And so they sit side by side. Two grown men who are still boys. One wants to touch the other. That’s his secret. The other longs to be touched. That’s his secret.

It’s the hundredth night in a litany of others that have played out much the same. Neither has the courage to take the first step. Neither wants to upset the perfectly imperfect balance of what they have. It’s love. It’s fear. It’s an unholy union that may never be realized.

The one on the left doesn’t understand his thoughts or why he can’t concentrate on the TV. He just wants a blow job, but hates himself for even thinking about his friend in that way. He thinks it would offend him. That he’d suddenly want more than he’d be able to give. He dreams of a middle ground, a place where they both get what they want and need from the other, but he imagines it can’t exist.

And so he does nothing. He does nothing because he loves him.

The other only wants to touch his friend. He only wants to be close and close and closer. He only wants to make him happy. He’s smart enough to know he will never be, can never be enough for him. But he yearns to be more than what he is. He wants to show his devotion and show it is distinct and special from the other boys. But he hates himself for wanting something from his friend that he cannot offer.

He dreams of a middle ground, a place where they both get what they want and need from the other, but he imagines it can’t exist.

It does. But it’s a secret they may never know.

And so the one on the right does nothing. He hugs a pillow a little tighter to his chest and does nothing because he loves him.

IS NOT one of the most powerful things to so love someone with all your heart and yet have the knowledge you will never have an opportunity to be intimate. Like an iron in a fire, always burning, always present is this love, unable to be extinguished or at the same time to be of any use.

THE ONE on the left slipped one hand under his T-shirt and casually pulled it up while carefully gauging his friend’s reaction. He let the blanket fall off his shoulders onto the couch, letting the one on the right get an unobstructed view of his tan stomach. He let his hand rest there while he adjusted the bulge in his sweat pants to a no more comfortable but definitely more obvious position.

The one on the right was sweating.

Drip. Drip.