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Sebastian’s skin prickles. Emir is standing there, all skinny limbs and compact muscles, hairy legs, and a flat belly. Sebastian is confident in his bisexuality; how’s he supposed to look away from a half naked guy? But this isEmir, who has a very strong dislike for Sebastian.

“Sorry,” he stammers, spinning on his heels so his back is to Emir. “Really,reallydidn’t mean to do that.”

Emir chuckles. “’S cool. I’m used to people staring at me.” His voice is hoarse. “They say some pretty harsh things.”

“What do they say?”

Emir laughs acrimoniously. “You don’t want to know. They don’t compliment my eyes or the smoothness of my skin.”

Sebastian can imagine the cruel words from kids who don’t understand someone who sticks to himself. They don’t share any classes; Emir’s book-smart, unlike Sebastian, who’d rather read comics than learn trig. But Sebastian knows Emir’s refusal to socializeinvitesthe talking. Surviving high school is about having two things: confidence and friends.

Emir lacks both.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re okay,” Sebastian says while Emir locates clothes, hopping behind Sebastian’s back in a search for shoes.

“You don’t know me.”

A wrinkle forms between Sebastian’s eyebrows; his shoulders stiffen. He needs a subject change before Emir tells him to go to hell. “What’s the rug for?” He rubs his index finger over an eyebrow.

“None of your business.”

Bad idea, confirmed.

“Can we just get this over with?” Emir’s breath ghosts the side of Sebastian’s neck before he walks around to face him. His clothes are similar to Sebastian’s, but looser around his slight frame.

Sebastian forces a tight smile. “If we hurry, we can grab a late breakfast.”

“Whatever, Bastian.” Emir is already halfway out the door.

* * *

“You don’t have to goso hard,” Sebastian says as Emir stumbles to keep up with him.

Gasping, Emir flips him off. Roadkill sounds more alive than Emir. Sebastian’s jogging at half his usual pace, but he’ll give Emir credit for trying. He’s not a total asshole; he’s just not a morning person. The sun washes over them in neon waves of orange and yellow. Sebastian’s clothes are sticky with sweat. Adrenaline works through his blood like electricity, and he thrives on it.

It’s a good morning.

“You’re a masochist,” Emir says.

“Break?” Sebastian offers, then snorts when Emir nods furiously. He wheezes when they slow down.

Emir’s soaked shirt clings to his chest and stomach. Across his face, sweat glitters like stars in the sunlight. “I hate you right now.”

“I can take it.” Sebastian shoves Emir’s shoulder. Emir counters with a fake punch that reminds Sebastian of being kids.

“What does running have to do with my lack of soccer skills?” Emir asks.

“Stamina.”

“I haven’t had any complaints about that before.”

Is Emir implying…?Sebastian hastily explains, “You’re no good on the pitch if you’re laid out, short of breath.”

“I hate this.” Emir grunts, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face. The shirt is lowered, revealing a pout.

Sebastian is amused, but also horrified at the stupidHe’s adorablechant smacking in his head like a racquet ball against Plexiglas. Maybe he has heatstroke? It’s a feasible explanation and much cooler than the truth: hormones.

“Drinks,” Sebastian suggests. The desire to get the hell away from Emir is strong. He ducks off into a nearby gas station to purchase two Gatorades with a few dollars stuffed in his shoe.