Work Text:
I’d always thought Spring Break would be a big deal, or at least that it would feel like something, but as we drove up the winding mountain highway I just kept waiting for a flicker of excitement that never came. I watched forests bleed into themselves through the minivan window, chewing the inside of my cheek, stomach heavy and cramping. My brother, Shayne, and his football team bros from UConn passed unwrapped protein bars and energy drink cans around the backseat, their voices vibrating with the kind of energy I knew I was supposed to have, but didn’t.
It wasn’t really my crowd, to put it diplomatically. These were the kind of guys who called each other “dawg” unironically, who made everything a contest, flexed in the mirror, and once made me eat a pickled egg on a dare for five dollars. Shayne was their ringleader, charismatic, bench-pressing, always grinning at the center of a huddle. I was the opposite: reedy, bookwormish, prone to nosebleeds and secrets. Our mom must have noticed I’d sunk into myself these last few months; that’s why she blackmailed Shayne into taking me on this trip, “for brotherly bonding.” Which translated to “don’t let your pregnant brother mope by himself for a week.”
Yeah, that was the other thing: I was six months pregnant. Not impossible, just rare. They’d started testing for gestation genes at eighteen now, but I’d missed the memo, maybe on purpose, and then one thing led to another and now my abdomen was an orbiting planet, all gravitational pull and discomfort. I’d gotten used to the stares, at Yale if not at home, but not to the ache. Also not to the silence. It’s funny how pregnancy, which in theory connects you to everyone, can make you feel so much more alone.
The drive was long, loud, but not unpleasant. The footballers mostly forgot I existed, and when my brother tossed me a bag of sour worms at the gas station, he did it with a sidelong glance that said he remembered this used to be my favorite, back when we were both smaller and everything wasn’t so charged.
The lake house itself was a cliché: weathered wood, wraparound porch, ancient canoe out front, a dock slouching into the water. Inside smelled like Pine-Sol and dead moths. When we all tumbled in and dropped our bags, you could see right away it was going to be a Lord of the Flies situation. The biggest rooms were claimed first. Then the rooms with a view. Then the rooms with two beds, for the taller guys who needed “leg room.” At the end, there was a guest room with a single bed, barely big enough for one. When it was clear I’d be in there, and that someone would have to bunk with me, the group fell into silence. Eyes did not meet mine. Finally, Jesse Windham—the gentlest of the meatheads, with thick glasses and a face like a Saint Bernard—sighed and said, “I’ll do it.”
Jesse and I had a history of not having a history. He’d come home with Shayne for Thanksgiving but I was in my second month and puking about every ten minutes. I remembered he was huge, but not threatening. His hands were the size of oven mitts and always covered in Band-Aids. When we got in the room, he set his bag down carefully, like it was a sleeping child.
As I started unpacking, I tried to be subtle about the breast pump. My mom insisted it would be necessary, even though I was still months out, “just in case.” The moment I took it out of my duffel, though, Jesse turned from where he was plugging in his phone charger and stared, wide-eyed.
He said, “Whoa, what the fuck is that?”
I could feel the warmth climbing up my neck. “It’s a breast pump. I probably don’t need it yet, but my mom—”
He stared a moment longer, then shrugged. “Cool, dude.” Just like that. He went back to untangling his earbud cords, as if I’d held up a hairbrush and not a weird piece of plastic meant for extracting milk.
The day unwound slowly, like a frayed rope giving up the ghost. I sat out on the dock watching the water, which was still too cold for the season but bright with hard sunlight, and listened to the others trying to out-shout nature. Half the team had stripped down to swim trunks and were shoving each other off the end of the dock, screaming every time one of them hit the surface. My brother’s laugh carried over the water, so loud and familiar that it nearly made me want to join them. Nearly. But I stayed put, arms curled around my stomach, letting the sun bake my skin and the baby’s kicks keep me company.
I’d brought a book but mostly just held it, flipping pages without reading—watching instead as the footballers performed, always in pairs or threes, never alone. A couple times Shayne tried to draw me in, calling out, “Yo, Elias, you coming?” But the thought of peeling off my shirt in front of them, of showing the world my body’s betrayal and letting all of them see, was impossible. I smiled and waved and said, “Maybe later,” which I think we both knew was a lie.
It wasn’t just the footballers who made me feel alien. The whole lake was ringed by vacation homes, every one of them a cubic replica of the next. The air was thick with barbecue smoke and the distant shrieks of children, all of it orchestrated for some idea of leisure I’d never quite understood. Even the birds seemed to be participating in a contest: who could be loudest, most insistent, most alive. I found a sort of peace in the repetition. If I sat perfectly still, I could almost forget the world, almost forget myself.
By late afternoon, the party at the lake house had metastasized. Someone had driven thirty minutes to the nearest town and returned with a trunk full of hard seltzers and microwavable taquitos. There were girls now, too, drawn in by the gravitational pull that was Shayne and his crew. They wore oversized sweatshirts and cutoffs, hair in high ponytails, and looked at the rest of us like we were a particularly fascinating episode of a reality show. I watched from the periphery, learning every new name and inside joke, cataloging the hierarchy like I was back in high school. Jesse, for all his size, seemed even more out of place than I did. He moved through the crowd like he was underwater, saying little and smiling to himself. Twice, he caught my gaze and gave a small wave, which was probably meant to be reassuring.
Nobody asked me to drink, but they didn’t have to; it was clear that I was abstaining. Once, when I slipped into the kitchen for more water, one of the girls I’d never met—Ashley? Amber?—pointed at my belly and said, “Oh my god, is it true you’re pregnant?” She looked delighted, like she’d finally solved a riddle. I just nodded and made a beeline for the fridge. Later, I heard her telling someone, “It’s, like, totally not even that weird. They say it happens to one in three hundred thousand guys now.” I wanted to correct her, but I also didn’t.
As the afternoon wore on, the party congealed into a kind of single-celled organism, everyone orbiting the grill as the sun slid down behind the pines. I retreated to the dock again, taking slow careful breaths and watching the blue of the sky drain into darkness. For a while, I just sat there, letting the cold seep into my legs, feeling almost invisible. It was a relief to not be expected to perform.
When it got too dark to see my fingers in front of me, I finally went inside. The party was still going, louder now, with the footballers flexing for the girls and everyone else pretending not to notice. The floors were sticky with spilled beer and the whole place reeked of vape juice and Axe. I made a show of yawning, told Shayne I was wiped, and climbed the stairs to the guest room.
Inside, I closed the door and peeled off my wet T-shirt, catching my reflection in the dusty mirror above the dresser. My belly looked enormous in the moonlight, grotesque and beautiful all at once. I felt a surge of something—not pride, exactly, but an odd sense of wonder. The skin was stretched to the limit, mapped with faint blue veins, and when I pressed my palm to it, the baby shifted inside me, as if answering a call. I let my head fall forward and tried to cry but only managed a dry, shuddering laugh.
I showered quickly, using the cheap lavender body wash my mom had packed for me, and pulled on sweatpants and the largest hoodie I’d brought. By the time Jesse came in, a good hour later, I was already in bed, curled up on the far side with my headphones in, pretending to be asleep.
He was careful not to make a sound. I could hear the minute clicks as he set his phone to charge, the soft thud as his backpack hit the floor, the whisper of fabric as he changed in the dark. I cracked one eye, just for a second, and saw him standing there shirtless, his broad back mapped with old scars and new sunburn. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the wall for a long time before climbing into the other side of the bed.
I waited until his breathing slowed, until I was sure he must be out. Then, wanting to confirm my hypothesis, I rolled over slightly to peek. But instead of seeing the lump of a sleeping jock, I met his gaze. He was awake and watching me.
“Did I wake you up?” Jesse asked, voice low and hoarse.
I thought about pretending, but the moment was already too honest for that. “No. Just couldn’t sleep.”
He shifted on the mattress, propping himself up on one elbow. “You doing okay?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Just …” I gestured at my stomach, then at the door, at the whole world beyond it. “Overwhelmed.”
Jesse nodded. He looked at me for a while, as if choosing his next words carefully. “If you need anything,” he said, “I can get Shayne to stop being such a dick.”
“That’s just his love language,” I said, and we both smiled.
A silence stretched out. Then, “How’s junior?”
I rolled my eyes at the nickname, but it was better than most. “Active. Kicking a lot tonight.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Can I feel?”
I wasn’t expecting that. All day, even my own brother had treated my pregnancy like a radioactive secret. The thought of someone else touching my stomach—a football jock, of all people—was ridiculous, but somehow not frightening. I nodded.
Jesse scooted closer, so close I could smell the sweat and sunscreen on his skin. He reached out and, very tentatively, placed his palm on my belly. His hand was enormous and calloused, but his touch was gentle, almost reverent. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like the baby had been waiting for contact, a tiny foot nudged the inside of my abdomen.
Jesse jerked back, eyes wide. “Whoa, that’s … that’s unreal.”
I laughed. “Yeah. It’s like being haunted by a goldfish.”
He grinned. “You’re doing good, you know. Seriously.”
I didn’t know how to answer that, so I just stared at the ceiling. His hand stayed on my stomach, splayed out like a starfish. After a minute, his thumb traced a circle, so light I almost didn’t feel it.
“You ever get scared?” he asked.
“All the time,” I said. The words surprised me. I hadn’t meant to share them.
Jesse didn’t flinch or look away. “Me too,” he said. “All the time.”
We lay there side by side, not talking, just breathing. His hand never left my stomach, and instead of feeling invaded, I felt steadied. Like if I let myself, I could fall asleep right there, with the world full of noise just on the other side of the wall.
After a while, Jesse let out a soft laugh. “You know, this is probably the closest I’ll ever get to holding a baby.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You’ll definitely be a dad someday. All you football guys end up with, like, five kids.”
He shook his head. “Nah. All the depression and addiction in family, I don’t wanna pass that on.” He said it with the calm of someone who’d rehearsed the line a hundred times, but there was something behind it—a foggy kind of longing, or maybe loss.
“Oh,” I said.
He shrugged. “That’s why I think it’s cool, what you’re doing. Just … bringing something new into the world, you know?”
I let that hang in the air. We listened to the distant thumping bass from the party below, the slosh of water against the dock, the tiny aquatic hiccups of the baby. I could have fallen asleep, easy.
But then Jesse’s hand moved from my stomach to the side of my face, thumb brushing the line of my jaw. He hesitated, waited for me to pull away. I couldn’t. Instead, I turned into his palm, letting the warmth of it settle me.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
I wanted to.
I’d had sex before - obviously - but it had always felt like rehearsal. With Jesse it was different from the start, as if the rules of gravity had been rewritten just for us. The second his lips met mine, I felt a quiver run through my entire body, like the surface of a pond in a summer storm. We moved together so slowly that it was almost painful, afraid that a single wrong step would send us both tumbling back into the old, cold script.
Jesse was tender, infinitely patient, his movements almost ceremonial. He pressed his mouth to my chin, then the hollow of my throat, each time waiting to see if I’d flinch. I didn’t. When his hands slid beneath my hoodie, they paused at the hem, hovering, as if asking permission in a language I barely remembered. I lifted my arms and let him peel the fabric away. The air was chilly on my skin, and goosebumps sprang up along my arms and over the arc of my belly. I felt so exposed I thought I might dissolve.
For a moment, Jesse just stared at me—an open, unguarded look, his hands still braced on either side of my ribcage. The rawness of it was almost too much, so I looked away, fixing my gaze on the cheap acoustic ceiling tiles above us. His voice was so quiet I almost missed it: “You’re so beautiful, Elias.”
The words hit me harder than I expected—harder than any insult or joke or gossip ever had. I’d spent so long bracing myself against the world that a single act of kindness felt radioactive. I tried to laugh it off, but Jesse leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine, as if to anchor me in place.
“So are you,” I whispered, because it was true. I’d never cared for the broad-shouldered, all-American type, but up close Jesse was something else. There was no posturing or armor. Just a person, breathing the same air as me, as vulnerable as I was.
He let his hands roam over me then—not greedy, not even particularly sexual. Just curious. The way you’d trace the lines of an old map, marveling at the places you’d never been. His palm flattened over my belly, which had always felt like a liability, a neon sign announcing my freakishness. But he touched it like it was a promise. He bent down and kissed the taut skin, just below my ribs.
I shivered. “Careful,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You’ll wake him up.”
Jesse grinned. “Good. He should know he’s got a cool dad.”
I rolled my eyes, but my face was burning. He slid his hand lower, circling the stretch marks at my sides, the faint latticework like river deltas running to the sea. I flinched, but Jesse caught my wrist and brought it to his lips. “You don’t have to hide anything.”
I wanted to say that’s all I knew how to do, but instead I let my shoulders relax, let the full weight of my body sink into the mattress. We kissed again, and this time it wasn’t gentle—it was desperate. Like we were trying to consume each other, like we could build a new world out of our mouths and hands and sweat.
At one point I realized I was crying, not sobbing but leaking, the way old windows do when it rains. Jesse noticed, of course. He wiped my cheek with the heel of his hand and said, “Sorry. I’m not good at this.”
I shook my head and pulled him closer. “Neither am I.”
We fumbled through the rest of it, laughing and apologizing, until there were no clothes left and no barriers. Jesse was bigger than me in every way, but he never made me feel small. When he rolled onto his side and pulled me into him, it felt less like being held and more like being shielded. Our bodies fit together in a way I’d never thought possible, like puzzle pieces from different boxes.
I’d worried the logistics would be awkward—the belly, the angles, the weird mechanics of two guys who had never done this with each other before—but Jesse made it feel natural. He checked in with me constantly, reading my face for the smallest sign of discomfort or doubt. When he finally entered me, he did it so slowly I almost didn’t notice, the pain so slight compared to the flood of relief that followed. It felt like opening a door I’d spent my whole life locked behind.
We moved together in silence except for the ragged sound of our breathing and the quiet creak of the old bed frame. At one point, Jesse reached down and took my hand, lacing our fingers together. I held on like it was the only thing tethering me to the world.
When it was over, we lay tangled up and sweaty, neither of us saying anything for a long time. Jesse’s chest rose and fell against my back, a steady metronome. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder and let out a long, shaky breath.
“Sorry if that was—”
“Don’t,” I said, cutting him off. “It was perfect.”
He laughed. “That’s just because your expectations are low.”
I turned to face him. “No, really. Thank you.”
The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight coming through the blinds, striping Jesse’s face in blue and black. He looked at me like he was seeing something for the very first time.
We must have dozed off, because when my eyes flickered open I had no idea how much time had passed. It was still blue outside the window, but a different blue—lighter, thinner, the bleeding edge of dawn. I felt soft and heavy and waterlogged, like I’d been sleeping at the bottom of a lake. My mouth was dry. My back ached in a new, not-altogether-unpleasant way. The sheets were rumpled around our legs, and Jesse was pressed up against my side, his arm slung over my stomach like he’d been trying to keep me from floating away in the night.
My phone buzzed somewhere in the blankets. I fished it out and saw a text from Shayne: U up? Bring tums, I feel like I’m dying.
I thumbed the screen off without answering. The world inside the room felt too fragile for outside messages.
Jesse was still asleep. His breathing was slow, mouth slightly open, face squashed into my bicep. There was a red patch on his cheek from where I’d drooled on him, but he looked peaceful, not bothered by it. I watched him for a minute, trying to commit the moment to memory. It felt like something that could vanish if I looked away too long.
After a while, Jesse twitched awake. He blinked, squinting at the ceiling, and for a second he looked at me like he was surprised to find me there. Then he grinned, sheepish, and propped himself up on one elbow.
“Morning, sexy,” he said, voice hoarse and gummy.
I tried not to blush. “You snore,” I said.
He shrugged. “So do you. We’re perfect for each other.”
I wanted to say something back, but didn’t trust myself to get the words out. There was a pause—just a heartbeat—and then he stretched, yawned, and pressed a kiss to my shoulder before rolling away to paw at the floor for his boxers. His ass, I noticed, was weirdly perfect.
I checked my phone again. Another text from Shayne, more urgent: I WILL LITERALLY DIE IF YOU DON’T BRING ME TUMS.
I texted back: ok, give me 10.
Behind me, Jesse stood and shuffled over to the window, pulling the blinds aside with two fingers. The morning light made his skin look almost gold. He turned and caught me staring, and for once didn’t look away.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just … I could get used to this.”
He snorted. “I look like a sleep paralysis demon in the morning, but sure.”
I grinned. “You look fine.”
Jesse crossed the room in two strides and crawled back into the bed, but this time he hovered over me, arms on either side of my head. He was so close I could see the tiny scar above his eyebrow—the one from falling off a skateboard, or so he said. He looked at me for a long time, like he was putting together a puzzle, and then bent down and kissed me, slow and lazy, like there was nowhere else to be.
We stayed like that for a while, and I felt the tension in my body unwinding, little by little, flake by flake, like old paint coming loose in the sun. For once I didn’t feel the need to say anything, or to fill the space with jokes or noise or apologies. I just let myself be held.
Eventually, Jesse pulled away and looked at my stomach. “He’s quiet today,” he said.
“He’s exhausted from last night,” I said. “We wore him out.”
“He’ll be talking about it in therapy someday.”
“He can join the club.”
Jesse’s hand was warm, and big, and he cupped my skin like it was something delicate. He closed his eyes and just held it there, not saying anything.
We lay there for a few minutes. The baby didn’t move, but I liked the weight of Jesse’s hand, the feeling of two people sharing a secret that nobody else could even imagine.
After a while, I started thinking about the outside world—the party last night, my brother’s friends passed out around the house, the smell of algae and vape juice still clinging to the air—and I knew we couldn’t stay here forever. I disentangled myself carefully and sat up, letting the blanket fall away. I searched for my t-shirt, found it crumpled under the bed, and pulled it over my head.
Jesse watched me, propped up on one elbow, the sheet wrapped around his waist. “Where are you going?” he asked, voice small.
“Shayne needs me,” I said, holding up my phone. “He’s dying. But I should probably shower first.”
Jesse peeked out from under the pillow. “You want company?”
I hesitated. I’d never showered with someone before—not even during the worst, most embarrassing sleepovers of my early teens. The idea was terrifying, but also weirdly thrilling.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I do.”
Jesse’s smile was like the sunrise. He hopped out of bed, stripped off his boxers, and headed for the bathroom. I followed, heart hammering in my chest like a fist.
The water was hot and sharp, prickling over my skin. We squeezed into the tiny stall, awkward at first, bumping into each other and laughing as we tried not to slip. Jesse took the cheap bar of soap and lathered up his hands, then started washing my shoulders, my arms, my back. He was gentle, almost methodical, like he was trying to memorize me with his fingertips.
“Your skin is so soft,” he said, and I snorted.
“That’s the pregnancy hormones,” I said. “They make everything weird.”
He smiled and ran his hands down my sides, tracing the faint lines where my body was stretching to make room for the new life inside. When he reached my belly, he paused, fingers splayed wide. He bent down and kissed the top of it, letting the water run over his face.
I felt a lump in my throat. “You’re a dork,” I said, but it came out hoarse.
He looked up at me, water streaming down his nose. “I think I’m falling for you,” he said, so softly I almost didn’t hear it.
My heart stuttered. I wanted to say it back, but the words got stuck somewhere behind my teeth. So instead, I leaned in and kissed him, water and lips and soap all mingled together.
We finished showering in silence, trading the bottle of shampoo back and forth, giggling when the cheap plastic curtain clung to our skin. When we stepped out, Jesse wrapped me in a towel and squeezed me tight, like he was afraid I’d evaporate if he let go.
Back in the bedroom, we got dressed in the half-light, helping each other find socks and underwear. I caught a glimpse of us in the dresser mirror—two boys with wet hair, matching bruises on their necks, standing close enough to breathe each other’s air. This was the last thing I ever expected from this trip, let alone this insane year in my life. But for the first time in months, I was actually excited at what the future could bring.
Jesse sat on the edge of the bed and tugged on his jeans. “So, what happens now?” he asked, not looking at me.
I shrugged. “You mean, like, next week? Or the rest of our lives?”
He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “Both, maybe.”
I sat next to him and took his hand. “Next weekend, you come up to New Haven and we watch bad TV and eat pizza until we’re sick. The rest of our lives can wait.”
He squeezed my hand. “Yeah. I’d like that.”