Jay's Not Gay, You Guys 8

"How are you feeling?" Dillon asks once we're strapped in his car. It's a Jeep. His tall car was a Jeep the whole time. I never would have pictured him in a Jeep. Is Dillon more outdoorsy than his style would have him appear? Jesus.

"Better," I answer honestly. "I mean, I still feel loopy, but better. My head hurts."

"Good," he says.

I watch him drive in silence. This feels like we're back to normal. Normal was short for our weird little buddy-ship, but I enjoyed it while it was there. I am glad that Dillon didn't give up on me. It sucks that I had to get a concussion to figure that out, but maybe, "I got mad because I thought you had just been messing with me this whole time, like your deal was turning straight guys and laughing about it." The words just come out. This is worse than when we were drunk and he called me a dumb shit, because we were at least on the same level of functionality or whatever. Now I can't think straight, and Dillon's all level-headed and chill.

Dillon looks at me. "I would never do that, Jay."

"I know, I just got…scared."

He's focused on the road, but Dillon reaches over to clasp my shoulder. We're cool. And his hand slips down my chest to rest on my leg, and I don't get that oh-no-what-gay-shit-is-he-gonna-try-on-me tingle. Dillon's fingers aren't moving, he isn't pressing down or caressing or anything like that, and I don't think he's thinking about anything more than getting to Taco Bell and shutting me up. It's kind of comforting.

"Can I sleep for about five minutes?" I ask.

He smiles a little bit. "Sure."

"Thank you." I kind of get why girls like alpha males, I think. I mean, I knew why I tried so hard—girls responded to a dude who was at the top of his game and a little cocky. I didn't have LeAndre's smarts or easygoing confidence, or his looks, or his build. I wasn't funny like Carter, and I didn't have Aaron's…okay, he didn't count because he had everything and still wasn't as popular as he should have been. But Dillon is kind of like that. Not just because he thought dudes were hot, it was more like he was cool, confident, and nice. Like, he, I don't know…I never figured out how to be cool and not be an asshole, but Dillon manages it. If he did girls, he'd be the one they always talk about as making a good husband. I'm just the bad boy they get bored with when they realize I'm not fixable. Because—

“I am broken as shit.” I wake myself up when I say it out loud.

Dillon gives me a look like that's the saddest thing he's ever heard.

“It's what I heard from this girl I hooked up with senior year,” I explain.

“She told you that, to your face?” Dillon asks with a frown.

Actually it was when I overheard her telling another girl why I was just for fun, not for keeps. Now I can say that she might have just been protecting herself since I was the one who didn't want to make it official, even though we’d both said we liked each other. Afterwards I told everyone exactly where and when we'd fucked, or she’d blown me, and she got labeled as an easy lay for the rest of the year. It was a shitty thing to do just because my little feelers got hurt. I got drunk and knocked some mailboxes over; she cried in the bathroom between classes. Turns out she was right about me.

Fingers snap in front of my nose.

“Jay!”

I shake my head, which is a terrible idea, and look at him. “Sorry.”

“Maybe don’t go to sleep again. I need your order.”

I want chalupas.

I want hot sauce.

I want Dillon to keep being nice to me.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks with a smile that I can’t figure out. “No caffeine.”

“Yeah, I need a Sprite.”

I need to be a better person.

I need to be the kind of person Dillon wants to be nice to.

We eat in the dorm lounge because it’s too fucking cold to stay in his Jeep (after Dillon refuses to leave it running. Because of the environment). It feels too quiet. There’s really nobody here; everyone’s partying down on Greek Row.

Is my head bonk going to ruin my grades? My last one got me extra time on tests for a semester, but it didn’t help much.

“Hey, I’m passing Statistics,” I remember to tell Dillon.

His whole face lights up. “Really! You fucking did it, Jay!” He moves like he’s about to hug me, but then stops himself—I see him look around the empty lounge like the walls have eyes—and turns it into a high five.

I knock his hand away. “You can hug me please,” I say, and before I can wonder why I phrased it like that Dillon has already grabbed me up and swung me around. Then he follows it up with a real high five, a good one that stings a little.

“I knew you had it in you!” he congratulates me. “See, you can do this.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, but there are still finals.” Coming fast, too.

Dillon looks at me for a second, then his eyes do that slide away thing. “Is that why you caught up to us earlier? You were going to tell me about Stat?”

“Yeah,” I say, throwing my wrappers away. “I thought you’d be proud. Of your tutoring, I mean.” I don’t look at him, because I can feel the way he’s being so careful about choosing the right words.

“Sure,” he replies kinda quietly. “But I’m proud of you. And you should be proud.”

I am. I was prouder before I called Dillon a slur, but now it’s a little easier to be happy about it again. He should be around me more. Dillon’s nicer to me the closer he is.

“I won’t be very nice if my breath still smells like Taco Bell in the morning,” he answers my inside thoughts again. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

I wish I did. Dillon promises to come back as soon as he grabs some stuff. “I’m not going to keep this concussion vigil in hard pants,” he says.

Listen, I know I’m being a little needy. Kinda pathetic. Pouty like a little kid. Insecure, all “Don’t leave, stay here.” When girls do that to me I get annoyed. Dillon either thinks it’s part of me being concussed, or he likes it.

There is kind of a fear, right, that if I’m doing just fine that Dillon will go away and still be mad at me. He has every right to stay mad, but like, if I can convince him that I just slipped up. It’s not how I am anymore. All the shit he told me to read, I read, even if Kayleigh never finds out. Dillon says I gotta make amends to Viera, I’ll figure it out. It’s just…this semester I’ve spent more of my time with Dillon than anyone, and it would suck if he still thinks I suck, you know?

When Dillon makes it back to my door he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, and socks with slides. Suddenly he really looks like an actual athlete, like the type of guy you’d see pull off his helmet and be like, god damn it, some people have everything going for them. I feel weird.

“I forgot to ask; do you need to shower? You probably shouldn’t do it alone,” he says all business-like. “Toothbrushing, bathroom, all that stuff, you need a buddy. Until six tomorrow morning, at least.”

I kind of remember that from my last concussion, but I just nod and let Dillon help me get some shit together for a trip down the hall to the showers. He takes the time to find matching socks from my basket of clean laundry. He also won’t sit inside the room with me.

“Jay, you’ll get distracted and then it’ll take forever.”

What happened between his dorm and mine? Like, he literally picked me up and swung me around twenty minutes ago.

“Are you still mad at me?”

His expressions change a whole bunch before he settles on nice. “No, I’m not. You apologized, and you meant it, and I believe you. I may still be a little hurt, but I’m not angry.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Dillon shrugs and stuffs his hands in his hoodie pocket. “I got my revenge.”

“And now I’m your problem on a Friday night. That’ll teach you about choosing violence,” I say, and then yelp when Dillon flicks me with my rolled up towel.

“If you’re not out in ten minutes I’m calling the RA,” he warns, and I get to it because Dillon is a hundred percent the type to confess to an authority that he punched me so hard that I need help in the shower.

"Sleep in my bed," I order when we get back to my room.

"No," Dillon responds immediately, climbing onto Carter’s bunk.

I shrug, collapsing on my bed. “Carter and his girlfriend have a lot of sex and he doesn't do laundry much.” I don’t know if they’ve fucked on those sheets specifically, but…

Dillon shoots off the bed, a look of horror on his face. He shoves me to one side and climbs on my bed like the floor is lava.

“Wait,” he says, one foot still on the floor, “do you—”

“I changed my sheets yesterday because I’m not gross.” Not like Brantley. Not like Carter. Maybe I should be Dillon’s roommate. Then he’d have to be nice to me. Carter will be in the Sig Ep house next year, anyway.

“This would be easier if your bed was against the wall,” Dillon grumbles as we try to figure out how to fit on the narrow mattress. We end up with me stretched straight and Dillon on his side facing away from me. The plan is to finally let me go to sleep, and then Dillon will check on me every hour. Something something doctor’s orders, who cares, I’m just happy that someone’s making sure I don’t die.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” I tell Dillon as he shuts off the lights.

He kind of snorts and goes, “Stop being cute and go to sleep.”

The alarm goes off at one, and I wake up, turn it off and go pee. Dillon's back is to me, and I…I know what I'm doing. I just don't think about it. He wakes up when my arms go around him, but he just looks back at me sleepily.

"Jay?"

This is fine. We're both fully clothed. "There's no room," I reply. He makes a good little spoon, and this is way more comfortable than sleeping like a mummy.

At two Dillon turns over and pokes me. "Wake up."

"Okay," I mumble.

"Open your eyes so I know you're awake."

I do, only to have the flashlight from Dillon's phone shine right in my eyes. "Ah, shit! What the fuck, man?"

"They're dilating. That's good."

Grabbing the phone from him, I reset the alarm and lean over Dillon to put it back on the nightstand. It's easy enough to put my head down on his chest. After a little bit Dillon's arm goes around my back, and the steady thump of his heart puts me to sleep again.

Three o'clock. The alarm sounds again, Dillon checks my pupils, and then he watches when I pull my hoodie and t-shirt off.

"It's hot," I say simply, but then I lay back down on his chest. His heart beats slightly faster. It is hot, but I think it has more to do with my mind than with the actual temperature. I don't want to have to tell him to take his shirt off, but he's not making any moves here. Maybe he's scared.

Dillon's fingers play with my hair a little bit. Honestly, I think I go, "Mm." The arm I have on his chest drapes just a little over his side, so I can reach down and curl my fingers under the edge of his shirt. I don't do anything more, at least not until Dillon falls asleep again. He can pretend I was sleeping, too, when he wakes up and my whole hand is under his hoodie.

When the fourth alarm sounds I don't bother pretending that I was fully asleep. Dillon takes his hoodie off, and I sit up just enough to undo the knot of his sweatpants and push them down past his ass. He kicks them the rest of the way off, and then I turn on my back so he can get rid of my sweats.

"I feel like a fucking slob next to you," I tell him when he folds his clothes.

Dillon's smile is clear in his voice. "You are a slob," he replies as he lies back down. Both our voices are hushed. The darkness is close, and it's just us, sharing a secret. Dillon pulls me close and tangles his legs with mine, and it's just…it's good, to touch and be touched like this; it doesn't happen much. If Dillon were a girl I wouldn't be counting heartbeats to go back to sleep. I'd be trying to figure out how to fill my hands with some sweet titty. I'm not even worried about the usual where we'll go from here, like how I'm going to escalate things. It's like, I don't know, peaceful, I guess. Even at five when Dillon checks my pupils, I'm only grumpy because I was so comfortable before he moved. He lets me pull him back down kind of in a reverse of our last position. The weight of his body, breath tickling my bare skin, soft hair against my chin—Dillon's hair smells of musky shampoo, too—it doesn't even bother me that cloth-covered cock and balls are pressed against my thigh. He isn't hard, after all. I think I'd feel that.

Shit goes down at six, though. I got some good sleeping in during the hour, so I didn't even notice when I rolled over and Dillon spooned me. Maybe he didn't, either, but he unwraps his arm to reset the alarm, then checks my pupils again. I stay where I am, so Dillon doesn’t have room to do much else than spoon me again. This time he slides his hand back around to my stomach. I don't know—all the mostly-naked cuddling and touching I could chalk up to a dry spell with the ladies and being a little brain-damaged. It's weird, but it's just a night; a moment. Human comfort. But when Dillon's hand drifts up to my chest I get butterflies. No joke, my stomach is fluttery with anticipation, like, What's he gonna do? I don't want to know! I have to know. Oh my god oh my god what is he doing I'm so nervous!

Dillon's hand cups the underside of my left pectoral, maybe feeling the increasingly fast beat of my heart. I cover his hand with mine. Then his fingertips find my nipple and pinch.

I bite my lip to keep from saying it, but sheee-it that feels good. Dillon does it again, and again, and then there's this, like…the energy in the room shifts, like we went from rebuilding friendship to something else entirely. I don't know what it is yet, but when Dillon presses his whole body against my backside I reach back to pull him close. I still have no clue what the fuck I'm doing, but it feels good all over. My body is burning from the inside out like it does during really great sex. Except I'm not having sex right now. I'm stroking the underside of Dillon's thigh while his fingernails flick over my nipple, circling, grazing, pulling, and my mouth falls open and I breath the first heavy sigh into the dark.

Girls, or the girls I know, don't do this to you. Sure they love getting their titties sucked on and played with, and I like doing it to them, but never have I ever had a girl respond in kind. Porn didn't teach me about this. Every tug from Dillon's strong fingers send a little more blood to my cock. I know I'm breathing super loud, and I wish I had something—anything—on my dick with more pressure than my jockeys.

"Jay," Dillon whispers against my neck.

I press my head back against his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"I'm hard." He says it like it's a confession.

"Yeah?" I ask again.

"Yeah."

Rather than tell him, "me, too," I take his hand and guide it down to my crotch. I use this trick with girls, too. If you say it first, I'm in control, but I'll let you think I'm vulnerable by proving I feel the same way. I don't feel vulnerable now. Touching and being touched is my territory. Of course, Dillon might use this move, too, but at least I'm not the only one who's shaking. I press myself against his palm, like I'm too horny to help it, but the thing is that I'm not going to help anything—he is. Sure enough, Dillon's fingers wrap around the bulge that stretches my underwear and squeeze it. Now I don't hold back; my neighbors might hear repeated "ughn" noises coming from my room, but it won't be the first time. It's just damn good.

Dillon's hand is the biggest to be on my dick aside from my own. There's something to be said for having another guy touch you; no dude is gonna tug too hard on your balls or flick the head because they know how that hurts. Dillon does all the right stuff, and he shifts so that his other arm can hold my head. I should say "cradle my head," because he's holding me like I've done to girls before, in that I gotchu, baby hold that makes bodies melt together. Long fingers, strong and rough, run the length of my cock and down to caress my balls. Back up again, teasing the tip, and down; I don't know if the trembling is part of Dillon's usual technique or if he's still afraid I'm going to roll over and punch him.

This is what I do best, though—get people to get me off. Shifting my left leg upward and my right down gives Dillon's hand a little more room. I press against his hand, just a little, like I can't help myself, and of course Dillon squeezes a little tighter. His dick is pressed between my butt cheeks, and his hips begin to move in time with his hand on my cock. I know he won't just shove his underwear down and stick it in my ass, but goddam that's a big pole.

Hot heavy breaths puff over the base of my neck, and without even thinking I reach up to tug Dillon's head forward. He rests his open lips on my shoulder, and every so often his tongue will press against the skin there, sending more of that inner warmth through my body and into my cock.

Now I'm really shaking, because there's still a part of me that's like, What are you doing? The rest of me wants to fucking come. Dillon slips his hand underneath the waistband of my underwear. His skin is rough, but he's gentle, trailing his fingertips over the head, down the shaft, and then lightly squeezing my balls. It's like tiptoeing towards the finish line instead of running. Dillon's hands are fucking good at tiptoeing. Oh my god. His teeth pinch my shoulder, and Dillon grinds his hips against my ass so hard it makes my whole pelvis tingle.

"Don't stop," I order; my voice is hoarse. It's fine that I sound desperate. I'm so close to getting off, and if Dillon's breathing and how hard he's humping my ass is an indication, he's close, too.

I don't know what he likes here. We never discussed that, like if he's a dirty talker or if he's the silent type. It doesn't matter, I guess, because when I grab him this time my fingers slip under the band of his underwear, enough that I can reach to brush the crisp hairs of his ass, and…Dillon lets out this sigh, and it gets into my ears. It's throaty, needy, full of things he hasn't said out loud, and it travels from my head to my chest, expanding until it fills my balls, then my cock, and I'm coming in his hand. So hard, shooting fast thick spurts into my briefs; Dillon doesn't stop jerking me, not even when he shudders and comes against me with a bone-shaking groan. I have to grab his hand because it's too sensitive.

"Holy shit," I huff. "Oh, fuck."

Dillon chuckles.

Ordinarily I'd be all, thanks for the handjob now bye, but even with jism cooling in my underwear and the distinct feeling of cock softening against my ass, I'm not done. Or I'm not ready to be done. I don't know which, and I don't know what the fuck's gotten into me, because this isn't my first concussion and I didn’t suddenly start hooking up with guys last time.

Rolling toward Dillon, I throw an arm over his side and nuzzle his neck. See, this is why I don't think about shit too hard, because I don't "nuzzle." I'm not a nuzzler. But Dillon feels good, all that warm skin and his crinkly chest hair, his whiskers against my cheeks. The voices that are like, shit, man, this is weird, shut up when Dillon sighs and pulls me closer. We can do this right now. I can pull his leg over my hip and run my fingers through his hair. It's okay. This is fine, just right now, in the shadows, just us.

Dillon tilts my chin up so he can kiss me, and it's kind of crazy how different it is from the first time that happened. I’m a good kisser, too, and I’ll show this guy exactly how good I am.