Finn looked all too delighted. “No objections from me.”

It all went too fast and not fast enough. Finn used a lot of lube, and he slipped in and out of Theo’s body, and he kept trying to cradle Theo’s face in some misplaced nod to tenderness. Theo shoved his hand in the direction of his cock, and he gripped it softly.

“Harder, fuck.”

With the movement over him, in him, and the hollow physical pleasure, and the smell of Finn’s cheap cologne, Theo let his mind wander. Float. He let himself be lost in this, another man’s body, the mechanics of fucking, a numbness.

He came. It was—acceptable. He kicked Finn out with a perfunctory, “Thanks.” He forgot his name five minutes later.

He stayed up all night, playing records, lying in bed, sleepless. Dirty.

The next day, he enrolled in business classes at the university.

He worked harder than he ever had at Gwynns, and he liked it, back in the grind, working at the club all day, classes in the evenings, studying, drinking coffee, weaning himself off the cigarettes, and if he couldn’t stop himself from exploding every once and a while, and he cried and raged it was just—just a part of the experience. College stress, and running the books for Colin, and forgetting to eat, now that Jack wasn’t there to—

He tried, peering into the cracked mirror, to apply concealer over the scar on his lip. It didn’t work. He cried, briefly, and decided he didn’t need to look at himself that much, anyway.

He started writing to Genni again, and Phillippe, and Tom. Genni was always complaining about Phil; Phil was always raving, in his mannered and loquacious way, about Genni. It came as no surprise, whatsoever, to get a gushing—and far too detailed—review of Phil’s performance in bed. Apparently they’d spent a “truly magical” weekend romping around Europe, and that was that.

He knew that they would last. It was guaranteed—that they would be able to have—

And Tom—Tom’s dad had been just as guilty as his own, but was stupider, and got caught for far more, and wasn’t as nice when he was screwing people over. So Tom was miserable, that first year after school. Everyone they knew hated him.

He’d always protected Tom, sort of. Tom was smart about simple things—which were, in many ways, more complex—like having friendships and loyalty and affection; but he wasn’t particularly smart when it came to school. He was a fantastic lineman—no one could dare to get through his solid bulk—and he was brilliant with a packet of instant noodles and pilfered spices from the school kitchen. So Theo had looked out for him with homework and tests and extra lessons, and Tom cared for him in turn. They were friends, true friends.

That—real friendship—had always been hard for Theo.