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Sunday.
Coming out to people at your Baptist church is pretty high on the list of Things Thou Shalt Not Do (or at the very least shouldn’t do). And yeah—Dex knew better. He’s not a complete idiot. He knew that no one was going to thank him for trusting them with this moment or acknowledge that, wow, Will! Being around people who make gay jokes and call people like him slurs and make excuses for homophobic hate crimes or possibly being the people who might hate crime him must be really hard! Dex knew.
He came out anyway.
In his defense, the youth pastor was pissing Dex off. Andrew rarely shut up, but usually Dex was able to mentally reduce any words from his mouth to a low hum. But today. Today, for whatever reason, Andrew decided to go on and on and on about homosexuals and corruption of the youth with a few carely placed slurs. And Dex just—
He had gotten pretty good at biting his tongue for the past twenty-one years, but for whatever reason, Dex just couldn’t keep holding it back.
“You know I’m gay, right?” Dex snapped.
There was a brief, deadly three-second silence. Normally, Dex would appreciate the lack of constant gabbing, but the stupidity of what he just did was catching up to him. It was suddenly excruciatingly hard to breathe.
“What?” Greg, the worship leader, asked. Giving Dex an out. Giving Dex a chance to claim the gay humor or the “walk in their shoes” defense.
“I’m gay,” Dex repeated, a little too loudly.
Actually, in retrospect, Dex is a complete idiot.
He’s in his car right now, pulled over in a gas station. He is not getting gas. He may quite possibly be having a panic attack. He’s not sure—he has never felt this way before. Shrunken to a pinprick, tossed to the ocean floor, unable to move as the water pressure crushes his lungs.
He knew it would be bad. He just didn’t know it would be this bad, and it’s so hard to breathe.
He’s overreacting. They just—all they did was say things. No one hurt him. It’s not like they beat him up or assaulted him. They just—
Dex squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the wheel tightly. Everything is too small (the world is too big). He can’t. He can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he—
He’s fine. He just needs to breathe. He’ll drive back to the Haus and collapse in bed, maybe watch a few episodes of ATLA, and he’ll be fine.
Dex rubs his face and then pulls back onto the road. All he can think right now is, Well, this was a shitty day of rest.
He makes it back to the Haus without running anyone or anything over, save for a small squirrel. Dex nearly stopped the car to try to resuscitate it and perform squirrel surgery. That probably says a lot about his current mental state, but literally who asked? Dex is the definition of emotionally stable and definitely doesn’t need therapy or meds. Therapy, as his dad is fond of saying, is a crutch for people too weak to deal with their problems independently and too rich to know what to spend their money on.
Nursey is on meds. Dex knows because he jokes about it a lot and sometimes he forgets to take them, so Dex and Chowder remind him. While too rich to be sensible, as any rich person is incapable of being, Nursey is the opposite of weak. Not that Dex cares—it is, after all, completely irrelevant to the topic at hand.
Dex collapses onto his bed and stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes. He watches a few episodes of ATLA.
He gets a text from Bitty and goes to fix the stove.
.
Monday.
Dex has a ten o’clock sociology gen ed that he shares with Nursey, after which they usually grab lunch together. Dex thinks about backing out, but it’s honestly a miracle they’ve managed to become friendly enough to eat food without one of them stabbing the other in the neck with a fork. So he goes and sits in a booth in the corner of the cafeteria.
“You’re moody today,” Nursey remarks.
A year or two ago, Dex would have bit Nursey’s head off, but now he can tell Nursey is, in his own way, trying to express concern. Nursey is signifying that he’s paying attention, that he’s noticing, and is asking Dex if he’s okay.
“I have a bunch of essays coming up,” Dex says. “I’m fine.”
“Need someone to edit?” Nursey asks, which is—confusing, to say the least. He’s being nice when he doesn’t have to be, and Dex doesn’t know how to wrap his mind around why.
Dex’s phone buzzes.
Greg: Can we talk?
Dex stares at the text a little too long for it to look normal. Nursey gives him a weird look, and Dex quickly shuts off his phone.
“If you’re offering,” Dex says, a little too loudly. He swallows. “To edit, I mean. That’d be great.”
Something about Nursey’s face softens. Dex isn’t sure why. His head hurts, and his mouth feels like cotton. It occurs to him that, now that church isn’t available for him, his teammates are his only friends. He thinks a lot of them might hate him. He’s being paranoid. Nobody hates him. Everyone hates him. Nursey is putting his jacket on and standing up from the booth.
Dex briefly considers that there may be something wrong with him.
Dex goes to his comp-sci class and ignores the text from Greg. Dex then works on his essay in the library.
By working on his essay, Dex means sitting at one of the cramped desks in the corner of the library where the main source of light is from the asymmetrical green lamps that an art student made and gifted to the university years ago. He has an open Word doc on his laptop that he is studiously ignoring while playing Candy Crush.
His phone buzzes.
Greg: I’m sorry
Greg: I just want to help
Dex stares at his phone, his left leg shaking. He pushes his thigh flat against the chair, but now his hands are shaking instead, and there’s no Nursey to pull him out of whatever is happening to his head. Not that he needs Nursey. For anything other than editing, of course, because all of Dex’s essays are complete shit, and—
Chowder: Shark time!!! 🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️
Chowder sends Dex fifteen photos of sharks, all of them varying species. Dex closes his eyes and breathes.
Greg sends another text. Dex shuts his phone off, heart pounding, and turns to work on his essay.
.
Tuesday.
Nursey invites him to a party.
This is not a novel experience. Dex is a college student. A hockey player. He gets invited to plenty of parties. Sure, the invites started drying up after he kept finding excuses not to go, but he has a social life. He can be fun.
“It’ll be chill,” Nursey says. He’s leaning against the counter as Dex beats egg whites to make meringue, and he’s eyeing the egg whites in a way that Dex finds a little suspicious.
“You always say things will be chill,” Dex says, “and then next thing I know, you’re getting high with Jack and Shitty, talking about gender and sexuality on the roof, while Chowder and Bitty film drunk renditions of the macarena that are definitely going to haunt them post-grad, and I’m stuck in a hallway as some random girl I’ve never met fresh off of Farmers Only dot com is feeling me up and singing Christmas carols.”
“That was one time,” Nursey says.
“Sure,” Dex says, and the tightness in his temples gets worse. God. This is why no one invites him to parties. He needs to shut up. He should just go. He should most definitely not go, what the fuck, Poindexter.
(If he’s in a room with a bunch of people, and they look at him, they’ll know. They’ll know every awful, disgusting, worthless part of him no matter how hard he tries to hide.)
Dex loses his grip on the bowl, and it slips from his grasp to the floor. It shatters, egg whites splattering over his shoes.
“Wait here,” Nursey says, and then he’s gone.
Bitty is going to kill him. The only things Bitty loves more than baking are the tools he uses to bake. Is this bowl special? Correction: was this bowl special?
“What the fuck, Poindexter?”
Dex looks up to find Nursey holding a broom and dustpan. Dex’s hands are sticky with egg whites and sugar, shards of glass in his hands.
“I’m cleaning,” Dex says.
His heartbeat is in his ears and blood is in his throat. Nursey snorts and hands Dex a paper towel for his hands.
“Like hell you are,” he says. “You’ll bleed all over the floor.”
“Sorry,” Dex says. He hates himself for letting the word slip out. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He doesn’t know why he can’t just be normal about anything.
“Are you okay?” Nursey asks.
And Dex wobbles.
He thinks about telling Nursey what happened. Nursey is gay. He would sympathize, maybe even manage to make Dex feel better about the situation. But Nursey—
Well, Nursey thinks it’s okay. To be gay or to—to act on gay desires. And it’s not okay. (Dex is not okay.) And he just—he can’t handle having someone tell him that it’s okay or that God doesn’t care about who Dex has sex with or who Dex wants to have sex with because he knows it’s a lie. It’s a nice lie; it’s an appealing lie. It’s a lie Dex has wanted to believe in ever since he was a little kid.
“I’ll go,” Dex blurts out because he can’t think of anything else to say. Nursey’s eyebrows raise slightly. “To the party. If you still want me to go with you.”
“You sure?” Nursey asks. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to. I was just—“
“I know,” says Dex. “I’ll go.”
Nursey’s face eases into a smile. “Chill. Friday night, then. Need a ride?”
A part of Dex wants to say no. The thought of being in a small, secluded space with Nursey for however long the car ride takes is—
Dex isn’t sure why the thought is uncomfortable. He’s not—he’s not homophobic. He doesn’t have an issue with gay people, even if they’re actively gay, and Nursey is actively gay, which doesn’t bother Dex. At all. Only, Nursey’s last boyfriend was this awful, pretentious music major who liked to put his hands all over Nursey like it was a competition to see how much skin he could touch without it technically being inappropriate for the public eye—
Anyway. Nursey’s last boyfriend thought Dex was homophobic. Which—yeah, Dex glared at him a lot, but that was because of how needlessly touchy and possessive he was and how many times Nursey came back from date nights with tense shoulders and a way too bright smile, looking like he was about to crack. Dex didn’t hate Nursey’s ex because of the whole gay thing. Dex just hated him because he was an ass and made Nursey feel like shit, and that’s a totally normal reaction and the only reason Dex couldn’t stand the sight of him draping himself over Nursey like it was nothing.
But Nursey might think Dex is homophobic. Dex can recall the feeling of being the only gay person in the room as everyone else just stares, the way he so quickly shrank under their gaze. Nursey wouldn’t have shrunk, most likely—he would have bristled or offered that slow, lazy grin that makes its recipients feel like idiots. Even so, it was a horrible feeling, and Dex doesn’t want anyone to feel like that around him.
He’s overthinking this. It’s a car ride.
“Okay,” Dex says. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t know how he should feel that Nursey is wearing the same expression of surprise on his face as Dex.
.
Wednesday.
Usually, Dex goes to church on Wednesdays, but the thought of attempting this makes him want to hurl himself off a cliff. Dex’s freshman year, Ransom and Holster led a PowerPoint presentation about how suicide is not the right choice no matter how down in the dumps you were, or how many times you had a panic attack over math homework that made you want to drop out of school, or how many times you got checked in practice by one Jack Laurent Zimmermann, or how many times your best friend slash platonic soulmate slash one true love in the whole wide multiverse stole the last fry at McDonald’s. This PowerPoint pretty much boiled down to Suicide Bad in Dex’s mind, so he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t put himself in a situation where he’s more likely to—well, do it.
Also, his parents would cry if he killed himself. He thinks. His mom would, at least. (He thinks.) And Nursey and Chowder would definitely cry. Nursey could pull it off, what with his depressed English major and haunted poet vibes, but Chowder. Dex feels like Chowder would forever associate sharks with suicide because that was the last thing he texted Dex about, and his one true passion (besides hockey and making out with his girlfriend) would be tainted by Dex’s unfortunate mental health. (Unhealth? Dishealth? Ahealth? Where was a certain unfairly attractive English major when Dex needed him?)
Anyway, Dex isn’t going to church.
He’s cleaning the bathroom right now, which is a necessary and pressing task. Tango cleaned it last night, but Tango is a little—what’s a polite way of putting this? Dex would rather attach a bunch of sponges soaked in soapy water to a rhino and set it loose through the Haus than ask Tango to clean. It somehow always looks worse than it did before.
Dex finishes cleaning the floor and examines it with no small sense of pride. Who knew the floor in the bathroom was white? Certainly not Dex. He doubts anyone did, not even Shitty, who was there when the deep magic was written. Also known as the Haus bylaws, which for some reason include no getting laid on the kitchen island. Dex doesn’t want to know what happened for that to become a necessary bylaw.
Whistling slightly, Dex goes into the kitchen to grab a slice of pie. He doesn’t know if Bitty baked a pie recently, but—oh, who is he kidding? Bitty is always baking a pie. It’s like gravity. It just happens.
Dex opens the fridge, then freezes. Chowder is on the floor, his face tucked into his knees. His chest is rising and falling erratically, his breath coming in silent, choked off gasps.
Dex closes the fridge and crouches next to him.
“Chowder?” Dex asks cautiously, keeping his voice low. “You okay?”
Chowder doesn’t answer, still breathing in those awful, desperate gasps. Dex nearly smacks himself. Idiot. Of course Chowder isn’t okay.
Dex wracks his mind for what to do. He doesn’t know what to do— usually, it’s just Dex freaking out, unable to breathe, all by himself. He’s never had to help someone else with it. He didn’t even know Chowder dealt with the same struggle.
“Hey, Chowder,” Dex whispers, “I’m gonna—is it okay if I touch you? I don’t—I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do.”
Chowder doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, Dex worries that he’s going to pass out. Then Chowder jerks his head in what could be a nod, what Dex is praying is a nod.
Dex eases his arms around Chowder and pulls him close to his chest, resting his chin on Chowder’s hair.
“It’s okay,” Dex says, a lump in his throat. “You’re gonna be okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Dex honestly doesn’t comprehend half of what’s coming out of his mouth. He just keeps up a stream of vaguely soothing words and rubs Chowder’s back. He prays no one will come in and see them. Then he prays that someone does, like maybe Bitty or Nursey or Ransom because anyone— anyone— would be better at this than Dex.
Eventually, Chowder’s breathing returns to normal, and he stops shaking.
“Hey,” Dex whispers.
For a few seconds, it seems like Chowder isn’t going to respond. Then he whispers back, “Hey.”
“You wanna go to your room?” Dex asks.
Chowder nods a little jerkily.
They step into Chowder’s room. Chowder sits on his bed, and Dex stands, unsure of where to go.
“Thanks,” Chowder says.
Dex shrugs. He’s sure his face and ears are bright red. Fuck, he’s bad at this. Should he—he should probably ask Chowder if there’s something wrong. Unless panic attacks are just normal for him, in which case a different kind of something is wrong.
“Are you okay?” Dex asks. Again. Like a moron, as Nursey is fond of saying with a fond note in his voice that twists around Dex’s heart and settles right in the pit of his stomach.
Nursey: 1
Dex: 0
“I’m okay,” Chowder says. “I’m just—“ He laughs a little bitterly. “My parents.”
“Oh.”
Dex has the sudden urge to hug Chowder again.
“I don’t—“ Chowder rubs his eyes. “They don’t know I’m bi.”
You’re bi? Dex thinks blankly.
“I keep worrying they’ll find out,” Chowder says in a conversational tone. “I don’t think they’d kick me out, but they’d probably try to get me to go to—I don’t know, not conversion therapy, but maybe something like conversion therapy.”
“What the fuck.”
“I know,” Chowder says, his eyes fixed on the carpet. He hugs his knees. “I don’t—they mean well. And I love them. It’s just, sometimes I think about them finding out about me, and then I feel like throwing up, and then I just can’t think about it anymore.”
Dex hesitantly sits next to Chowder on the bed. Chowder makes no move to push him off, so Dex scoots closer. Letting out a sigh, Chowder rests his head on Dex’s shoulder. Dex freezes.
“I really wish,” says Chowder, “that I didn’t have to justify myself to people. That I could just be. You know?”
“Yeah,” Dex says, a lump in his throat. “I know.”
They sit in silence for a while. Dex finds himself oddly grateful for the gentle weight of Chowder resting against him. It feels—nice. To support someone. To make them feel better than they felt before. Usually, Dex worries that he makes people feel worse.
“Don’t you have church right now?” Chowder asks.
“Oh,” Dex says. “I, um—I’m not going anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Sunday,” Dex says.
Silence. Dex occupies himself with picking the dead skin off near his fingernails.
“Did something happen?” Chowder asks. Worried. And that’s—well. Dex isn’t unused to the experience of Chowder and Nursey worrying over him.
(He catches them looking when they think he doesn’t notice.)
“Not really,” Dex says. “It just got—old.”
And that’s it, really. Homophobia in the church is nothing new. Really, it was Dex’s fault for coming out in the first place.
He’s just so tired of the same old, same old.
.
Thursday.
Greg: Hey I noticed you didn’t come to church last night. Are you okay?
Dex looks at his phone. He thinks about Sunday, about feeling like he was the only person in the room who wasn’t there as they all talked to him (or rather, at him and about him). He thinks about Greg, staying silent when Dex needed somebody, anybody, to speak up on his behalf.
He thinks of how Greg made everything worse when he did speak up.
It occurs to Dex that he is lonely.
The problem is, Dex doesn’t have a right to be lonely. He has Chowder. He has Nursey. He has an entire hockey team, and he knows (he hopes) each of his teammates would have his back.
And yet.
Dex thinks about texting Greg back. A simple “I’m fine.” Greg deserves that much, right? To know Dex is okay, to know Dex is alive?
A voice annoyingly similar to Bitty’s informs Dex that he owes Greg nothing.
I kinda do, Dex argues with Mental Bitty.
No, says Mental Bitty. Nothing. Why would you owe him anything?
Dex thinks, He was nice to me?
Well, he wasn’t nice to you last Sunday, Mental Bitty says before stomping off to make some mental pies.
Dex sighs, letting his hand fall to his chest, his phone still clutched loosely in his hand.
He doesn’t text Greg back.
.
Friday.
Nursey’s wearing a jacket Dex has never seen before, this bright purple color with a dim shimmer when the light hits it just right. On anyone else, it would be a monstrosity, but Nursey manages to pull it off—worse, Nursey manages to make it look good.
“I like the fit,” Nursey says, eyeing Dex with what he thinks is approval. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
Dex looks down at his beat up sneakers and well-worn flannel, barely holding back a snort. Chowder’s voice is at the back of his mind, pleading, Please don’t fight.
“Ready?” Dex asks.
Nursey grimaces slightly. “Right. About that. Could we take your car instead? Mine’s getting work done right now—sorry, I totally forgot.”
Dex rolls his eyes. “Sure, Nurse, as long as you can handle riding in something other than the lap of luxury.”
Nursey laughs, slides his arm around Dex’s shoulder, and tilts his head close to Dex’s. Dex freezes.
“Smile,” Nursey says, then snaps a selfie.
“You’re so obnoxious,” Dex says, but there’s something warm and fond in his chest.
Nursey’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins at Dex. “And you’re so welcome, Poindexter.”
Dex drives them to the party.
It isn’t as bad as Dex worried it might be. He has to keep his eyes on the road, but every now and then he sneaks a glance toward Nursey. Nursey looks out the window for most of the fifteen minute drive, the setting sun casting soft shadows on his face. Once, he notices Dex glancing at him and looks back, meeting Dex’s eyes with a teasing smile curving his lips.
Dex flushes and hurriedly returns his attention to the road. He flies past a stop sign. Neither he nor Nursey comment on it.
Dex feels a little too warm, a little too tight, and he has a feeling he’s in way over his head.
Stop it, he tells himself sternly. What Would Jesus Do?
A gentle voice similar to Bitty’s points out that Jesus probably doesn’t care about what Dex does.
Fuck Bitty. What does he know, anyway? He couldn’t fix a sink if his life depended on it.
Dex parks on the street. He and Nursey enter the house, Nursey holding a veggie platter like an offering to the gods.
“No one’s gonna eat that,” Dex says.
“I know,” Nursey says cheerfully.
He sets the veggie platter down on a table, and a girl, probably an English major from the looks of her, standing nearby groans loudly.
“You bastard,” she says.
Nursey laughs and starts to talk with her, something about Chaucer and the similarities Middle English has with modern English. Dex glances around the room. It’s more lowkey than he thought it would be. The music is a bit loud, and people are drinking, a few of them trying to figure out how to work what looks worryingly like a karaoke machine. But it’s pretty calm compared to some of the kegsters Ransom and Holster have thrown.
Maybe this is how English majors party.
Dex doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know anyone here except for Nursey, and a part of him wonders why Nursey invited him. Eventually, he ends up getting roped into a card game with rules that change every round. Everyone at the card table is grim and intense as they play their cards, and Dex feels like he’s in a high stakes poker game.
He loses badly. Partly because he has no clue what the rules are and partly because he’s just shit at cards.
A hand closes around Dex’s wrist, and he starts, wrenching his wrist out of their grasp. Nursey stands next to him, his hand still outstretched, his lips parted and his eyes wide.
“Sorry,” Nursey says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, you’re fine; I’m just—“ a mess “—a little jumpy.”
“Okay,” Nursey says, then hesitantly, gingerly wraps his fingers around Dex’s wrist again. Dex lets him, for unknown, completely heteronormative bro reasons. “Come with me?”
Dex follows him, his pulse thrumming in his throat. For the first time in months, he thinks of Cameron from eighth grade youth group. Cameron was one of the few friends Dex’s parents approved of, probably because he got all the awards and badges in AWANA’s for memorizing Bible verses. Maybe they thought Cameron would be a good influence on Dex.
Cameron was a lot of things, but Dex wasn’t sure good influence was the right term. They did memorize copious amounts of Bible verses together, though, which had to count for something.
It comes back to Dex in random spurts sometimes. The way Cameron would rest his head on Dex’s lap when they watched TV together. The clumsy, fumbling way Dex would grasp for Cameron’s hand when no one was looking. The time Cameron rested his hand on the nape of Dex’s neck and pulled him close. Dex could see every freckle on Cameron’s nose. He nearly began to count them before Cameron pulled him even closer.
Cameron moved away a year later.
Dex tries not to think about Cameron very often. He has a feeling that the things he did with Cameron weren’t exactly—decent. Or good. That they were things Dex wasn’t supposed to ever talk about or do with other people. With other boys.
He doesn’t know why he’s thinking of Cameron now.
Some people are watching a movie in the corner. Nursey sits down, pulling Dex into the seat next to him. Dex’s thigh is pressed against Nursey’s, and he thinks about pulling away so he doesn’t make Nursey uncomfortable. But Nursey doesn’t seem uncomfortable. So Dex settles back and doesn’t move.
Nursey smells good. This is an irrelevant fact. Nursey almost always smells good, which is another irrelevant fact.
“Sorry if tonight didn’t—“ A rueful smile edges up Nursey’s lips. “I hope you haven’t been bored.”
“I love losing at cards actually,” Dex says.
“I promise English majors know how to have fun,” Nursey says.
“I’ve seen you at the Epikegsters, Nursey. I know you do.”
For some reason, Nursey looks embarrassed about this. He looks down, gently picking at loose threads. They’re Dex’s loose threads—his jeans are beginning to fray and develop holes, and Nursey’s nails are brushing against Dex’s left knee.
Dex doesn’t move his leg. He doesn’t know why. It’s just—he doesn’t mind. And clearly neither does Nursey.
“You wanna go back?” Nursey says.
A part of Dex would happily stay rooted in his chair forever. This has nothing to do with Nursey, of course. Dex just—really likes movies about people falling in love in Paris. Obviously.
“I’ll get the car,” Dex says.
Dex goes out to the car while Nursey presumably makes his goodbyes. Dex is only a few feet away from the car when he stops, his throat unbearably tight.
The driver’s side window has been shattered, glass all over the seat and car floor and road. Dex draws closer, glass crunching under his feet. He nearly starts laughing hysterically because his fucking toll money is missing. Someone broke his window for a few handfuls of quarters and dimes.
He can’t afford to get his car fixed. Fuck, he hates living in a college town.
“Need a ride?”
Dex turns around, shoulders tense. Greg stands a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets.
“What are you doing here?” Dex demands, his voice coming out much more hostile than he intends.
“I—“ Greg lifts his hands helplessly, then lets them dangle at his sides. “I was invited. To the party.”
“Then go to the fucking party,” Dex snaps.
“Will—“ Greg steps closer, and Dex backs up without thinking, his back hitting the car. Greg halts. “Shit,” he says, rubbing his face. “I didn’t mean to—Will, we’ve all been worried about you.”
“You lost the right to worry,” Dex says.
He feels alive and tense and far too bright, like a shiny stretch of wire with too much tension pulling at it. He is bound to snap if someone pulls any more. And Greg always, always pulls.
“I’m sorry,” Greg says, and the sincerity in his voice burns. “I know we didn’t . . . react the best.”
“You implied I was a pedophile,” Dex says.
“That is not what I said,” Greg snaps. He steps closer.
“You said you were uncomfortable with the thought of me working with children because of my lifestyle,” Dex says, but there’s an uncertain note in his voice. Maybe he misinterpreted things. Maybe he just didn’t understand. Maybe it wasn’t Greg who said it or Greg meant something else or—
Greg takes another step. Dex’s back is pressed up against the car as far back as he can, and there’s nowhere else he can go. He thinks he might be shaking.
“Will,” Greg says gently, “none of us knew, okay? You just kind of dropped it on us, and when we started asking you questions about it, you ran out. Then you weren’t answering any of my texts, so you can hardly blame me for—“
“Please go away.”
“The least you could have done was texted back—“
“Please just go away—“
“I just wanted to know that you were okay—“
“I think he wants you to leave.”
Dex looks up to see Nursey. He’s smiling at Greg, the same kind of smile Dex’s mom used whenever she had to deal with a particularly annoying man at church. The same kind of smile Chowder has before he starts a fight on ice. The kind of smile that says, Danger, stay away.
“This is none of your business,” Greg says.
“Dex is my friend,” Nursey says, still smiling, “and I have no clue who you are, but I’m pretty sure that what Dex does or doesn’t do is none of your business.”
Greg stands there for a few seconds, working his jaw. For a moment, Dex thinks he’s going to punch Nursey in the face. Greg finally turns and leaves.
Dex deflates, the tension in his neck falling away. Nursey rests a cautious hand on Dex’s shoulder.
“You good?” Nursey asks. Before Dex can answer, he catches sight of the broken window and inhales sharply. “Shit.”
“It’s whatever,” Dex mutters, yanking the car door open. He shrugs off his flannel and uses it to sweep the glass off of the seat, then moves on to clean the car floor.
“I can pay for it,” Nursey offers. “To get fixed, I mean.” Like it’s nothing. Like it’s pocket change— and who knows? For Nursey, maybe it is.
Dex pushes the simmering resentment down. Not Nursey, he reminds himself. It’s not Nursey you’re mad at.
“Okay,” Dex says. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t think he can. He’s pretty sure Nursey wouldn’t want him to.
He and Nursey drive back to the Haus, open window and all. There’s pie waiting on the counter for them because why wouldn’t there be? Dex cuts a slice of apple for Nursey and then one for himself. They eat in relative silence, the clink of their forks against their plates the only sound.
“Did you know that guy?” Nursey asks.
“Who?” Dex asks, despite knowing who Nursey is talking about.
“The guy by your car.”
Dex takes another bite of pie. He doesn’t taste it.
“I went to church with him,” Dex says.
“Oh.” The scraping of forks. Dex’s own shaking leg. “Are you—did he do something? Like, hurt you?”
“No,” Dex says.
His leg won’t stop shaking. Nursey reaches over and rests his hand on Dex’s leg, gently pressing down.
“It’s okay,” Nursey says, “if he hurt you. I mean, it’s not okay, but you don’t have to feel like it’s your fault or something.”
“Or something,” Dex echoes.
“Shut up, Poindexter,” Nursey says, but there’s no heat behind it.
His hand is still on Dex’s leg.
He thinks about kissing Nursey. This isn’t a new phenomenon. He has been thinking about kissing Nursey for months now—he was just better at suppressing it.
He doesn’t kiss Nursey. He knows better, after all.
Instead, Nursey kisses him.
Nursey cups Dex’s face with his hand, his fingers resting against Dex’s cheekbones. It’s feather light against his skin, and Dex leans into the touch.
Abruptly, Dex pulls away, his heart stuttering.
“Sorry,” Nursey says. “I thought—“
“No, you didn’t—“
“I thought you wanted me to—“
“I did, I’m sorry; I—“
His hands are shaking again, and he can’t calm his heart. All he can think is that he’s wrong, that he’s everything his parents warned him not to be, that Greg and everyone else were right about him, and—
Nursey holds Dex’s hands. Loosely—Dex can pull away any time he wants. But he stays in place, grips hold of Nursey’s hands, and squeezes tightly. Maybe too tightly. Nursey doesn’t look upset about it, though.
We’re friends, Dex thinks, something warm and gentle blooming in his chest. He said I’m his friend.
“We don’t have to,” Nursey says.
“I want to,” Dex says.
Because maybe (maybe) everyone is wrong. Maybe this, maybe Dex, is okay. (Maybe he’s allowed to be angry with people for how they treated him and people like him.)
Dex kisses Nursey this time, and it feels like coming home.
.
Saturday.
Dex wakes up to find Nursey curled up beside him, his face nestled in the hollow of Dex’s neck.
Nursey shifts slightly, burrowing closer to Dex under the pile of blankets. “Hey,” Dex whispers, scared that if he’s too loud, he’ll scare Nursey away. That all of this is an illusion and one wrong move will shatter everything.
“Hey,” Nursey mumbles, then draws Dex close for a lazy morning kiss.
Dex doesn’t know what he believes. He just knows that any god who would send people like him to Hell for this is not a god worth worshipping. But he thinks (he hopes) that this is not the case because maybe—
Maybe he doesn’t have to choose.