Auggie drove back to the Sigma Sigma house at Theo’s insistence.
“I really don’t think you should bike home,” he said when he pulled into the lot.
Theo’s face was the color of that white, goopy cheese Fer liked. His mouth pulled into something that was supposed to be a smile, and he said, “I’m fine. Just need some fresh air.”
“Theo, please let me drive you home. We’ll put your bike in the trunk.”
Elbowing open the door, Theo just gave that awful smile again and shook his head.
It didn’t matter how hard Auggie argued; Theo wouldn’t budge. Auggie stayed outside, squinting into the September sun, as Theo shrank to a black smudge. Then Theo swung around a corner and was gone, and Auggie went inside.
The Sigma Sigma house, by this hour, was busy. Auggie had been making an effort to learn names, so he recognized Kyle Whitney, blond, freckles, chasing Digs—Auggie didn’t know the kid’s real name—down the hall, snapping a towel at Digs’s bare ass. Igor was in the kitchen making a club sandwich; he offered to make Auggie one, but Auggie just got water from the tap and shook his head. The kitchen had a pass-through that connected to a serving area, and the serving area had both doors open to the dining hall, and Auggie found himself watching the guys who had set up a board game—something really complicated, something with a million tiny painted figurines—and were laughing and shoving each other. Auggie only recognized Tayyib, who was trying to grow a goatee; the sophomore rolled dice and then howled with dismay, dropping out of his chair while the other guys jeered.
Auggie dumped out the rest of his water and went upstairs. His thoughts kept pace with him. Other guys played board games. Other guys chased each other with towels. Other guys didn’t worry about keeping up Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and, now, Snapchat. Other guys didn’t spend fifteen minutes getting the lighting perfect for one selfie before they even went to take a leak in the morning. Other guys didn’t think about murders.
Did other guys think, if I could hold his hand, if I could kiss him, if I could make things better for him somehow, if he didn’t think of me as such a kid, if I were smarter, braver, stronger older, maybe he’d finally see me, see me the way I see him (everywhere, every time I turn around)? If they did, they didn’t talk about it. If they did, it was probably somebody their own age, somebody they actually had a chance with.
In his room, Auggie locked the door, crawled into bed, and pulled the pillow over his face. After a while, he got out his phone and texted Theo: Are you ok? I’m worried about you.
He fell asleep waiting for an answer.
When he woke, the thud of a bass line reverberated through the house, and the smell of weed filtered under the door. Guys were laughing, shouting, running through the halls. A voice that sounded like Miller Benitez crowed, “Dude, she is going to suck the fucking root tonight, I swear to God.” Auggie groaned into the pillow, now sticky with drool, and pulled it away from his face.
He’d forgotten about the Sigma Sigma back-to-school party. It was a tradition—everything was a tradition—and since this was his first year as a full brother, it was his first chance to attend. Auggie scrubbed his eyes clear and made his way to the showers. Someone was in the stall next to Auggie, making outrageously loud fapping noises and moaning intermittently. Then somebody else picked up on it, and then another guy, and then somebody let out a sharp cry and everything was silent. Whether it was real or not, Auggie had no idea, but a chorus of laughter followed. Auggie laughed along with the rest of them until he remembered Theo, the expression on his face, his tone as he asked, You like it here? He rinsed off and left the showers; the other guys were screaming fake orgasms, but it wasn’t funny anymore.
Snapping his way through the process, Auggie picked out clothes for the party—a tank that said I’M THE COOL KIND OF BRO and his skinniest jeans, paired with the ridiculously expensive Jordans that Fer had bought him last Christmas. He was pulling on his pants when he got a snap back from dylan_j199. It was a picture of Dylan’s face, his eyes huge; judging from the background, Auggie thought Dylan was already downstairs at the party. Dylan had scribbled something—a drawing that might have been a dog. A second snap immediately followed, this time only half of Dylan’s face, and he was covering his eyes. The text said, thats a fox. ur a fox. dont judge me, i immediately regretted it.
Grinning, Auggie finished dressing and headed downstairs. The party was going full force, guys and girls wandering the halls with red plastic cups in their hands, someone in the kitchen asking if they were going to order pizza, another guy selling drink bracelets. Auggie paid and put on the bracelet, and then he got himself a shot, which he did first, and a beer, which he carried with him.
Then he wandered the party. He wasn’t looking for Dylan. He was just wandering. He just wanted to get a feel for the night. That’s what he told himself every time he disengaged from a conversation, broke away from a group, pretended not to see someone flagging him down. The nice thing about the main-floor layout was that most of the rooms had multiple entrances: he could cut through the kitchen, wave at somebody in the serving area, pretend to spot someone in the dining room, and loop back through the mud room and into the gallery. He cut across the foyer, with its seating area that was only ever used by parents, the upholstery finely patterned with the Sigma Sigma emblem. He worked his way through the massive living room, where a grand piano and an enormous river-stone hearth competed with clusters of seating and flatscreen TVs. When he left through the other side of the living room, he passed the public restrooms.
No Dylan.
Not that it mattered. Not that he was looking.
He made his way downstairs. The frat had invested in a speaker system for the public areas, and a steady selection of recent music accompanied Auggie: Macklemore, Ciara, Pharrell. He could still taste some of the Milagro, even through the beer, and a stripe of heat licked its way from his collarbone to his navel. A blond girl passed him, leading her friend by the hand, and when Auggie looked over his shoulder at her, they were whispering and staring at him. The girls burst out laughing when they realized they’d been caught, and both of them blushed bright red. They ran up the stairs.
In the lower lounge, people crowded the sofas, the coffee tables, even the corners of the room. Some were small groups of guys and girls, laughing and drinking. Some were couples—swaying, dancing, kissing. Theo’s beard, when he and Auggie had kissed, had been scratchy, but in a wonderful way, rasping against Auggie’s skin until he was about to burst into flames. Auggie drank some more of the beer. He was sweating.
The basement wasn’t as easy to loop through; he had to check the rooms one by one. The study—a threesome, two girls and a guy, were making out on the table. The gym—the door locked, empty and dark on the other side of the glass. The mechanical room—the door locked, the strip under the door dark. He skipped the bathrooms, went back to the lounge, and tried the multipurpose room. A blacklight had been set up, making Auggie’s Jordans shine as a mob danced and grinded on each other. If Dylan was in there—not that it mattered—Auggie didn’t have much of a chance of finding him. He kept going.
In the game room, people were sitting around card tables, heads close together as they shouted over the music. A group of guys was playing pool. Dylan had on a white t-shirt that was so tight Auggie could see his nipples, and he was wearing blue polka-dot shorts that only came to the middle of his thighs. Seeing him in person like this was always so different than the snaps. His hair was darker in the pictures, and tonight, the curls had been given more shape and definition with some sort of product. His face seemed less perfect, although familiar because of the smirk he wore without seeming to realize it. But mostly it was his size that shocked Auggie: he was just so damn big, something that Auggie had internalized from all the hours in the gym but that still managed to surprise him. Auggie, always sensitive about his own height, felt like a kid next to Dylan, but it was more than that. Dylan was built with muscle. He was huge. And he had an adult’s definition to his body, not the rangy, stripling growth that many guys carried through most of college. He was chalking a cue, laughing, when his eyes cut to Auggie. He kept laughing, but now the smirk was there again, and he raised one eyebrow.
Auggie sat on the arm of a couch, sipped his beer, and pretended to watch the game.
It wasn’t going well for the other guys. Auggie didn’t know much about pool—in fact, he wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t some other game that also used a pool table—but he knew a little bit about people. Six guys were playing, split across two teams, and every time Dylan or one of his friends took a shot, the other guys muttered and growled and traded looks. Dylan’s little smirk kept getting bigger. Then Auggie saw the cash neatly stacked on the edge of the table.
Auggie wasn’t looking when it happened.
“Foul,” one of the guys shouted. Auggie recognized him; his name was Trevor, and he played lacrosse with Dylan. He was the same guy who had made the comment about Auggie’s jerkoff videos at tryouts.
Dylan looked relaxed; he was almost slouching, the cue tucked up against his shoulder. But his eyes were hard. “That wasn’t a foul.”
“Fuckface, you hit the cue ball twice.”
Dylan shook his head.
“I saw you,” Trevor said. “Joe saw you too.”
Another guy, presumably Joe, nodded.
“I hit it once,” Dylan said. “Now let’s finish the game.”
“No way. No way. You’re a fucking cheater.”
“What’d you say?”
The atmosphere in the room shifted abruptly. Music still pounded from the speakers—Imagine Dragons shouting about something radioactive—but everyone had turned their attention to the men around the pool table. One girl stood up, cradling a drink, and left.
“You’re a fucking cheater,” Trevor repeated. “We’re done. And we’re taking our money back.”
“Seriously?” Dylan said. He glanced at his friends; neither of them made a move, and he shook his head. “Fine. Take your money. Fucking bad losers, that’s what you are.”
Trevor was counting out cash, and he waved it at Dylan. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you,” Auggie called from across the room. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, “Pussy.”
Trevor turned. “What the fuck did you just say, dickhole?”
“I said you’re a pussy. Fuck you.”
Dylan was watching. He was wearing that little smirk again.
“What a fucking joke,” Trevor said, shaking his head at his friends. “He’s got a million boys playing with their tits for him, so he thinks he’s tough shit.”
“Say that to my face,” Auggie said.
Trevor looked at him. “You’re a fucking joke, and you’re not good for anything except taking videos where you tweeze your cunt hairs.”
Auggie shot up from the couch and hurled his beer. The beer hit Trevor’s shoulder, spraying across him and his friends.
“What the fucking hell?” Trevor shouted as beer soaked into his Vineyard Vines shirt. “You’re fucking dead.”
Auggie straightened, clenched his fists, and waited. He was painfully conscious of Dylan’s eyes on him, but he kept his gaze fixed on Trevor.
Trevor came around the pool table. Amber drops were still falling from the hem of his shirt. The first punch was fast, but Auggie pulled back. He never saw the second one, and it clocked him on the side of the head.
The world seemed to rise up for a moment, and then Auggie was on the ground, blinking, trying to put the pieces of his brain back into place. Everyone was shouting. Sneakers moved in and out of his field of vision. He got himself up onto an elbow, vaguely aware that if this was a fight, he needed to be on his feet. Then Dylan’s face swam into view.
“He’s ok,” Dylan said over his shoulder; everything sounded underwater, even the pounding music. Then Dylan turned back to Auggie and said, “Are you ok?”
“Yeah,” Auggie managed to say.
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “You sure?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So you can, like, stand up?”
“Uh huh,” Auggie said, and then he closed his eyes and lay down.
He wasn’t sure if he lost consciousness, but when the world made more sense, he was bouncing up and down, smelling something like sandalwood, and aware of dense muscle underneath him and a hand on his ass. He opened his eyes and saw that Dylan was carrying him upstairs. He patted Dylan’s shoulder.
“I’m ok. You can put me down.”
“Sure thing.”
Dylan kept carrying him.
“No, really.”
“Gotcha.”
“Ok,” Auggie said, and then he slumped down again, resting his face in Dylan’s neck.
“Little bro,” Dylan said a few minutes later, “you want to tell me which room is yours?”
“Just put me down the trash chute,” Auggie said. “Do they still incinerate the trash? That would be ideal.”
Dylan laughed and swatted his ass. “Room?”
Auggie groaned.
“Come on. You need to lie down.”
“Just put me on the couch. There’s a lounge over there.”
“Maybe you want a little privacy,” Dylan said. His hand had settled on Auggie’s ass again, not stroking or caressing, but heavy and solid.
“I’ll be fine,” Auggie said, most of his attention now shifting to a desperate battle not to throw wood at that exact moment.
“Ok,” Dylan said, “either you’re really subtly telling me to fuck off, or you’re completely oblivious to the fact that I want to hang out with you. Alone. Can you tell me which one? Because you’re not as light as I thought.”
The words might as well have been a second punch. “Uhh.”
“Room?” Dylan said.
“That one,” Auggie said. “End of the hall.”
When they got there, Dylan lowered Auggie to his feet, steadied him, and smiled. Auggie’s hands were shaking a little as he unlocked the door. He flicked on the light, immediately saw the spread of clothes and shoes, and scrambled to pick up the mess.
“Slow down,” Dylan said. He caught Auggie around the waist and lifted him again, this time settling him on the bed.
“I just need to—”
“Dude, they’re clothes.” Dylan kicked the door shut. “You should see my room.”
“I saw it. When I went to that party at your place.”
Dylan gave him that little smirk. He walked a circuit of the room, his head moving as he examined the walls, Auggie’s photography equipment, the stack of textbooks.
“Shakespeare?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck. And you actually understand that stuff?”
“Not, you know, not really.” And then, Auggie wasn’t sure why, “I hate that boring old shit.”
“I hear you.” Dylan completed his short trip around the room and stood in front of Auggie. His hands came to rest on Auggie’s knees, and he leaned in. His breath smelled like alcohol. “Didn’t know you were my own personal bodyguard.”
“That guy was a dickwad.” Then Auggie felt his face heat. “I mean, I know you could have handled it.”
Making a soft noise in his throat, Dylan ran his hands up Auggie’s thighs. “Fuck, it was hot, watching you get all riled up.”
Auggie grunted when Dylan’s hand ran over his erection.
“Is that ok?” Dylan said.
Auggie nodded.
“Oh man, your face. Fuck, sorry. I forgot—I mean, never mind. You just got me all hot, and I wasn’t thinking.”
“No,” Auggie said, catching his wrist. “I liked it.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” Dylan said. “You got hit in the head, and you’re, like, eighteen.”
“Nineteen,” Auggie said, and another wave of humiliation washed over him. He pulled Dylan’s hand over his dick and humped it lightly. “And I know what I like.”
“Yeah?” Dylan said.
“Definitely.”
Dylan hesitated. “Sorry, this is just—”
“Get up here,” Auggie said, “and let me touch your dick.”
Dylan’s little smirk was back as he climbed up onto the bed, straddling Auggie. Auggie touched him through the polka-dot shorts, grinned at the noise Dylan made.
“You’re huge,” Auggie whispered.
“Fuck yeah, little bro.”
Auggie heard the whimper in his throat.
“You like that?” Dylan whispered, his thumb tracing the outline of Auggie’s dick. “You want me to call you little bro while I’m pounding your pussy?”
Auggie swallowed. His face was burning. His whole body was on fire.
Dylan didn’t wait for an answer. He kissed Auggie. It wasn’t a great kiss—Auggie could feel that his own mouth was too tight, and it didn’t meet Dylan’s properly. Their teeth kept scraping. He bit Dylan’s lip, and Dylan swore.
“Ok,” Dylan said. “You’re shaking, and I’m bleeding. There is no way—”
“I’m just—I’m just really into you.”
Dylan’s eyes were flat as he considered the statement. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a stainless-steel flask. “You need to relax.” He unscrewed the cap, took a drink, and held it out. Then his hand retreated an inch. “Never mind, you’re only—”
Auggie grabbed the flask and took a slug. It hit worse than the tequila, burning as it went down his throat, and it reminded him of the Pine-Sol his mom used to clean the kitchen floors. Coughing, he pushed the flask back and said, “What is that?”
“You’ve never had gin before?”
“No, I have.” But it hadn’t tasted anything like the floor polish he’d just drunk. “I have, honestly. I just—I mean, I wasn’t expecting it.”
Dylan shook his head.
“I like gin,” Auggie said. “Let me have some more.”
“You’ve probably had enough.”
Auggie took the flask and drank again, eyes open and watching Dylan. The heat of the alcohol ran through him. The ache along the side of his face faded a little.
Grinning, Dylan took the flask back. He had a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he crawled closer, grinding his erection against Auggie’s, and whispered, “You’re my little man, huh? Is that it?”
“I’m a man.”
“Yeah, you are. You fight hard. You drink hard.” Dylan’s mouth quirked. “Do you fuck hard?”
“If you’re lucky,” Auggie said, his mouth dry, “you’re going to find out.”
That made Dylan laugh. When they kissed again, it was better, and Dylan’s hand was confident and rhythmic as he jerked Auggie through the denim. Auggie thought of the last time he’d been in this situation, with Theo, the orgasm coming through him like it was jet powered. Tonight, he could feel it building again, although it wasn’t the same. His head hurt. His mouth was sticky. The kissing was going on for too long.
“Hold on,” Dylan whispered. He pulled a small plastic case from his back pocket, opened it, and took out a pill. Placing it under his tongue, he watched Auggie carefully. He was very still for a few moments. Then he held out another.
“What is it?”
“Molly.”
“Oh. Cool. Molly.”
Dylan burst out laughing. “Oh my God. You’re such a fucking kid, it’s adorable.”
“It’s just, I don’t do, um, harder stuff.”
Eyes half closed, Dylan rubbed against Auggie again, his movements slow and languid. “Oh yeah? My little bro doesn’t do drugs?”
“Maybe, you know, some weed. I guess.”
Dylan made a noise that could have meant anything.
“I just, um—it’s just not really my thing.”
“It’s molly, bro. It’s not like I’m doing cocaine. People who do this, they do it because it opens up your mind. It’s therapeutic. And it’s a spiritual experience, ok?”
“Right. That’s really cool. I just don’t—I don’t know.”
Dylan stopped moving. Then he slid off Auggie’s lap, landed on the floor, and returned the pill to the plastic case. Auggie watched him.
“Look,” Dylan said, “you’re a sweet kid. It was cool how you thought you had to stand up for me. But I’m looking for someone who’s at the same stage of life, you know? I’m too old for games, and I’m too old for one-night stands. I mean, you’re adorable, but you’ve never even had gin before. Tell you what: let’s find you a nice kid who’ll blow you tonight. I’ll be your wingman.”
“No,” Auggie said.
Dylan rolled his eyes.
“I know who I am,” Auggie said. “I know what I want.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Just because I haven’t had as many experiences as you, that doesn’t make me immature. And it doesn’t mean we’re at different stages. People mature at different rates. I really feel like we connected.” He had planned out a million different versions of this speech, and it was coming out now, words that he thought he’d use another night, another place, another man. “The fact that you’re older just means you get to share things with me that I haven’t tried yet.”
“I really think—”
“I want to suck your cock,” Auggie said. “And then I want you to fuck me.”
“Ok, fine, but it’s weird if only one of us is having a spiritual experience. That’s what sex is about for me, Auggie. It’s about connecting as souls. I don’t just want to ride your pussy and put you away. This is about you and me becoming one.”
“That’s what I want too,” Auggie said. “That’s exactly what I want.” Then, working his jaw, he hesitated. “I’d really like it if you could, you know, help me through it on molly.”
“I don’t want to pressure you.”
“You’re not pressuring me.”
“I don’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable with.”
“I’m not uncomfortable. I can feel how strongly we’re connecting. I want you to guide me through this.” And he couldn’t say, my first time, through my first time, I want you to keep me safe because it’s my first time.
Dylan hesitated. Then he breathed, “God, you are fucking gorgeous. Do you know that?”
“Come over here and tell me again.”
Producing the plastic case again, Dylan climbed onto the bed. He held out the pill.
Auggie’s phone rang.
“Sorry,” Auggie said with a nervous laugh, pulling out his phone to silence it. Theo’s name was flashing on the screen.
Dylan sat back.
Auggie thought of Theo’s face, the horrible attempt at a smile.
Dylan shifted his weight. His hand slid up to Auggie’s dick again.
“I’m sorry,” Auggie said. “I’m really, really sorry, but I’m worried about this friend. Can you just give me a minute?”
“Yeah,” Dylan said, kissing Auggie’s neck. “Of course, little bro.”
“Theo?” Auggie asked. His voice was too high, on the edge of cracking, and he struggled to bring it back down. “What’s up?”
“Can’t.”
His voice was wrong. Too thick. The single syllable was almost unintelligible.
“Theo—” Auggie pushed Dylan away. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Can’t stop spinning.”
“What can’t stop spinning? Where are you?” Auggie slid off the bed, grateful he still had on his high-tops, and cast about for his wallet and keys. “Theo, I need you to tell me where you are.”
“What’s up?” Dylan said. “Something wrong?”
“Are you in a car?” Auggie said. “Did you get in a car, Theo?”
“In the car,” Theo said in that drowned voice. “Can’t stop spinning.”
Then the line disconnected.