Page 19

19

Henri

I love Creative Communications class. I love sitting next to Atlas and accidentally-on-purpose brushing his hand with my fingers. I love leaning over and catching a whiff of spice and cigarette smoke. I particularly love it when his dark eyes meet mine and his lips curve up into the barest hint of a smile. I am certain he doesn’t know he’s doing it, which is why I’ll never say anything about it—if he knew how much I loved that look, he’d be sure to stop.

“Hello, B?rchen,” I greet him warmly as I slide into my seat. “How are we today?”

“Fine. You?” He sets a small gift bag on my desk, smirking.

Atlas and I have developed something of an inside joke where apples are concerned. It started out as a genuine concern for his health, and has slowly manifested into a game between us to see who can find the most ridiculous apple-themed item. Last week, I was thrilled to find a horrendously ugly apple-patterned tie, and he has yet to beat me. Before that, Atlas brought me a set of children’s barrettes that were different types of apples. I have quite the stash of apple gifts from Atlas, and I cherish them rather more than I probably should for what is essentially a load of junk.

“And what is this?” I ask.

“Open it and find out,” he says smugly. Clearly, he believes he’s found something better than the tie.

Pulling open the bag, I peek inside. It looks like some sort of fabric—silky, like pajamas. Furrowing my brow, I reach in and pull it out, only to stuff it back out of sight under the table. Atlas snorts with laughter.

“Atlas!” I scold, feeling my face heat with embarrassment. “You cannot give me underwear in class, this is not appropriate!”

“Apples, though,” is all he says between chuckles. “Satin, too, did you notice?”

“Atlas,” I repeat, desperately trying to keep my expression stern. It’s very hard not to smile when he’s obviously so pleased with himself.

“Wear them tonight, yeah? I need a picture. Maybe you could pose for me.”

Sighing, I turn around in my seat and try to gauge the nearest person and whether or not they just saw me flinging boxers around. Nobody appears scandalized, so I quickly transfer them to my bag. When I turn back to him, Atlas is still looking ridiculously proud of himself.

“Okay,” I say on a sigh, “that is pretty good. I suppose you are winning, for now.”

He looks smug as Dr. Robertson walks into the room. I immediately face forward, pen poised over my notebook and ready to take notes. Beside me, Atlas has his laptop ready. We make a good team, him and I. Although handwriting things does help me retain the information, it is a great deal slower and I occasionally miss pieces of the lecture. With Atlas typing his notes and giving them to me later, I’m able to fill in the blanks.

When class is dismissed later, I carefully finish up my last line of text before turning to Atlas. He’s watching me—again, with that cute smile on his face—and waiting for me to finish.

“Are you free for this Saturday?” I ask him. He shrugs.

“I can be.”

The way Atlas makes plans is a little bit anxiety-inducing. He doesn’t so much make plans, as stroll casually into them. While I prefer to have everything structured and planned in advance so I know precisely what my days look like, Atlas prefers to agree to things spur of the moment. Similarly, he has no problem discarding plans when something better comes along. In this case, I am hoping that is me.

“I was thinking we might have a date,” I tell him, sliding my books into my bag. “My friend Zeke has given me an idea, and I do not have a hockey game.”

“Oh?”

“Are you free?” I press, not wanting to give away too much information before he actually agrees to going. He scowls at me, because he knows exactly what I’m doing.

“Sure,” he grunts.

“Excellent! I shall pick you up around four, yes? And we will go and enjoy some glow-in-the-dark miniature golfing.”

“Actually, I’m not free,” Atlas corrects quickly.

“Yes, you are. Four o’clock on Saturday, I shall be there to pick you up.” Leaning forward, I give him a quick kiss to the top of his dark head. He sighs as though I am testing his patience, and stands to follow me out of the lecture hall. I hold the door for him and he scowls as he walks past me and out of the building.

“We’re not dating,” he reminds me, although the words lack any conviction at all. “We’re just fucking.”

“With feelings,” I add cheerfully.

“No feelings.”

“A few feelings.” I nudge him with my elbow, grinning. He rolls his eyes but still smiles back.

“Fine. I’ll go mini golfing, but I’m not happy about it,” he tells me crossly, though there is still no heat behind it.

“All right, B?rchen. It is a date.” I kiss the top of his head again, because Atlas is starved for affection and I am happy to provide it. He sighs gustily and leans into me, arm wrapped loosely around my waist in a half-hug.

Atlas pretends he is not having fun with the mini golf, but he is. The room is dark, with the only illumination coming from the brightly painted, glow-in-the-dark course structures. Atlas, with his dark hair and pale skin looks even more striking than usual. I ask a nice woman to take our photograph as we are waiting at a hole, and although he grumbles a little bit, he leans into me and smiles at the camera.

“Look at this.” I show him the picture, grinning down at it.

“How are you even real,” he mutters. “It looks like I’m standing next to a celebrity.”

This is my first experience with mini golf, and it is a tad humbling. Having been gifted with more athletic acuity than most people, I had assumed this would be easy for me. That is, until Atlas never scores higher than a two and I seem to average a four on every hole.

“You are quite good at this, yes?” I comment. Atlas shrugs.

“My youngest half brother likes to do stuff like this.” He looks down at his feet, scuffing the tip of his Converse against the turf.

“Oh? And how old is he? How many brothers?” I try to temper the excitement in my voice, but it’s difficult. Learning about Atlas in any capacity is ridiculously hard. He doesn’t like to talk at all, let alone about himself. He once told me he didn’t have any older brothers, and I’d foolishly taken that to mean no siblings at all.

“Two. Ethan is five years younger than me, and Ryan is ten years younger.”

“Wow! And how old are you, then?” I ask, making Atlas laugh.

“Twenty-two. Ryan just turned twelve. He still likes to do stuff like this”—Atlas gestures around, encompassing the golf course—“but Ethan is sometimes too cool for it.”

“Like you,” I tease, and he shoots me a wry look. “Jakob is nine years older than me, so I am having a big age gap like you.”

“Yeah. Even though he’s a lot younger, Ryan and I get along fine. For now,” Atlas adds, shrugging and attempting nonchalance. “Soon enough he won’t want to hang out with me, though. Neither of them will.”

“I do not think this is true,” I say lightly. “I am always trailing after my brother growing up, no matter how old I am. Big brothers are always the hero, yes?”

“Maybe,” he allows, chin still angled downward so I can’t see his expression.

I touch a fingertip to the back of his hand, resting on the handle of his golf club. It’s our turn at the hole, so Atlas is able to avoid further conversation by taking his shot. He sinks his ball in three this time. Plucking it out, he smirks at me.

“Might be time for you to post a comeback,” he teases. Sighing, I shake my head and bend over to place my ball on the turf. I don’t think a comeback will be happening tonight. Indeed, this ends up being my worst hole yet, which makes Atlas smile as he jots down a six on the scorecard.

“Good thing the hockey net is so big,” he notes casually. I give him a small jab with my elbow, but he sidesteps me, grinning.

Atlas ends up winning, which will likely earn me a little chirping when I tell Carter and Zeke. According to Zeke, Carter “destroyed him.” Atlas, smirking, hands me the scorecard as we pass a trash can on my side as we head out the door. Instead of tossing it, I tuck it into my pocket. Proof, for the future, that perfect days do exist.

“Are we going back to your dorm?” Atlas asks, clipping his seat belt and turning to face me.

“Sure, if that is what you wish.” Smiling over at him, I see him nod and turn his head to watch out the window. He sits in silence for the majority of the ride, and it’s not until we reach campus that he looks over at me.

“That was fun,” he admits grudgingly.

“Yes,” I agree, smiling widely at him. “Although next time I will be sure to pick an activity that I excel at, I think. It is hard to be impressive while losing at a game most children can do.”

Snorting, he pushes open his door and rounds the hood of the car to wait for me. The dorm is a little more rowdy tonight than usual—music thumps through the hallways, and raised voices carry through the doors left wide in open invitation. I wonder for a moment if Atlas will want to join the party, but he only trails after me silently until we reach my door.

Inside, he moves about my space with the practiced efficiency of someone who has been here many times. It makes my chest feel tight to see it—Atlas comfortable in my room, and with me. He catches me watching him and narrows his eyes at me.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” I wave a hand, not wanting to embarrass him. He lifts his shirt over his head, loosely folding it and laying it on my desk chair the way he does every time he spends the night. Bending over to slip his pants off, he glances up at me.

“Are you sleeping in that?” he asks.

“No, but I think I shall wait until you finish. I am enjoying watching.”

Chuckling, he slips off a sock, balls it up and tosses it at me. Catching it, I walk over and hold out a hand for the other before folding them together and putting them with the rest of his clothes. When I turn back around, Atlas is standing in his boxers and watching me.

“All right,” he says, gesturing to me. “My turn to watch.”

Atlas sits on the edge of my bed, leaned back on his hands, as I take my clothes off and put them away. Usually, I’d be using this time to get some studying in, or watching whatever NHL games were on; maybe working through some of the physical therapy exercises I can manage in my dorm room. But ever since Atlas and I have tentatively dipped our toes into dating, he’s been spending quite a bit of time here, and my carefully structured life is no longer so rigid.

I join him on the edge of my bed, and smile when his hand immediately rises and fingers trail down my spine. He’s waiting for me to tell him what I want or don’t want. Atlas—who seems to always be ready and willing—is forever up for anything. I, on the other hand, am very seldom in the mood. Mostly, I just want to be around him. Sitting quietly for a few moments, I enjoy the gentle slide of his fingertips over my back.

“Can we sleep?” I ask him. I’m always nervous about requesting that he stay the night, particularly when most nights I don’t want to do anything sexual. He’s so skittish about relationships, I feel the need to step lightly around him. One wrong move will have him springing for the door.

“Sure,” he agrees, dropping his hand and reaching around us to pull the sheets back. Relieved, I slide into the bed to the spot closest to the wall and wait for him to join me. I stare hard at his face, looking for any annoyance or disappointment, but find none. I turn him down quite often, and I do not want him to be mad. He looks relaxed, fortunately.

“Thank you,” I mutter, as he settles himself in next to me, clicking off the lamp. He lies on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow cushioning his cheek. “I am sorry, I know you were wanting to?—"

“Don’t do that,” he says crossly. “Don’t apologize for not wanting to fuck. You’re allowed to say no, Henri.”

“But what about you?—”

“Don’t,” he repeats. “I don’t like that you feel bad about that. I don’t want you to ever feel obligated to have sex with me or anyone else, okay? That’s not cool. Nobody should make you feel that way.”

“Okay,” I agree, a little surprised at his vehemence. He sounds angry. I can’t see his face, but even in the dark I know he’s wearing a frown. “I am just not wanting to let you down. I want you to like me.”

He sighs, and I feel his breath on my face. His fingers find the side of my head and slide soothingly into my hair. I try not to moan, but it’s a close thing. Of all the things I like doing with Atlas, my favorite is when he touches me in this way—loving and gentle.

“I like you,” he says, in the same tone of voice one might use to describe a root canal they received. Another sigh. “I shouldn’t, but I do.”

And here we go with this again. I hate it when Atlas talks like this. Like he’s not good enough, and is just waiting for me to find someone better. I do not understand how someone so smart could be so blind. How could I want someone else when Atlas is in the world?

I wonder, for a moment, whether now is the time to bring up the summer. The end of the school year has been looming in the periphery, bringing with it both an exciting new chapter for me, but also a great deal of uncertainty. For the first time since starting school here, I won’t be going home to Germany for the summer months. Atlas, of course, hasn’t said anything about his own plans, and the ambiguity is beginning to feel damning. It feels like his silence means the end.

I need to bring it up—I know that I do—but talking about these things with Atlas sets him on edge. I can easily imagine the way his eyes would fill with panic if I asked him to visit me here over the summer. He’s as skittish as a wild animal, prone to running when someone makes an abrupt movement around him. So I’ve kept quiet and let my anxiety fester, and now here we are: a handful of weeks before the end of the semester and time is up.

“Atlas?” I whisper .

“Mm,” he grunts back, already half-asleep.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Now?” He huffs, fingers gently pushing my hair back in a way that makes my heart hurt and my eyes burn.

“Not now,” I mutter, even though I long to say yes, please, let’s talk now. “Go to sleep, B?rchen. I can wait until morning.”

But the morning comes and goes in a haze of lazy cuddles and soft kisses, and Atlas is gone home by the time I remember that I wanted to talk to him.