the fury that had boiled up out of nowhere.

He hadn't wished to be there.

His parents had dragged him along, and the whole day faded into a cloud of confusion and anger. He could still recall the expression on Jessica's brother's face as he was at the altar, his own face radiating with joy as he pledged himself to the woman standing by him. Asher's small heart had balled up in something that made no sense to him then.

Why did it pain him so much?

He remembered the bitterness that seethed within him when he was in the backseat, watching Jessica so gleefully give away her brother to another woman. It was betrayal, although at that time, he could not have uttered it. He merely knew his heart wasn't on it, didn't want to witness the man he respected—no, the man he liked—be with another.

Asher shook his head now, realizing how much of that day had been based on feelings he hadn't yet learned to express. Back then, he had only felt the unfairness of being left out of something so amazing, but looking back, it was so much deeper. His younger self hadn't known it then, but now Asher could look back and identify it so easily.

He liked him.

The guy who fixed his bike and made anything possible for a moment. And when that guy married someone else, Asher felt it in ways that did not make sense.

Asher rubbed his temple, taking a quick breath as he turned on his heel. The resentful ache of that long-ago memory—Jessica's brother's wedding—still lingered in his chest, an odd weight he carried around for years.

"My day isn't going well, huh."

He took off his tie as he came back in, the fluorescent light of his office lamps feeling more stifling than ever. He entered to see Geraldine busily cleaning his desk, her gloved hands moving with practiced speed.

The moment she noticed him, she rose and crossed her hands over her waist in that always proper pose.

"Oh, sir, I conducted my research and discovered the ideal maiden."

He raised an eyebrow at the phrase, rolling his eyes as he sat down in his chair. His blue eyes, which reflected the anxiety-ridden, cold, distant sky outside, were nothing but wearily tired.

"Great. Glad that trouble is over with." He waved a dismissive hand. "Good job."

He sighed for what was already the third—no, fourth? Whatever—time that day.

"Get the car ready. I wanna go home." His voice was deeper than he expected, rubbing his nose bridge prior to growling, "Today is not my day. Ugh, let's just get this shit over with."

Geraldine nodded silently, not asking questions, and he heard her heels clicking as she went to see to it. A minute or so later, she was back with him, and they headed to the car park, the burden of the day heavy over Asher's every move.

Asher didn't say a thing as they headed out to the car, the bitter scent of the city's cold air slapping him in the face as they exited the building. The world ground to a stop, the February chill seeping into his jacket as they walked across the parking garage, the city's far-off thrum of activity closing in around them.

As they reached his car, Asher got in into the warm leather seats, the warmth inside giving him a fleeting respite from the cold numbness. Geraldine was already settled into the driver's seat, cranking the engine, and with a soft hum, the car began moving through the quiet streets.

The gentle purr of the engine was the only sound for a moment before Asher's mind reeled in the space between him and the glass wall.

He looked out, his gaze tracing the streak of neon lights and signs as the city rushed past. Nothing registered until, out of the corner of his eye, an ad blinked on a screen near him.

It was a scent commercial—clean and streamlined. A man in a tailored suit, sleeves rolled back with a careless air, exposing forearms with a subtle power. His dark brown hair, a little disheveled, shone under the light, his tan face radiating as if kissed by sun.

Asher's fingers jerked of their own accord.

"That man..."

The thought lingered there for a moment, and then—unexpectedly—his brain swept him away. He found himself being dragged away in the opposite direction by a transient ghost of a memory.

"Asher! Asher! Asher César."

The crisp voice of his name cut through his daydreaming fog. Asher shook off the haze of reality, his eyes blinking rapidly as he attempted to erase the memory that had begun to take over his mind.

It was the summer of 2005, Pinewood Grove summer camp, California. The great outdoors was not Asher's vision of a cool summer vacation, but here he was, plodding and going through the usual camp drills. Not exactly thrilling, but his parents had thought it would be "good for him."

"Mr. César, wake up from your daydream and go fetch some water from the river," his counselor, Mrs. Dorsey, told him, handing him a plastic container.

Asher let out a groan but did not complain. The sun in California was already hot, and with hours of walking, his back felt drenched with sweat. He took the container and proceeded down the dusty road, sidestepping massive trees until he reached the cool, running river. The river was crystal clear and cold, the perfect place to fill his container.

But the moment he stooped to dip it in the river, his brain locked up.

Upstream, there was a person. A boy, maybe 15 or 16, his back to Asher. The guy was knee-deep in the river, dark brown hair plastered to his wet skin as he ran his fingers through it. Water trickled down his sun-browned shoulders and back, shining in the sunlight as it ran off his skin. His shirt had been tossed casually over the boulders, leaving his chest bare. Asher's heart skipped a beat, his breath caught in his throat.

Asher's hands clenched into fists on the plastic container, the cold surface offering no comfort to the shock of heat he felt rising.

What was this? What was he feeling?

It wasn't admiration, only. It wasn't possible to be. The way the boy moved—like one of his dad's magazines' action-pack posters come alive—strong, confident. That was what Asher told himself over and over. But why did his heart nearly leap right out of his chest? Why did he experience this. squirmy tension low in his gut?

When the boy leaned forward, so Asher could see a glimpse of his broken jaw and the way his lips curled up as he pushed the water out of his hair, it felt like everything in Asher turned topsy turvy. He had to step back. He didn't even know how long he had been standing there gaping when the boy moved over his shoulder and caught him gaping.

Fear took over.

He picked up the bucket hurriedly, dove it into the river without bothering to see if it was level, and sped nearly back to camp. His face was burning, ablaze with heat as he moved at a pace beyond his own capability. He desired to melt away.

Nobody asked him about what had happened upon his return. Nobody seemed to notice that his self-assurance had faltered.

That night, in his sleeping bag, Asher couldn't get the boy out of his head. His face was burned into his mind, like a movie reel that wouldn't rewind. The dark brown hair, the coiled tension of his muscles, the small smile that made Asher's heart stumble. And there, in the quiet of the camp, Asher knew that the ache in his chest wasn't curiosity. It was something more.

He had felt something more.

He clenched his legs together in his sleeping bag, a reflex action to the strange stiffness in his lower body. His heart beat again, this time for a different reason. Was that it? He remembered things his school had taught him during pre-puberty sex education, those awkward explanations which tried to encompass everything. It was supposed to be natural, wasn't it? But why did it feel so strange?

The next day, even though it was not his turn again, Asher was eager to go fetch water once more. He wished—just a little bit—that the boy would show up. That maybe it would all become clear if he laid eyes on him once more.

But when Asher made his way to the river, there was no one around. The boy was missing.

And in spite of swallowing the disappointment that welled up inside him, something within Asher shifted. The feeling persisted, and as he made his way back to camp, he couldn't help but be haunted by the new questions that had seeded themselves deep within.

But for the moment, he buried them beneath the surface, not sure how to unravel the mess of feelings swirling inside his head.

Asher laughs openly, the laughter echoing in the car. He reclines back in his seat, shaking his head as he smirks to himself.

"Hilarious," he murmurs, "What a moronic kid I was."

Geraldine's eyes flick in his direction through the rearview mirror, but her face doesn't change from its expressionless mask, a glimmer of curiosity in the eyes.

"Sir, may I ask what has entertained you so?" She is calm, almost official in tone, as if asking the weather.

Asher sighs, the smile fading to a more tired expression. "Oh, nothing. Just. remembering how I thought I knew it all. And now, see what I've become."

Geraldine nods but does not press further. Instead, she goes on about the task at hand in an effortless way.

"Yes, Sir. However, I should inform you that I have already spoken to your parents about the ideal maiden that I have found for your evening engagement. They have kindly reserved a table at a most respectable establishment for you both."

Asher's eyes narrow slightly, a sarcastic chuckle escaping him. "Great. Just great." He leans back further, clearly uninterested. "You’ve gone ahead and set everything up, huh? No surprise there. But let me guess, my parents still think I’m just lying to avoid settling down with some woman they’ve picked for me."

Geraldine does not flinch at his words, continuing to speak in her measured voice. "Yes, Sir. They do seem to be of the view that this is a phase you are passing through, although I am sure they are doing their best."

Asher rolls his eyes, the sarcasm thick in his voice. "Best intentions, huh? More like they can’t seem to accept the fact that I’m not interested in women. It’s like they think I’m making it all up just to get out of this nonsense."

Geraldine smiles grimly, her lips curling into a half-smile, hardly perceptible. "I do believe, Sir, that your parents may have. certain hopes. One cannot blame them for such hopes, though I understand your sentiments completely."

Asher slumps forward, arms crossed, a resigned breath escaping him. "You know, Geraldine, you do take care of everything, don't you? Go on, take her for yourself. You've probably got more luck than I do with this whole 'ideal maiden' business."

Geraldine's smile never falters, yet there is a small, discerning glint in her eye. "I believe, Sir, that you are well-equipped to handle the situation, though it is undeniable that your own personal style when it comes to matters of the heart has been. unconventional."

Asher's smirk returns, but it is more for himself than for anyone else. "Unconventional? That's selling it short. I don't know why I even go to the trouble of all this. It's just one more dinner that I get to sit through."

Geraldine says nothing to that, simply nodding as she keeps driving them through the city streets, her eyes glued to the road. The tension between them drops again, weighted with the unspoken irritation of a situation Asher can't seem to extricate himself from. He stares out the window, watching the city pass, his mind far from the night ahead.

"Yeah, well," Asher mutters under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, "Let’s get this over with."

Finally, they pull up to the building. As the car comes to a stop in front of the sleek entrance to his penthouse building, Geraldine parks the car in the driveway and glances at Asher.

"You’re home, Sir," she says simply.

Asher nods, his fingers clenching on the door handle for a moment. "Thanks," he growls, his voice low. He doesn't even let her get another word out before he unlocks the door and steps out into the crisp night air.

As he walks into the expansive lobby, the silent hiss of the elevator brings him up short. The opulence of his penthouse ironically glimmers about him during these brief instants, high-rise windows containing the city scene below—so boundless, so wide out there, and and yet, here, he cannot shake a feeling of confinement within this life he cannot help but be unsure he understands.

The elevator doors swoosh open and he steps through, pressing for the top. The ride appears to last forever, although in reality it doesn't take any longer than a few seconds. The sight from his penthouse is stunning—city lights blinking in the distance, the entire skyline spread before him—but something about it is empty.

When the elevator comes to a halt, he steps out into the vast empty space of his penthouse, floors polished to a dazzling glow. The quiet of the apartment greets him, but it is not the quiet of the drive. This quiet is brutal, antiseptic, and it suffocates him. He crosses to the floor, over to the large windows, his face scowling back at him, but he doesn't even recognize the face in the glass.

He runs his fingers through his hair, standing for a long while. He does not bother turning on the lights—he does not need to. He is already used to the gentle light of the city pouring in through the windows.

Asher takes a deep breath, looking down over the city. Somewhere below him, his parents are cooking another meal for him, and he cannot help it.

He sighs and grumbles to no one in particular, "Let's get this over with."

Asher hastily shed his shoes off the second he stepped into his home, letting them drop wherever they might, which was randomly near the door. His tie was also cast aside in the same careless manner, left discarded in front of the door like an afterthought. He could hardly muster the strength to remove his coat, even though he had meticulously plotted to indulge in a warm, soothing shower before actually getting to sleep. But the gravity of the events of the day weighed him down, compelling him to stride straight towards his bed instead.

He walked slowly and casually to his room, dawdling with every step as the soft and warm light coming from the colorful cityscape outside filled the room with a soft radiance that was just sufficient to cautiously light his path through the darkness. When he finally arrived, he fell deeply into the welcoming plush bed, feeling an immense sense of relief flood over him as the stress that had accumulated in his body started to melt away entirely; he lay back comfortably and then drew the covers tightly around him, craving warmth and comfort.

He was mere seconds away from closing his eyes and succumbing at last to the gentle arms of sleep when—

Bzz.

The jarring ring of his phone resounded loudly on the nightstand next to him.

Asher let out a loud groan of frustration, stretching out his arm with a weighty and slightly languid hand to grab the device that was just within grasp. In doing so, the screen brightened up, revealing to him a group text from his family that had just come in.

An interesting image grabbed his attention. The note that was shown clearly and enthusiastically was: Michelin star skyscraper restaurant, where a booking was arranged for a fine dinner tonight. Surprisingly, his parents had somehow assumed that he would actually opt to go there.

He stared intently at the screen for a brief moment, his eyes scanning the data laid out before him. Although he did not care about the situation, the clock indicated that he could still win if he acted quickly. He tossed the phone onto the bed with reckless abandon, releasing a deep frustrated sigh as he settled deeper into the comfort of his pillows.

And just as his eyes began to flutter shut, as if to succumb to the gentle grasp of sleep, the familiar sounds of his childhood quietly slipped into his consciousness—

Utensils clattering. The hum of conversation. The soft chime of glasses toasting.

"Asher, happy birthday."

A voice—warm, familiar.

Fingers nipped at his cheek gently, bringing him back to the past and out of his daydream. Attentive once more, his aunt's face came into focus, and the grin that creased its surface was mischievous and cunning as she teasingly taunted him with a joke.

2007 – His’s 14th Birthday. A restaurant with a Michelin star.

The lighting was so sophisticated, casting a warm and inviting glow throughout the room, and the ambiance was unavoidably sophisticated and classy. The air was thick with the rich aroma of fine wine and gourmet cuisine that was likely too expensive for its own good.

He remembers.

The clinking of glasses, the buzz of polite conversation, the soft trills of a grand piano in the distance. The restaurant was lavish, its black-and-gold decor lending the night a royal ambiance. His name had been uttered so many times, in toasts, in congratulations, in the seemingly interminable string of good wishes that sounded more like a script than spontaneous.

The weight of expectation rested on his shoulders, but he smiled anyway. Laughed on cue. Played the part of the debonair birthday boy.

But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Across the table were his cousin's quartet, a presence looming in the periphery of his mind—except for one.

Dark brown hair. Tall. Older. Him.

It was an everyday moment to all the others, just a friend of his cousin's bringing him a gift. To Asher, it was not. His gaze settled on the older boy's face, his lips forming words Asher barely caught. The rich timbre of his voice became background noise, drowned out by the pounding beat of his own heart.

Asher stared, utterly captivated. His grasp on the box of gifts tightened, but he did not approach to open it. He just. looked.

Admired.

The angles of his face, the grace with which he moved—it was as though he were something dreamlike, something just out of reach of the fingers. His presence commanded one's gaze without effort. Asher's breath caught, his stomach lurching in a unfamiliar, dizzying way.

His cousin bumped him.

The spell broke.

Asher blinked, heat creeping up his neck as he finally was able to get out, "Thanks." His voice was gentler than he intended.

The older boy smiled politely at him and returned to his seat, completely unaware of the utter mayhem he had just caused in Asher's mind.

And Asher?

He swallowed hard, covering his hands with his lap under the table, feeling the slight tremble in his fingers.

What the hell was that?

Asher's parents shared a glance, their smiles strained but polite, as if they were still comparing him to some standard he would never meet, measuring themselves against him.

"Mom, I need to go to the bathroom," Asher growled, interrupting her before she could answer.

He walked by her, his haste tangible, not out of physical need but because something was eating at him, something he couldn't put his finger on. He grabbed his new ePhone—a birthday present from his parents—without giving it much thought and stuffed it into his pocket.

The bathroom door slammed behind him, and he sprinted towards the toilet, still attempting to brush off the sensation that had been gathering inside him since dinner.

Why was his heart pounding when he saw that guy?

It was something more than the familiar jitters. His body was responding to something he wasn't entirely aware of yet. He sensed this beforehand—but only to guys. specific guys?

Sloping over the commode, he retrieved the phone from his pocket and fumbled with it awkwardly. His friends had become phone masters, texting, browsing apps as though it were second nature. It was still new, still foreign to Asher—but now, he was utilizing it to do something he never imagined he would.

He opened the browser, fingers trembling slightly as he phrased his question out loud: "Why do I feel this way when I look at a guy?"

The answers glared back at him—mysterious, general answers that he couldn't figure out. He was sweating as he scrolled, speeding through the articles describing what happened, some about crushes, some about attraction, some about identity, but none of them speaking to him.

He shut his eyes for a second, breathing slowly in an attempt to calm down. But the heart? No problem, it just continued to pound away way too fast as it should have been, and this chest pressure didn't go away.

Asher looked back over at the phone, having no idea whatsoever what to do next. This was something more than something temporary, huh?

The silence of the bathroom too was not like before, now heavier. His fingers clenching the phone, the puzzlement churning within him ever more engrossing by the second.

What was he supposed to do with it all?

Asher lingered in the bathroom longer than he meant to, the pain churning through him like a tempest he could not subdue. His fingers danced across the ePhone, but he could not concentrate on it. His thoughts kept circling back to the question he could not answer: Why did he feel this way?

It was an eternity before there was a light knock at the door.

"Sweetie. are you all right?" His voice was soft, with a note of alarm underlying it.

He paused for an instant before he shouted again, "You've been in there long enough. did you get a tummy ache?"

Asher's stomach dropped to his floor. He could already sense the lie rising up onto his lips before it even had a chance to fully be. He didn't want to have to tell her that he had it. He wasn't prepared to deal with it, let alone attempt to rationalize it.

"No… uh, there isn't any toilet paper," he stated quickly in the hopes the subterfuge would suffice.

There was a moment's hesitation on the other side of the door. His mother's step was quiet as she shuffled off, most likely to the linen closet. He exhaled a silent breath of relief, his heart still racing.

He wasn't ready to explain things to her, not when he couldn't even explain things to himself.

Asher sat still, staring blankly at the bathroom door, still grappling with the rush of confusion inside him. The quiet buzz of the ePhone in his pocket seemed to taunt him, but he didn’t dare pick it up again. Just as he started to calm down, his mother’s voice drifted through the door.

“Asher, sweetie, I’m coming in.”

Before he could answer, the door creaked open. His mother entered, holding a roll of toilet paper, but what stopped Asher in his tracks was the man behind her—a restaurant waiter. The man was dressed in a crisp black uniform, standing out strangely in the warm confines of the bathroom.

"Here you are, honey," his mother replied, placing the roll in his hand with a worried but loving smile. "I thought you'd want this."

Asher's mouth was parched. He could not conceal the shame of the moment, but he attempted to maintain as neutral an expression as possible. The waiter would not meet his eye, his gaze on the floor, as if he precisely knew what the moment required.

"Thanks", Asher grumbled, not wanting to sound too excited as he grabbed the roll of toilet paper. His hand brushed against the waiter's for a moment, and for a second his chest constricted with a shock, a skittering, nervous sensation that ran through him.

His mother didn't notice, looking at the waiter with a radiant smile. "Thank you for your assistance," she told him, and the waiter smiled back, a courteous, almost aloof smile on his face. He lingered for only a few additional seconds—and then he departed, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as the door closed, Asher remained seated on the toilet for a minute, his head spinning in confusion. The short exchange had left him completely off kilter. His heart was racing, and the questions that had been perched at the back of his mind now were demanding and imperative.

Why did I get that? Why now?

He glared at the roll of toilet paper in his palms, attempting to hold on to something familiar. But even that was unable to stop the restlessness in his heart. Why couldn't he shake it out of his mind?

Asher panted, his thoughts still mired in shock. He hung the spare roll of toilet paper on the hanger, trying to push his thoughts back into some semblance of normalcy. The phone in his pocket felt heavier than anything else, as if bearing all his questions on it.

He tucked the phone back into his pocket, rose, and smoothed his clothes. He walked mechanically, a routine to escape thoughts bombarding his head. He opened the bathroom door and his mother stood waiting outside, smiling.

"There you are, sweetie," she said softly. "Everybody's waiting for you, it's time to cut your cake."

Asher grinned, wearing the mask, more than anything real. His mother's eyes were brimming with pride, and he hated how desperately he wished to leave this moment behind. She was proud of him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something strange about this evening.

Cold, dry air hung in the room. It wasn't even the sterile, clean walls of the restaurant that made him notice it. His parents were never cold, always had that flawless, immaculate face for everybody else to see. But this evening, it was acted—the fake one. All of a sudden, they were affectionate, showering him with all the attention that he never sought. He could feel the weight of their eyes upon him, and he felt more unreal, like one of those exhibits in a cabinet.

They returned to the party, and when Asher pushed the door open, his eyes looked first for the cluster of friends at the table. There in the midst of them, he was. Tall, dark-headed, handsome boy smiling, hailing Asher's cousin and their group of friends.

Asher's heart skipped a beat, but not the type of thrill that seemed to dance with joy. No, this was not that. A knot formed in his belly, a queasy ache. His gaze followed the boy as he laughed with the others, and for a moment, the whole world seemed to recede into the distance.

Why isn't he staring at me? Why isn't he staring at me?

It was his day. It was his moment. The day was his, but he could only question that guy—why wasn't he gazing at him?

The thoughts came rapidly, as a storm inside his chest was building up, and his mind was racing with trying to decipher everything.

The cameraman, catching the moment, took a few shots, freezing Asher's face into a scowl as he stood there, lost in thought. The photos, were anyone to see them, would depict his displeasure—his eyes unfocused, his face turned away. He should have been grinning, beaming with pride, happy for all the attention, for being the focus of it all, but he just felt this immense need to get up and leave, to walk out, to do anything but sit there as they all fawned over him.

But why?

Asher couldn't take his eyes away from the boy standing in the background, and as he glanced, he found himself growing angrier. What is going on to make him do this?

The solutions evaded him, but the power of his emotion made the hairs on the back of his neck crawl in discomfort. The boy continued laughing, chattering away, and seemed completely unaware of birthday boy.

What's the matter with me? Asher fumed, that knot twisting again within him. Was he stupid?

And his parents, naturally. They were speaking to him now, urging him to smile for the photos, to pretend everything was all right. They'd always been distant, cold and detached when it counted, but now? Now they were smiling, making sure he was perfect for everyone to see. It was suffocating, but on the outside, this version of them was all that counted. They were smiling, they were beaming. But it wasn't genuine to him.

His stomach groaned, his throat dry and parched. The tension was crushing, oppressing him, making him into a puppet more than a person. He was supposed to be over the moon, thankful, but all that crossed his mind was the kid in the midst of the group—and the fear of being nothing.

Tonight was meant for him, yet now he longed to disappear.

And then at last, the moment arrived to cut the cake. Asher was at the table, knife glinting in hand, poised to make a big production of it for the camera. His grin was broad and flawlessly rehearsed, a picture of the ideal birthday boy. But even as he raised the knife, his gaze darted around the edge of the room.

There, on the periphery of the crowd, the dark-haired man was looking at him—at last.

But rather than experience that spark of joy, something else flashed within him. Anger. Frustration. Asher's stomach clenched, and he could feel his face growing hot. The smile that had been so fake now felt like a too-wrong mask. The knife in his hand no longer felt like something to slice a cake with. It felt like a weapon.

Even before the singing stopped, he cut the knife through. It wasn't a slow, delicate cut—it was a stab. Hard. The knife cut into the cake with too much force, tearing it apart brutally.

The others gasped in shock, but Asher didn't care.

Without saying a word, he tossed the knife aside and strode away, shoving aside the crowd with an attitude that seemed calculated. His chest was constricting, and his head was reeling. His heart pounded agonizingly, and all he could do was get away.

Asher ran to the corner of the restaurant and ducked behind a pillar. He bent down, pulling his knees up to his chest, and started to cover his face with his hands. His breaths were ragged as his body convulsed with the intensity of his weeping.

The burden on his shoulders was suffocating him. His chest ached, constricted as if somebody was tying his hands over it, and the pain in his heart was so acute that it seemed as if he couldn't breathe. He was lost. Confused. Torn.

Why did he have to need the man to look at him? Why was it so important?

And why, when he did finally glance, did it look to Asher like it was only because he had to? That it wasn't genuine, that it wasn't because he wanted to be seen—but because he ought to.

Why does it feel so wrong?

The tears flowed, unchecked, as he clutched his legs more tightly, attempting to conceal the storm within himself. His feelings were a whirlwind, more than he could comprehend, and all he was able to do was weep. Weep because he did not know. Weep because nothing was comprehensible.

He wept because he couldn't understand why the boy who stared at him seemed to break something within him. It was as if having been gazed at, but in the most terrible sense.

Asher groans, the memory's pressure oppressing him as he slowly comes to. The ring of the phone and the room's sensation of being too small, too cramped. He glares upwards, his head straining for the conversation ahead.

"Ah, yeah, I got grounded that day," he grumbles to himself, his voice gruff from sleep and still-cooked anger. "Figures."

Taking a deep breath, Asher stretches, attempting to rid himself of the residual weight in his chest. His mother's phone calls never did bring good tidings—always some kind of trouble or reminder that he was stuck in their world of expectations. He can almost hear her voice on the phone, attempting to mold him into the shape she has already created for him.

The phone rings again, harder this time, waking him out of his daydreaming. Reluctantly, he picks up, thumb hovering over the screen before finally answering.

"Mom?" Asher answers, voice filled with a near-bored exasperation.

"Sweetie, it's time to get dressed up," the tone of his mom echoes clear, all sunshine and brightness as if she misses the tension in their whole relationship. "Your date is waiting outside, and we have to rush!"

Asher's face sets, his eyes darting to the corner of the room where his formal attire is in a messy heap. His gut groans in objection. Another awkward meeting. Another time he has to don the guise of ideal son, ideal heir.

"Yeah, I know," Asher says, his voice turning chilly. "I'm getting dressed."

He hits the end button, putting the phone down beside him on the bed as he settles back, the unwanted pressure of his responsibilities crowding in upon him again.

Asher throws his legs off the bed, sweeping a hand through his messy blonde hair as the incessant buzzing of his phone finally ceases. The room is dark, lit only by the soft light of city lights reflected off the floor-to-ceiling windows. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he massages the sleep from his eyes.