What They Want - 2

He does not get up right away. The weight of the impending night is on his shoulders, but there is no use waiting for the inevitable. With a sigh, he rises, his muscles contracting a little as he stretches. The coldness of the air tickles his skin, causing a faint shiver to run down his spine.

He grasps a towel that hangs over the chair and heads to the bathroom, his bare feet making barely a sound on the smooth floor. The penthouse is still, except for far-off thunder of the city outside. Asher flips on the shower, observing as steam rapidly curls up, enveloping the glass walls.

The blast of hot water at first is nearly shocking, but he acquiesces to it, rolling his shoulders as the heat seeps through to his skin. Water sluices down the slope of his back, outlining the hard angles of his muscles before bending off down the drain. He fights damp tangles with his fingers, thrusting his hair slicked back against his head as he sits back under the relentless flow.

The strain in his muscles remains, stubborn and unwilling to completely dissipate. His fingers trail down over his chest, across his belly of muscle, the water rained over every curve and dip. He moves slowly, deliberately, letting himself settle into the sensation of heat and pressure. The distant hum of the city outside is muffled, replaced by the sound of rushing water and the sound of his own breathing as he tries to calm it.

Finally, he makes himself shut off the shower, the frigid air bringing his warm body to instant awareness. He comes out, holding a towel, sweeping the towel over his self, slow and deliberate. The mirror is completely fogged over, its surface impossible to view.

Towel loosely wrapped around his waist, he enters his closet, where the air is cold, biting into the last of the heat on his skin. The mirror here is unobstructed—no steam to get in the way.

And when he glances up, his eyes cross with himself.

His wet hair, the flush still on his face, the stray beads running down his chest. His hands shake a little at his sides. His breathing is peaceful, but there is something in the picture that disturbs him.

Because when he looks at himself, the past looked back.

The droplet that trickles down Asher's chest seems to linger, crawling slowly down his rippled belly, but instead of a mere water droplet, it turns into something much more distant.

A memory.

"Master Asher, your meal is growing cold."

The voice was low, a whispered breath on the periphery of his awareness. The old man worked for his family for years. His voice was authoritative, but Asher had not even registered it, so lost in his own head that it felt like he was not there at all.

Asher's gaze settled on the frozen glass of water in front of him. The water droplets on the glass mirrored his own mind. He had been neglecting his breakfast, his mind elsewhere. The food remained untouched, but his eyes pierced the steam of the morning kitchen, dazed in a perpetual loop of thoughts. There was no solution to the old man's request.

"Your school is about to start."

The reminder did come through, but it hardly registered.

The memory shattered and crumbled. Asher's hands moved across the fabric of his pants, outlining the chilly weight of his phone beneath. He drew it out with a smooth motion, flicking the power button on and waiting for the screen to brighten into a soft, soothing light. His thumb hovered above the gadget as the image of his own tormented, tired face scowled up at him.

He was not that boy, gazing at what was left of breakfast or ensnared in the shackles of expectation. No longer a child.

He was a high schooler now.

Asher tossed the phone back into his pocket, burdened by the weight of his scripted day. It wasn't his first time walking through the imposing front doors of the prestigious high school; he was already a second-year student, well entrenched in the role of the privileged son who cruised through life, as was appropriate.

The drive there was always the same. His own driver, efficient and unobtrusive, sped through city streets as the black car cruised smoothly by. Asher leaned back in the plush seat, looking with a lazy sort of interest out the window, not really noticing the scenery at all but dwelling more on the routine that now filled his existence. The shining buildings, the spotless streets, the glinting glass skyscrapers reflecting the sun—everything felt a facade.

It was yesterday. The day before yesterday. Every day.

The school itself wasn't a refuge Asher discovered to be so extraordinary anymore. He'd attended for years, but it never did feel like home. The white marble walls, the slick floors, the clinking ring of high-cost shoes on the hallway floors—his classmates, pretentious and wealthy, all blended into one dull, shiny blur. The ringing tones of their voices, so practiced and polite, pulsed in his head.

He couldn't even manage to care about the work or the attention it got. He already knew what was going to occur. He was good at everything—just naturally good. Good enough to make it look easy.

As the car reached the gates, Asher pushed his gel hair back, feeling a fleeting moment of restlessness. He stepped out of the car, making sure his suit jacket fell elegantly over his shoulders.

The high school bustled with enthusiasm, yet all of that remained beyond his reach. His upper-class classmates jeered, joked, and belittled each other—all of that higher-class, classy thing. They weren't important to him really, but there was the package, being part of him, being part of expectation.

His eyes scanned the group, pausing on those faces he recognized, but no one caught his. None of them had that to them, that warmth that tugged on his heart and drew him in. He simply walked on, however, seemingly hypnotized, for the doorway.

And there it was—the stairs. Marble steps, glowing in the light of the artificial lamps. He had been walking these steps for years now, but this time, something did not feel right. His eyes contracted a fraction, but as fast, he shut the sensation down.

He could do this. He had done this.

Asher pushed open the door to the classroom, the buzz of conversation fading as the students stared at him before resuming their talks. The teacher wasn't here yet.

"Good morning, Asher," a voice called from the back of the room.

It was Jason, one of his classmates, always too chatty for his liking. Asher nodded, giving him a small smile, but nothing more. He didn't need the extra attention.

"Morning," Asher replied, sitting down, trying to clear his mind.

Asher did not have time to react before a pair of arms came around his shoulders from behind, pulling him into a very firm embrace. A familiar flowery scent filled his nostrils, and he let out a sigh, already knowing whose arms they were.

"Guess what, Asher?"

Jessica's voice was breathy and playful, excitement dripping from her words.

He did not even try to turn his head.

"What?" he drawled, his voice dry and uninterested.

Jessica, as always, was bubbling with energy. She was a middle-class girl in a school where the majority of the students were not, but she had worked her way in through sheer determination. That alone made her stand out. Combine that with her beauty, charisma, and playgirl reputation, and she was impossible to ignore.

Asher and Jessica had been friends since childhood, so their classmates were always pairing them up. People liked the idea of the two of them as some sort of golden couple—he was the rich, effortlessly charming heartbreaker, and she was the passionate, wild beauty. It was a joke with their classmates, but one that Jessica played into more than he did.

And then, in her signature dramatic fashion, she leaned in closer, practically trembling.

"I have a new boyfriend," she announced proudly, drawing out the words. "A freshman."

Asher's eyes widened. And then, with slow, sarcastic deliberateness, he clapped his hands.

"Congratulations," he said lazily. "A younger guy. Classy."

Jessica punched his arm, but her smile only widened as she bounced onto the desk beside him, crossing her legs.

"You don't get it," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "He's not some freshman. He's. a beast."

Asher's eyebrow rose. "A beast?"

Jessica grinned. "Yeah. A wild one. The school only took him in because of his insane football skills. He's a prodigy on the field. And get this—he's rough. Unpredictable. Completely untamed."

Asher groaned. "Sounds obnoxious."

Jessica ignored him, leaning in with a glint in her eye.

"But I can tame him," she said, satisfaction in her voice. "That's the fun part. I make him listen. I tame him."

Asher's frown intensified.

There was something about the way she said it.

Taming a person. Making them listen. Controlling something wild.

It sounded odd.

"That's gross. You're a freak."

Asher's voice was cold, slicing through Jessica's enthusiasm like a knife. He didn't take the time to sugarcoat his words, nor did he care about the hurt that flashed across her face for a moment before she rolled her eyes.

Before she could retort with a sharp comeback, the school bell rang, announcing the beginning of class. A stroke of luck.

Jessica clicked her tongue but slid off the desk, getting to her seat. Asher did the same, sitting in his chair with a sigh. The classroom sorted itself out, students opening books and turning toward the teacher in front.

Asher did likewise. Or at least, he tried to.

His posture was perfect, his eyes fixed on the board, and to the outside observer, he seemed as sharp as ever. But his thoughts?

They strayed.

To him.

The so-called "beast."

The wild freshman who slunk into this school on raw ability alone. The uncontrolled prodigy Jessica was so arrogant to claim as hers.

Why did it annoy him so?

Why did he suddenly wish to find out just how crazy this man really was?

Lunchtime.

"Asher, come on!"

Jessica was pushing him along, palms on his back. Asher, intrigued, allowed himself to be prodded. He could've resisted—easily—but whatever was behind her need to hurry made him relent.

They reached the school's open field, where students tended to gather to play hoops or soak up the sun. Today, though, the basketball courts lay empty.

In their stead, the field throbbed with something else.

Football.

Asher's gaze ran over the view before him, settling on the chaos before his eyes. A group of boys fought in a chaotic but exciting game, their passion unrestrained and unself-aware. But his gaze did not fall upon them all.

No.

They noticed him.

The freshman.

He was not a head shorter than Asher, but that was not the issue.

The issue was the way he moved—free, feral.

The dark brown hair that jumped with every fast, hard move. The sun catching it so those strands almost seemed hypnotic.

Jessica had not been exaggerating.

The freshman was short-tempered. Frenzied, even.

The way he knocked another player onto the ground, laughing as though he existed to crash into others. And in place of extending a hand up, he flung up both middle fingers, tongue out in a cocky display.

Asher ought to have been repulsed.

He felt instead a strange, unfamiliar warmth rise up the back of his neck.

It was hot.

The fire. The rebellion. The sheer craziness of it.

His fists clenched at his sides.

Somehow, he needed to be in it.

He needed to burst into that heat, to fling himself into the game, to catch that same crazed energy.

A stupid impulse.

Asher whacked himself mentally.

"I see why I’m here now," the freshman sneered, sliding his hand through his thick, dark brown hair. "You all suck!"

The group around him groaned and laughed, but the freshman wasn’t finished. He glanced around, eyes scanning for any challengers.

"Is there anyone here to challenge? Step up!"

The challenge hung in the air, thick with arrogance, like the scent of sweat and grass.

Something inside Asher snapped.

He had no idea what he was doing, no real experience with the game—hell, he barely knew the rules. But the strut, the cockiness of that freshman, got his blood boiling. He could feel the anger rising in him, the need to prove something.

"I will," Asher said, his voice loud and sure.

He tore off his jacket, shoving it at Jessica, who was standing off to the side, mouth agape.

"What the—?!" she whispered, clearly taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor.

But Asher did not care. His sleeves were already rolled up, and his chiseled forearms were in full view. His fists were clenched, his body rigid and tense.

The freshman, now standing in the center of the field, turned to face Asher, his smirk growing stronger.

"Oh?" His voice was taunting. "Are you sure, rich boy?"

Asher's eyes drilled into the freshman, unblinking, his jaw set in determination. He did not back down. He was not going to.

Asher smirks as the full weight of his own conceit settles on him.

"Oh yeah," he retorted, refusing to back down.

The freshman's eyes scanned him from head to toe, drinking in Asher's stance and attitude with a flash of humor before he raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you look like you don't know the rules," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Let me break that down for you."

The crowd that surrounded them fell silent, sensing the build-up of tension. Asher was ready to strut his stuff, but he needed to understand what he was getting himself into. The freshman stepped forward, hands on hips, summarizing the general regulations in his own conceited tone.

"Okay, this is how it's done," the freshman began, his eyes lighting up at the possibility of competition. "American football's all about brute force, quickness, and control. You've got four chances, or 'downs,' to push the ball a distance of ten yards or more. If you can't get it done, it's their turn. Simple, right?". "You carry the ball, you run with it, and the other team is going to attempt to stop you. You'll be evading tackles, and if you get tackled, well, that's just part of the game."

Asher nodded slowly, taking it all in. It sounded simple enough, but the tension was already in the air.

"Now," the freshman continued, his voice lowering into a taunt, "if you're so sure you can beat me, then let's do this. But don't think it's gonna be easy." He smiled, clearly relishing the prospect of tearing Asher apart.

Asher cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, the fire burning within him. He had no notion of how it would go, but for once, he wouldn't be the one sitting in the background. This was his time.

The moment the game began, Asher had no notion how deep in over his head he was.

The freshman—fast, sharp, and flat-out ruthless—darted with the urgency of a man aflame. Asher barely had time to shift before the snap, and in an instant, the freshman had two defenders in his wake, his dark brown hair jouncing with each step.

"Come on, rich boy!" he taunted, flashing a self-satisfied grin before sprinting ahead with superhuman speed.

Asher gritted his teeth. He was not going to let some snobbish freshman embarrass him in front of the whole school. He sprinted ahead, arms outstretched, prepared to tackle—

But the freshman narrowly avoided him at the last second, slipping out of Asher's grasp like a wraith.

The crowd laughed and jeered. Jessica, perched on the sidelines, winced. "Yikes, Asher, that was kinda sad."

Asher barely even heard her, his pride already burning. He hauled himself up just in time to greet the freshman's smile.

"You sure you wanna keep going, rich boy?" The freshman mocked, spinning the ball around with a casualness that made it look effortless. "I mean, wouldn't want you to ruin that pretty face."

That did it.

Asher charged forward, determined to catch up. The freshman had the ball again, darting between players as if it was meant to be. While he was shorter than Asher, his lean frame made him quick and unpredictable. Asher chased after him, closing the distance—

And then the freshman did something nuts.

Rather than just dodging to the side, he spun his body around sideways full-force, twisting in mid-air just to escape Asher's outstretched hand yet again.

Asher lurched forward, panting, as the freshman came down lightly, already sprinting towards the improvised touchdown line.

There was a resounding cheer as he dropped the ball to the ground, triumphant.

Asher stood there, hands on knees, gasping for air. His whole body was rigid, muscles protesting at how hard he'd exerted himself.

The freshman approached him, hardly out of breath, smiling down at him.

"First-timer's not bad, huh?" he jeered, extending a hand. "But keep to your limits, rich kid."

Asher brushed his hand away, standing on his own two feet. His heart pounded, but not so much from the game.

It was from the way the freshman gazed at him. That smirk, that superior glint. That glint in his eye.

And the worst part?

Asher couldn't help but want to see more of it.

The freshman did not taunt—he took the opportunity.

Striding into Asher, he caught the older boy's collar without hesitation whatsoever. His hold was firm, his fingers curled deep into Asher's shirt material, tugging him close. Their noses were inches apart, the thrill of competition still buzzing between them.

"You were going to beat me?" The freshman sneered, his dark brown eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Cute."

Before Asher could utter a word, the bastard head-butted him.

A searing sting burst across Asher's nose, and he recoiled, the warm path of blood running down. Gasps and whoops erupted from the crowd, but he hardly registered them.

For instead of rage, instead of humiliation, something else was lit within him.

The way the freshman stood there, chest heaving, smiling like he owned the damn field—something about it made Asher's neck burn.

And lower.

His gut churned when he realized.

Shit.

Asher shoved the freshman back with a bit more force than he had to and took off. He didn't stop until he slammed himself through the bathroom door, his breathing rough, his face on fire.

Crashing into the last stall, he slammed it shut behind him, pushing his back up against the cold of the metal. His heart was racing, his pulse thundering.

Slowing, reluctantly, he looked down.

Fuck.

This was bad. This was so bad.

Asher dealt with his little problem before he headed to the nurse's office, where they wiped off his nose and stuffed a tissue in his face like it was business as usual. He barely even flinched. His head was still reeling from what had happened—what he had done.

By the time he returned to class, he slipped into his usual indifference disguise, as if nothing had happened.

End of School.

The sun had already begun to set, the clean courtyard stretching long shadows out in front of him as Asher stepped out of the school building. His driver was already by the black, shiny car, door ajar, waiting to drive him home.

He breathed a sigh, loosening his tie a bit as he strode toward him.

Then—

"Asher!"

That voice.

The newly familiar sound made him stop in his tracks, hand still curled around the car door handle. He turned his head slowly, and there he was—the freshman.

He was standing with the same unfaltering confidence he had on the field, dark brown hair tousled from the day, sweat glistening along his chiseled jawline. His smile was cocky, his stance relaxed but intentional.

"Asher, right?" Leon inclined his head, stepping in closer as though he had something crucial to share.

Asher's eyebrow rose, unimpressed. "Obviously."

The freshman clicked his tongue, his hands dropping into his pockets. "Right. Listen."

His voice was dripping with self-assurance, and Asher bit back the impulse to roll his eyes.

"I'm Leon, and yo—" He gestured to Asher.

"I want you on my team."

Asher blinked. "What?"

Leon grinned, nodding as if he'd already made up his mind for him. "Your body? Dude, it's fine. Trust me, I see potential, and I can work it. I know how to shape it."

He waved his hand theatrically, already sketching a portrait in the air.

"You and I, dude. We'll conquer this school. We'll make history! Can you picture it—us, tearing down all the other teams, dominating the league. Can you picture it?"

His grin widened, eyes burning with enthusiasm.

Asher gazed, momentarily wordless.

This guy. was something different.

Asher narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms and resting against the car, all the while appearing to be lazy.

"Let me get this straight," he drawled, his voice unimpressed. "You headbutt me, bleed all over me, and now you want me on your little team?"

Leon grinned, completely nonchalant.

"Exactly."

Asher snorted, shaking his head. "And why in the world would I even consider it?"

Leon advanced with a purposeful stride, tilting his head. "Because I saw that flame in you, rich kid." His smile intensified. "You craved winning there. Even lacking talent, you dove headfirst. That's hunger raw. I can do something with that."

Asher gritted his teeth.

Hell. He did not like Leon was right.

"And?" He affected nonchalance.

"And," Leon said, voice a little more suave, "I know you enjoyed it—the thrill, the adrenaline. It's in your blood. You can't deny you enjoyed it, a little, at least."

Asher exhaled slowly through his nostrils, turning away.

Leon gave a grin at the hesitation and held out his hand, offering Asher a handshake. "So? Deal?"

Asher glanced at the hand, and then away, his eyes locking with Leon's.

His pulse was a fraction faster from before.

"Fine," he growled, shaking Leon's hand. "Deal."

Leon's grin grew wider.

"Good choice, rich boy."

The First Lesson

Leon did not waste a moment.

The next day, he pulled Asher out to the field after school, hurling him a football with a smug grin. "Alright, rich kid, first lesson—catching."

Asher barely caught it. The collision hurt his palms, and the ball was heavier than he expected.

Leon sighed. "Yeah, we've got work to do."

From then on, Asher spent his afternoons running through endless drills—sprints, tackling dummies, passing plays. Leon was relentless, but Asher refused to quit.

"Push harder! You wanna get knocked down or knock them down?" Leon bellowed as Asher struggled through tackling drills.

Asher gritted his teeth and charged again.

He got better. Fast.

The Chaos and the Anchor

Leon was the one who lost it—intimidating, high-strung, playing like he'd lost a bet. Asher was tight and analytical. While Leon played on brute instinct, Asher soaked up every one of their plans like a sponge.

By the middle of the season, they were the deadliest duo the school had.

Leon, the hotheaded quarterback; Asher, his bulletproof receiver.

"Throw it!" Asher yelled on the practice field.

Leon grinned and threw the ball far out. Asher sprinted, gaze locked, and caught it beautifully in the end zone.

There were applause.

"See?" Leon smiled, wrapping an arm around Asher's shoulders. "Told you we'd be unstoppable."

Asher rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smirk.

Jessica’s Exit.

Jessica had been watching them for weeks—arms crossed, foot tapping against the pavement with growing irritation.

"You’re obsessed," she finally snapped at Leon.

Leon blinked at her. "Huh?"

"You are with him more than you are with me," she sneered, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "He is the one you respond to, he is the one you text back right away, and I just sit here waiting?" Her frustration laced her voice. "I'm done, Leon. Have fun with your football boyfriend."

Leon rolled his eyes. "I’m not gay, Jess." His tone was sharp, almost offended—like the very idea disgusted him.

The air shifted.

Jessica gave him a look, unimpressed. "Yeah? Could’ve fooled me."

Leon opened his mouth to argue, but Asher wasn’t listening anymore.

His heart had slowed.

Gay.

That word.

It was foreign-tasting—something that shouldn't be known but is and isn't. Like with the rest of their group, none of whom threw it around in casual conversation, Asher never thought much about it.

Jessica snorted, breaking his trance. "Whatever, Leon. Go back to him. At least he does what you tell him to."

She spun on her heel and walked away.

Leon winced hardly more than at all. He just shrugged. "Cool. Guess I'm single now."

Asher's fingers closed tight around his bag.

That word.

The tone in which Leon had said it. The feeling it left in Asher's chest.

"…You good?" Leon said, staring at him.

Asher hesitated—then nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Let's go."

And that was it.

But something stayed.

Final Years (Timeskip)

Time turned into a blur of wins, sweat-drenched jerseys, and shrieking stadiums.

Asher and Leon were unbeatable. The dynamic duo. The cornerstones of their school football team.

Leon, wild and unpredictable, had raw talent that left everyone breathless. He played as if he didn't mind losing, as if every game was a street fight, as if he was trying to injure someone.

Asher, more grounded, more precise, was the strategist. He saw the field like a chessboard, anticipating moves before they happened, making the space for Leon to do what he did best—dominate.

Their chemistry was tangible. Passes that landed perfectly in place, movements that functioned in tandem perfectly, like two sides of the same coin.

And people noticed.

Not just the scouts, not just the coaches—the students. The way Asher looked at Leon, the way his eyes lingered on him when Leon swept the sweat off his forehead, the way he jerked back when Leon put his arm around his shoulders after a game, pulling him in, too close.

It started as whispers. Jokes.

"Asher looks at Leon like he's his damn wife."

"Football boyfriends, eh?"

"Man, Jessica was onto something."

But Asher didn't think about it. He wouldn't.

He wasn't that kind of person.

He just idolized Leon. That was it.

But idolization didn't twist his gut when Leon borrowed his jersey to pull him in after a score. It didn't parch his throat when Leon smiled at him after bringing down an opponent to the ground.

And it sure as hell didn't make him hunger for something he couldn't name.

So he buried it. Deep.

College Conversation

The letter arrived in a thick white envelope, neat and official. Asher knew even before he opened it.

A college in Massachusetts. Upscale. A dream come true. Just what his parents had always wanted for him.

He held it between his palms, accepting its weight.

Leon leaned against the locker beside him, gum-chewing, arms crossed. "So? You in?

Asher breathed deeply. "Yeah."

Silence in which only their breathing intruded.

Leon rolled his eyes away, tongue clicking in discontent. "Damn."

"Is that all you've got to say?" Asher laughed softly, trying to shake the strange feeling in his chest.

"What do you want me to say?" Leon shrugged. "You're leaving, dude. That's what you wanted, right?"

Asher hesitated. "I mean… yeah. It's a good opportunity."

Leon snorted. "Of course. Fancy-pants school, fancy-pants future. Look at you, man. Big shot."

Asher had no idea why that hurt.

"You'll be fine without me," he said, trying to smile.

"Obviously." But Leon’s voice was tighter than usual.

Asher wanted to say something—anything—but before he could, Leon clapped him on the back, easy and casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.

"Enjoy your new life," Leon muttered. "You’ll probably forget all about this place anyway."

And the conversation ended there.

Asher didn’t realize until later that something shifted that day.

The Last Game

This was it.

The final game of the season. The last time Asher would step onto the field, wearing this jersey, with the fans screaming his name.

And naturally—because life was heartless—it was the biggest game of the year. The one that would determine their school's destiny.

The pressure was suffocating, the air thick with tension. But Asher wasn't focused on the game.

He was thinking about Leon.

Leon, who had been distant since the college talk. Irritable. Less fun.

Leon, who barely even looked at him anymore.

And Asher hated it.

Because no matter what he told himself, no matter how hard he tried to deny it—

Leon meant everything to him.

And soon, he'd be gone.

The whistle blew. The game began.

It was brutal. A sweat-and-fury battle, tackle-and-bellowing, bruise-swelling-under-jerseys affair. The other team hungered for the win, but Asher and Leon?

They starved.

Every play was perfect, every move in sync. Asher passed, Leon caught. Leon ran, Asher blocked. They didn't even have to use words. They just knew.

And then—

The final touchdown.

Leon tore through the defense like a goddamn hurricane. Bodies crashed into him, hands reaching, flailing, and then—

He made it.

The stadium went wild.

Shouts, cheers, a wave of bodies pouring in triumph.

Leon spun around, gasping, eyes crazy, and before Asher could even move—Leon dragged him in.

Cramped arms around his shoulders, grinning like he just won the world.

Asher felt it.

That thing.

That desperate, burning thing that he'd been keeping down for years.

And he let it out.

"Fuck it," Asher panted.

And kissed him.

Right there, under the stadium lights, in public.

It was quick—tense but undeniable. Heat, pressure, something raw beneath it.

Leon tensed.

Then—

He shoved Asher away. Hard.

The sound was extinguished.

The crowd's roar dissolved into something else. Something ugly.

Leon wiped at his mouth, eyes blazing. "What the fuck, man?!"

Asher's stomach dropped.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Leon's voice cut through him like a blade.

Silence. Then whispers. Then laughter.

"Asher's a faggot?"

"Holy shit, bro kissed him—"

"—Fucking knew it, bro, always on Leon's ass—"

The team moved back, faces full of something ugly.

Coaches, teachers, everyone—watching.

Then someone grabbed his arm. "Come with me."

A teacher. Tugging him away.

The Aftermath

The car ride home was silent.

His parents didn't scream.

Didn't yell.

They just glared... disappointed.

The instant they got home—his phone, his computer, everything—gone.

"This is what happens when you spend too much time on the internet," his father growled. "You get these ideas."

His mother just sighed, rubbing her temples as if he was the problem. As if he'd destroyed them.

Nobody cared that it was his senior year. That he'd given everything to football, to this school, to this life they'd mapped out for him.

They only cared about one thing.

And Leon?

Leon was gone.

Didn't look at him. Didn't talk to him. Didn't live anymore.

And just like that—

Asher lost everything.

A Fresh Start in Massachusetts

Asher didn't glance back.

As soon as he stepped off that plane, he promised—no more silly errors. No more impulsive decisions. No more Leon.

He had gotten accepted into the top Massachusetts college, an honor that most would kill for. He was fortunate. He wasn't going to ruin it.

Football? Adiós.
Friends? Too much drama.
Parties? Not a chance.

He would lock in his schoolwork, take a page out of his dad's book to success, and never again let his emotions get the better of him.

He reminded himself it was for the best.

But at night, in the dorm room, when all was quiet, and the pressure of the past pressed against his ribs, he couldn't help but seek.

For answers.

For proof.

"Am I Gay?"

The first time Asher typed it into Boogle, his hands were shaking.

The words just sat there, mocking him. He sat paralyzed, his finger poised over the enter key, his heart pounding as if he was going to do something wrong.

It was ridiculous, he said to himself. It was just a kiss. A mistake.

But he typed anyway.

Page after page came up. Definitions, personal stories, signs, clues.

1. "You might be gay if you've ever been emotionally and physically attracted to the same sex in a way that goes beyond admiration."

2. "If you've ever obsessively thought about a male buddy and become jealous when they went out on dates with women, you might be experiencing romantic attraction."

3. "Ask yourself this: If you could be with a guy in a world where nobody cared—would you?"

Asher's stomach churned.

He clicked out.

Then came back the next evening. And the evening after that.

He even took a stupid online quiz once, rolling his eyes over the stupid questions:

2. "Do you get tingly when you see a good-looking man?"

8. "Do you get too emotionally close to male friends?"

10. "Would you date a guy if it was alright with you?"

When the results came back 99% gay, he laughed.

"That's bullshit," he muttered to himself.

He retook it. Changed his answers.

Same result.

But he wasn't yet ready to embrace it.

Closet Doors and Silent Support

Asher didn't come out.

He wouldn't.

Not after what had happened. Not after what it had cost him.

But college was... different.

For the first time, he was surrounded by people who were fearless—who didn't hide. Guys who walked hand in hand across campus, who sported pride buttons on their backs, who talked about their boyfriends/girlfriends openly as if nothing was strange.

Asher was revolted at first.

Not at them.

At himself.

Because he couldn't do it.

He couldn't be like them.

He was jealous.

He lied to himself. Told himself he wasn't. That he didn't care. That he was okay keeping this piece of himself locked away, deep, deep inside where it could never harm him again.

But in spite of all that—he stood alongside them. Quietly. From the shadows.

When some fucking jerk started spewing homophobic shit in the dorms, Asher was the first one to call him out.

When the students protested for LGBTQ+ rights, he stood in the group's back, amongst them, but there.

When a couple of brave dudes got harassed for holding hands, Asher made sure the harassers never dared to do it again.

He was among them, but he couldn't be among them.

And he resented that.

But it was safer this way.

Because Asher learned his lesson.

He would never again be reckless.

Ghosts in the Mirror

Mornings in Massachusetts were different.

No blaring alarm from his parents' manor. No California sun streaming through his window. No football practice calling his name.

Just quiet.

Asher stood in front of the mirror, towel thrown over his shoulder, hair still damp from his shower. He walked into his closet, grabbed a shirt, and—

Stopped.
His reflection stared back at him.

Broad shoulders.
Strong arms.
A muscular chest.

He was toned now.
Because of him.
Because of Leon.

Damn it.

He yanked the shirt over his head roughly, but the memories didn't disappear. The exhausting exercises, the practice runs, the times Leon goaded him to his breaking point, yelling—

"Again, rich boy! You wanna be weak for good?"

He snarled inwardly, shivering the thought away.

But the ghosts remained.

Every time he changed clothes, he found himself remembering.

The way Leon ridiculed his stance.
The way he'd shove Asher's shoulders, forcing him to the breaking point.
The pleased look on his face when Asher finally kept up in a tackle.

"See? Told you I'd make you a beast."

Asher gritted his jaw, sliding his hand down his face.

He's gone. He's nothing. He doesn't matter.

He finished dressing, grabbed a bag, and left his dorm.

But as he strolled across campus, he could still feel him there—staying with the way his body shifted, the way his muscles tightened, the way he stood just a fraction taller.

Leon was gone, but his imprint remained.

(Back)
Asher exhaled sharply and shook his head, dragging himself back from where he was.

Leon was in the past.

This was the now.

He ran a hand through his golden hair, allowing a low rumble of a chuckle under his breath.

"I wonder what you're doing now, Leon."

Still arrogant? Still playing games? Still acting as if the world spun around him?

Still despising him?

He pushed the memory back, rummaging through his closet. Today, he felt no hesitation, taking the most suited suit. Sharp dark excellence.

Tonight, he'd be Asher César, rising business king, heir, genius.

Not the idiot adolescent who burned down his high school world for a reckless, unnecessary kiss.

Not the kid who still thought about the specter.

When he was ready, Asher used the second key on his own car—his own, not one of the high-end vehicles his parents had bought in an attempt to display their affluence. Tonight, he wanted to drive himself. He needed control.

He adjusted his cuffs, ensuring each centimeter of his suit was immaculate. His mirror image glared back, impassive, unyielding hard green eyes giving nothing away. No mistakes. No distractions.

Sliding down in the smooth, silent elevator, he leaned back against the cold glass wall, watching the city glow below him. California at night was different now. It had been years since high school—since that moment on the football field—but somehow, this place still felt suffocating.

The elevator doors swung open softly, ringing out a soft chime. Asher strolled through the underground parking facility, his clean, reflective shoes tapping against the cement. His car—a dark, polished beauty—was parked outside for him, unmicked since he had been home.

He smoothed his palm along the unblemished surface before entering, taking firm grasp of the steering wheel in his hands.

Decades spent getting back to being him.

College had been his sanctuary, his chance to start fresh where no one knew him, where he could wallow in studying and sequester every randy desire. No more sports. No more living life on the fringe. He now had to live up to his dad's dream, not his own.

And coming back to California?

That was a risk.

The past had a way of intruding, no matter how far he escaped.

Heaving a sigh, he started the engine and drove out onto the road.

In front of him, the skyscraper where his unwanted arranged date awaited loomed over the city.

The drive had felt longer than it had to be, but at last Asher arrived in front of the skyscraper that loomed like a quiet sentinel against the darkening skyline. The city lights glimmered beneath him, far off in the distance. He parked in a space, looking up at the building for a moment. No flowers. No presents. That wasn't why he had come tonight.

Tonight was for something else. Something more.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, his polished shoes tapping on the pavement. Asher adjusted his jacket—sharp, clean, neat—and headed towards the door. The soft hum of the city surrounded him, but inside, the world was eerily still. The weight of his decision was coming down on him, but he was firm. No more deception.

The elevator ride was endless. Doors opened with the sound of dinging, and Asher walked into the extensive buffet area, its decadent spread of cuisine inviting guests to unwind in an apparent facade of comfort. He took in the scene—duos chatting, people laughing, glasses clinking against each other. The air was electric with anticipation. Yet none of that existed for him.

No pretending anymore.

He no longer needed to be with them.

His gaze swept for her—there, on the border of the dessert table, a faint smile on her lips. She looked. perfect. Put-together, poised. All his parents would ever desire.

She wasn't what he needed, though. No.

Asher walked toward her, his heart pounding. He could feel the crowd's sweat closing in on him, the effort to hold the smile, to hold the facade that he was the man they wanted him to be. But the nearer he got, the more he realized: he wasn't acting tonight.

"Sorry I'm late," he grunted, pulling out the chair and sitting opposite her. His grin was familiar, yet now it looked strained.

She beamed radiantly, without sensing the weight of the storm brewing inside him. "No worries," she said, far too optimistically. "I'm glad you came.".

Asher looked across the buffet, but his mind was not on the food, not on the evening. It was on what he had to do. What he had to do, finally.

He was not going to lie anymore.

His eyes strayed over to the other end of the buffet where it looked like university students laughing at their food, their smiles so foreign to him. There was one dark-brown-haired person whose face he could not see. Asher scolded himself, reminding himself—The man's hair doesn't look dark brown, only because of the lighting. He was gaslighting himself, he knew. But at least the group of friends looked to be having fun.

The tighter constriction in his chest began.

Asher faced her, hearing what she was saying and not listening. He had no idea how he was going to get out of it. Out of this life, this destiny he never asked for. He couldn't do it anymore. But he did not know how to explain.

Not yet. He wasn't ready to confess the truth.

He pulled his hand back and reached for the fork, lifting the food into his mouth and eating it automatically. His stomach was queasy, but he swallowed anyway.

"Are you okay?" she asked, catching sight of the dazed look in his eyes.

"Yeah," he said. "Just. tired."
He wasn't tired. He ached like he was keeping it all back, like the bulk of himself and the honesty of who he really was. It was strangling.

And then the moment arrived—the moment he'd been waiting for, the moment when he could say it, cut this off before things went further. But when he opened his mouth to say it, the words wouldn't come out.

He clenched his teeth together. I'm not who you think I am, he told himself. But he couldn't speak it. Not now.

The world around him spun, it was filled with laughter, chatter, the sounds of glasses, but Asher heard nothing. He was stuck in a sea of faces, his heart pounding in his chest, wanting so badly to spit out the truth he wasn't ready to tell.

The waitress came by, putting down their drinks, and Asher hardly even waved at her. His thoughts were consumed with the idea of telling her something—of telling her that he couldn't do this. But as the words began to form in his throat, he pushed them back.

He couldn't do it. Not yet.

Asher's gaze flicked to the watch on his wrist. The seconds ticked by, each one a reminder that this moment—this night—was slipping away from him, and he had yet to say a word.

The perfect moment wasn't here yet.

Maybe tomorrow, he said to himself. But even he knew that was a cop-out.

The more time that passed, the clearer he realized: there would never be a perfect moment.

But tonight, he would wait. He would sit here, pretending. Pretending that everything was fine, pretending that this life was his.

And for a few minutes, he let himself.

With the passing of minutes, he couldn't help but wonder—Would he ever be prepared to speak the truth? Or would he be on the run forever?