Page 16

I’m here.

Emerson reads the text three times before his brain allows him to reply. Once he’s texted Jason to come on up he’s left waiting for Jason to make it up to his apartment and knock on the door. With nothing to do while he waits, he scrutinizes every inch of his studio apartment, acutely aware that no one else has ever been in here. For all the times Jason has picked him up or dropped him off, he’s never been up to Emerson’s actual apartment. It wasn’t from a lack of Jason trying, but any time he offered to walk him to the door it was easier for Emerson to say no thanks than deal with his internalized shame about his living space. The kind he’s been working hard to get over, not just for Jason but for himself. Jason’s easy acceptance of Emerson, of the things that bring him joy, make it easier for Emerson to accept the things he loves too.

Growing up, his room had been his sanctuary, the only place in his aunt and uncle’s home that had been his. That is unless Landon wanted to come in and steal Emerson’s favorite plushie or break his LEGO, both things he did regularly but denied, always claiming Emerson was being weird and lying. It was always at that point Emerson usually started crying out of frustration, which ended up negating the truth because his aunt and uncle hated strong displays of emotion. In hindsight, there was very little about Emerson they liked.

Even into adulthood, his room was still filled with comfort items which left him open to judgment from family. Over time, to avoid harsh judgments, he got used to hiding the things that brought him joy.

A lifetime of trying to mask his neurodivergent nature and personality traits to protect himself left him an adult struggling to unmask, even now that it’s safe to do so. Because that’s the crux of it. Jason is safe. He’s safe in ways Emerson didn’t even know was possible.

Even knowing this, it’s hard for Emerson not to compare his own living space with Jason’s. His studio apartment doesn’t look like Jason’s house, and that isn’t just because of the size. Jason’s home is set up like, well, an adult’s. There’s a couch and a television and some photographs in the living room. A perfectly respectable and average kitchen. His house is sparsely decorated. There are a lot of shoes by the front door, but it’s overall a fairly average home. Emerson loves Jason’s house: the oversized comfortable couch, the dogs who both finally let Emerson pet them, and the fact that it’s in a quiet neighborhood where Emerson can’t hear everyone who lives around him. What he loves most about it though is that Jason is there. Having been to his home a few times left Emerson thinking maybe it was time he let Jason see his own home, a decision he is currently on the verge of spiraling over.

While there are a lot of things Emerson dislikes about his apartment: the noisy upstairs neighbors who stomp around like they have shoes made of cement, the fact that someone on his floor smokes on their balcony so he can never have his window open, or the way one of the kids next door knocks on his wall when they can’t sleep. Thinking about it, perhaps there’s a lot of things he dislikes, but it’s still his. His apartment, one that his aunt and uncle can’t shame for being filled with toys and books. His own apartment that no one can sneak into and rearrange his bookshelf or break his LEGO sets.

This too small, too noisy apartment is Emerson’s, and he loves it in the same way he covets his treasured possessions, because it’s his and no one can take it away. With that independence comes the reality that Emerson has no one who comes over. No family, no friends. No one else has been in this apartment ever since Emerson moved in, as evidenced by the half-finished puzzle on the dining room table he never eats at or the fact that his kitchen counters are covered in papers he’s in the middle of grading, not appliances.

A single bookshelf sits in the corner, overfilled with books spilling onto the floor and piled in corners. In front of the books are his favorite LEGO mini figs and the top of the shelf has his model of Rivendell. He has more LEGO sets, carefully packed away with their original instructions. They’re still in boxes, partially because Emerson has no shelves to display them, but also because even though he lives here alone, it’s taken him a long time to feel safe bringing them out.

His kitchen is equally chaotic, and the only thing that’s not work-related on his kitchen counters is a dragon shaped cookie jar he found at a thrift store before he moved here. Emerson doesn’t like cookies so it’s filled with Ranch Doritos, but it was the first grown-up purchase of his life—if a mythical creature-shaped crock for baked goods counts. Emerson is very attached to it despite the paint on the end of the snout being scratched and the chip in the back tail, which he hides by wedging it in the corner.

Even his couch is used, though this one is not from a thrift store. His aunt and uncle were re-doing their second living room and were going to throw it away. Even though Emerson kind of hates the ugly floral pattern, and it reminds him of his aunt. He’d paid them fifty bucks and then spent a small fortune to bring it across the country, if only because it was familiar to sit on, and he’d desperately needed everything to not be different. There’s also no coffee table because Emerson doesn’t use one, only a large empty spot where there used to be a sort of blanket nest Emerson uses when he’s overwhelmed and needs to lay on the floor. It was there this morning, but he balled it all up and hid it under the bed when he texted Jason to come on up.

His apartment is lived in but in a kind of haphazard I’m a first year teacher with no money but also I have no idea how to let myself decorate because I was never allowed to express myself kind of way. Something he feels very aware of when the knock on the front door comes.

Steeling his nerves, Emerson walks to the door, unsure how he can want to see Jason more than anyone in the world, yet somehow feel like he’s walking to his death. It’s incredibly exhausting having a brain that rebels against even the things he wants when it’s afraid, and he tries to remind himself that Jason isn’t going to poke fun at his toys or the size of his home. Despite knowing Jason would never tease him, the anxiety rises.

Jason knocks again and Emerson breathes slowly. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He does it again until the worst of it passes, turning the deadbolt and readying himself to apologize for keeping Jason waiting, when every single word and thought falls from his head at the sight of Jason standing at his front door, his smile as wide and bright as actual sunshine. He’s dressed in a charcoal gray suit. The cut of it hugs every single swell and curve of Jason’s body, highlighting the breadth of his thick thighs, massive chest and overall impressive girth.

What really catches Emerson’s attention though is the plastic box in his hand, one he’s holding almost nervously with a flower inside. Not just a flower—a boutonniere.

“Wow,” Jason whispers. His chest expands with a slow, deep breath. “Emmy, you look?—”

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Emerson blurts, suddenly wondering why he didn’t choose something subtle like Jason, whose suit is a perfectly normal, non-attention grabbing three piece suit.

In stark contrast, Emerson’s suit is anything but subtle. The cut is less traditional than usual with slim lapels and pants that hit just above his bare ankles. Unlike Jason, he’s not wearing a tie but rather a loose white button up with the top two buttons undone at Denise’s suggestion. Most attention grabbing of all is the color, a pale green.

It occurs to Emerson that the students are going to stare. The other chaperones might talk about him. He’s going to stand out. People are going to look at him. Jason is looking at him.

“Not too much,” Jason utters softly, his eyes never leaving Emerson’s face. “You look…you look amazing.”

The praise is too much. People don’t look at Emerson like this—like he’s the only thing in the entire world that matters.

“Gives us a spin,” Jason whistles.

When he holds his hand out, it occurs to Emerson that Jason is not joking or playing a prank. Because it’s Jason, Emerson lifts his hand and lays his fingers in Jason’s palm, unsure why his entire body gets dizzy from one single twirl.

“Damn,” Jason whispers. “You look incredible.”

“Denise did the suit,” Emerson mumbles. His face is burning and he’s acutely aware of the way he’s breathing now, hyper-aware of all of his limbs and the shape of his mouth. Is he supposed to cross his arms or put them in his pocket?

“Denise is amazing but you wear it like—” Jason stops, licking his lips. He’s still staring.

“Like what?” Emerson dares to ask.

“Like it was made for you.” Jason clears his throat, the faintest hint of pink spreading across his cheeks. “I uh, I brought you something.”

He holds the plastic container out to Emerson. Entirely unsure what’s happening, he takes the box, popping it open. Nestled inside is a sunflower boutonniere.

Emerson is certain his heart hasn’t actually stopped because he would be dead, and he’s definitely alive, but he can’t feel his own heart beating any longer—the feeling of soft flower petals under his fingertips the only sensation his brain can focus on.

“You brought me flowers.”

“Well, a boutonniere,” Jason corrects, as if the technicality diminishes what it means. “It’s your first dance after all. You should have a boutonniere. Can I put it on you?”

Part of Emerson worries he’s hallucinating. Did Jason really bring him a boutonniere? Is that a thing straight men do with their friends?

“I don’t understand,” Emerson blurts, the weight of Jason’s stare and Denise’s words from yesterday weighing loud and heavy. Jason isn’t cruel, he doesn’t lie or play tricks, but nothing happening right now makes sense. “I thought you brought boutonnieres to your date.”

“You do.” Jason licks his lips. “I uh—shit, can I hug you first?”

“Okay,” Emerson agrees, because nothing makes sense, and he could really use a Jason hug.

“Thank you.”

Making sure not to crush the boutonniere, Jason pulls Emerson into his arms, enveloping his entire body in his larger one. Instinctively, Emerson’s face curls into Jason’s neck. The softness of his freshly shaved skin and the clean scent of his body wash send happy little buzzes of pleasure into Emerson’s brain. Jason always smells so good, and the strength of his embrace settles Emerson’s nerves as Jason gives him a full body squeeze. “Shit, I’ve missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” Emerson points out, lips accidentally grazing the side of Jason’s neck.

“Barely,” Jason scoffs. “Between homecoming prep and the game, I feel like I’ve barely seen you all week. It was horrible.”

“Not seeing me is horrible?” Emerson asks, taking another deep breath, as if by doing so he can inhale Jason’s scent and permanently imprint it in his olfactory system. If he could just smell Jason on demand that would be pretty great actually. He’s starting to think he’s addicted to Jason’s musky, clean man smell.

“Of course it is,” Jason answers, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling against Emerson’s chest from where they’re still pressed tightly together. “Emmy, you’re my favorite person.”

“But…Theo,” Emerson protests.

“No buts,” Jason counters. “Theo will always be my best friend but you’re—you’re you , Emmy.”

The way he says it makes him sound special, important even; as if Emerson being himself is something extraordinary, and not someone to be tolerated or accommodated.

Pulling out of the hug, he lifts his gaze to Jason’s and what he sees there doesn’t help him make sense of anything. Jason is looking at him, like—well, perhaps the way Denise suggested, and it makes Emerson shudder.

“Jason.”

“Emmy.” Jason lifts both hands to Emerson’s face, cradling it in his large palms. “You are so fucking special. I think I’m doing this backwards. No, I know I’m doing it backwards. I feel like I’m sixteen again.”

Jason laughs, something warm and soft and so full of emotion Emerson feels it in his chest, even if he doesn’t understand what it means.

“Doing what backwards?” Emerson asks, afraid to move in case Jason stops touching him.

Growing up, there were times Emerson wasn’t sure he was real. Sure, he knew he was technically—flesh and bone don’t lie—yet his own experiences left him feeling sidelined and wayward like he wasn’t a character in his own story. The way Jason is looking at him right now, his touch grounding and his eyes adoring, Emerson feels like the main character in his own life for the first time.

Emerson feels achingly, vulnerably real.

“I need to ask you something, and tell you something. Except I’m not sure which one is supposed to come first.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Emerson admits.

“I’m sorry,” Jason says, tipping his head down to rest it against Emerson’s. His dark lashes rest on his cheekbones as he breathes in slow and deep. Jason’s eyes are closed but Emerson can’t look away. “Fuck. I’m fucking this up. I had a plan.”

“A plan,” Emerson echoes, still not sure what’s happening but delighting in the way Jason appears to be trying to swallow Emerson’s body up with his own.

“Yes. I made a plan. A how-to-get-the-guy plan. I was going to do this right and—and, shit.”

“Jason.”

“Yeah, Emmy?”

“That doesn’t sound very straight.”

Jason huffs out a laugh, rubbing his forehead against Emerson’s like a cat trying to imprint. He breathes Emerson in, fluttering his eyes open so that his big, dark eyes are so close to Emerson’s with their noses touching.

“Emmy, I have a secret.”

Emerson breathes him in, so in love with this giant, confusing man it hurts. “It won’t be a secret if you tell me.”

“That’s okay,” Jason whispers, his lips so close they’re almost pressed against Emerson’s. “I don’t want any secrets. Not from you.”

Holding his breath Emerson waits, the soft exhale of Jason’s breath against his lips and the brush of a thumb over his cheek rendering him speechless.

“Emmy, I don’t think I’m straight.”