At the loud, rattling noise that echoed through the entire house, the two boys jumped away from each other, startled. Vincent hit his head against the headboard of his bed in the process.

   Ethan's eyes grew wide as he stood up, cupping his hands over his mouth in disbelief. Had he really spent the last five minutes making out with Vincent?

   Not only that, but Ethan had also been the one to initiate it. None of that was what scared him the most, though. What did terrify him, is the way his body hadn't recovered, electric currents still coursing through him. His lips still tingled with the aftermath of what they'd done, yearning for contact.

   Ethan wanted to do it again.

   That thought left a dizzying spin in Ethan's head, and he reached out to grip the tabletop, afraid that if he hadn't, he would've gone crashing down.

   Vincent studied the other boy with wary eyes. He, too, was surprised. He hadn't been expecting Ethan to do what he'd done, but he would be lying to say he hadn't enjoyed it. Regardless, he had a clear idea of what Ethan must've been feeling: confused, scared, lost.

   "Ethan, it's okay," Vincent called out, speaking steadily. "Don't freak out."

   At the sound of Vincent's voice, Ethan was snapped out of his thoughts, finally realizing how real the whole situation was. No, this wasn't a dream. He had kissed Vincent, really.

   His first reaction was to morph everything he was feeling, into one fiery, hot ball of anger. And when he didn't know who to direct the anger at, he—naturally—directed it towards Vincent.

   "Shut up!" he seethed, clenching his fists. "Why the hell would you let things get as far as they did?"

   Vincent's eyebrows furrowed. "Me? Should I remind you that you were the one who kissed me?" He tried to keep the fury out of his tone, but he couldn't help but grow aggravated that Ethan was blaming him for what happened.

   Out of excuses and desperate for a way to redeem himself, Ethan yelled, "Because you let me!"

   Vincent shut his eyes and took a deep breath, calming himself down. "Listen, Ethan," his voice was steady, drained, even. "I get that you're confused—"

   "No! You don't! You don't understand, Vincent! I can't be this way!" Ethan exclaimed, turning around and slamming his fist into the wall.

   Vincent's eyes softened, Ethan looked...broken. "I do, Ethan. Trust me, I've been there and—"

   Once again, he wasn't able to finish his sentence, because Ethan lunged forward, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him into the wall.

   Vincent let out a gasp as his back collided with the hard surface behind him. He almost didn't recognize the boy in front of him. His lips were pulled back into a snarl, his nostrils flared, and his eyes—oh god, Ethan's eyes. They were dark, stormy, clouded with so much venom and...disgust? Vincent felt bile rise up his throat.

   "Don't you dare compare us. I'm not like you," Ethan spat, his voice low and cold, sending a shiver up Vincent's back. "I'm not a fucking faggot."

   As soon as the words left his mouth, Ethan knew he'd fucked up—big time. Vincent's face had paled horribly, and Ethan hadn't missed the slight quiver of his lips. His face contorted in pain, and it was no secret he was trying to hold back tears.

   Regret washed over Ethan like a tidal wave. "Fuck," he cursed, curling his fists into his hair. "Vince, I'm sorry—"

   Vincent cut him off before he could hear the half-assed apology. "I think you should go." His voice, although cold and emotionless, sounded horribly choked, like he was on the verge of crying.

   Unsure of what to do, Ethan reached out to touch the other boy, and when he flinched, Ethan almost cried himself. Turning on his heels, he practically bolted out of the room, not looking back once.

   Vincent was grateful for that, because as soon as his bedroom door shut, he erupted with tears that were certainly no strangers to him.

   The blue-eyed boy was a lot of things, but, if anything, he prided himself on not being a wuss. He didn't cry easily, he never had. Over the years, he'd grown not to care what people thought of him, what names they barked at him in the hallways. He'd been called a lot of things—ranging from fairy to freak—and he didn't really mind. None of it ever got to him.

   But it was that one word.

   He hated it. Hated the way it sounded, the churning in the mouth when it was spoken, how it violently forced each syllable out of the throat, how it always came out dripping with saliva and hatred and degradation. Hated the ringing in his ears when he heard it, hated the way it lodged itself in his windpipe and choked the oxygen out of him, how it made dread settle in the pit of his stomach.

   But, most of all, he hated the memories it came along with. He hated the way it made him nostalgic, forced him to relive moments he'd sealed away in the darkest corner of his mind.

   The first time Vincent had been called a faggot, he was a freshman. He'd come home with a bruised face and bloodshot eyes, dried up tears staining his cheeks.

   That night, his mother had cradled him in her arms, staying up with him until the crack of dawn, until her baby boy didn't look so broken. She'd made him realize how tiny his problems were, how tiny the high school kids were, how tiny they all were, and how tiny the entire earth was in the expanding, limitless universe. She hadn't left before she was confident her boy'd realized how petty insults had little impact on the man he was yet to become, before she knew he'd be walking the hallways again with his head held high.

   Vincent's mother had been so, so delicate. Her touch could soothe the meanest of aches and soften the roughest of edges. She'd had a way with her words—she'd always known what to say, and seemingly always had the right answer. Vincent, though was reluctant to show how much of a Mamma's Boy he'd really been, had idolized the woman. She'd been his hero.

   But now, she was gone.

   She'd been cruelly ripped away from the world in the summer leading up to sophomore year. Ever since then, things had never been the same. Now, there was nobody there to rub his back, nobody there to tell him it was going to be alright. Nobody to stay up all night with him as he cried his lungs out. Nobody to call him baby boy.

   He didn't take much offense to the word itself, nor to the connotation it held. Rather, at the reminder that he was utterly alone.

   He was desperate for some company. For some sort of distraction. Then, he remembered the front door slamming. His dad had just left. Surely, he wouldn't be back any time soon.

   With that thought in mind, Vincent picked up his phone and dialed the all-too-familiar number, slightly ashamed to have known it by heart.

   "Little slut came crawling back, huh?"

   The teasing voice on the other end made Vincent's stomach wrench. He hated it.

   "I'm home alone. Come over."

   Then the line went dead.