Addicted [BoyxBoy]

Stressed Out

I knocked on the door, anxiously tapping my foot. I didn't know how I was going to even start this conversation once he opened the door.

Hey, Bobby, you fucknut, I fucking love you. Open your damn eyes.

Too blunt.

Bobby, I know that you aren't gay, but I think I may be in love with you.

Too sappy.

Before I could think of anything else, the door opened to reveal a shirtless Bobby, hair askew and eyes excited.

"Hey," he breathed, a grin on his face.

"Uh. . ." I couldn't focus on his words, only the fact that he was shirtless and less than a foot away from me.

Snap out of it, weirdo.

I looked into his eyes and smiled warmly. "Hi."

"Come in," he gestured towards the interior and stepped aside for me.

While Bobby was in LA, he was staying in his uncle's apartment in Van Nuys. I've been there a few times, and for an apartment it was roomy. It even had its own basement.

I walked in, past the wicker couches and towards a door in the back by the kitchen. I knew that he made the basement his den for the time being, and I also knew that's where he was before I came knocking.

I didn't bother waiting for him and went downstairs. The basement just screamed "man cave" with its chillingly horrid and careless decorations. It almost made me go psycho with interior design rage.

I went to the couch that had soda cans littered around it, sitting down reluctantly.

He was next to me before I could think, turning the TV in front of us down to a barely audible volume.

"Before you say anything, I just want to say that I'm sorry for ditching you earlier today," he spoke with sincere eyes, "I just hadn't seen her in so long, I took a bite of the forbidden fruit."

I nodded, understanding and slightly glad that he apologized without me saying anything. "It's fine, Bobby, just please don't do it again," I sighed, closing my eyes. I didn't want to confront him anymore. I just wanted to leave things alone. But I could feel everything weighing me down now that I was acknowledging my pain. Like Morgan said, it wasn't healthy to hold all this shit in.

"I won't, I promise, I'll split time between you two."

My eyes snapped open at his words. "Why would you split time between us?"

"Well," he dragged out the vowel, rubbing the back of his head, "I'm sorta dating her now. And to make it official, I asked my uncle to move back to LA. Here. For good."

I understood the words leaving his mouth, but I couldn't process them enough to form an appropriate response.

Two major bombshells dropped on my head.

How was I still breathing?

There was a long pause before I whispered, "Wow."

He stared at me, and it looked like he was trying to judge my response. I had to think fast.

Now that I was there in front of him, and he told me this stuff, I knew that I couldn't tell him how I was feeling. It would have been a recipe for disaster.

So I placed a hand on his knee and smiled before saying, "That's great, Bobby. I'm happy for you."

His eyes lit up with excitement, and we were suddenly caught in a warm embrace.

"I'm so glad to hear that," his voice vibrated through my own chest, making my skin tighten up in goosebumps. I reluctantly placed my arms around him in return, going along with his gentle rocking.

We stayed that way for a few moments, which I was glad for; I needed to compose myself and prevent the tears that were threatening to spill over from escaping.

He was staying in LA.

To be with her.

I wanted to give up right there and just walk away. Suffer in silence.

But our friendship was worth more than that.

He finally let go and gazed at me. "I thought you wouldn't approve," he grinned.

He knows me well, I thought.

Instead of saying that, I asked, "Why wouldn't I approve?"

He shrugged and shifted so that he was resting on his left leg.

"Well, considering me and Megan's history, I figured you'd interfere like every other time," he spoke softly, looking down at his toes.

Bobby and Megan were just. . . dangerous. They had wounded each other deeply in the three years they had been friends. Events were always electrified between them, and they put a whole new meaning to the phrase, "All's fair in love and war."

"Bobby, I'm sorry but I'm done interfering. You have a right to do whatever you wish."

He nodded slowly, still looking down. I didn't know what else to say, so I sat there looking at my own feet. I didn't want to look at him. Paired with the shirtlessness, the resentment I was starting to feel towards him was making things awkward.

Morgan's words were resurfacing in my head:

"You're the one who's been there for a year. He should be in love with you!"

I didn't think I could believe that. I started to feel like a substitute, a placeholder for the best friend he fell for and lost. It seemed stupid to think he'd fall for me.

Considering the fact that he was straight just made it all the more impossible.

Feeling extremely depressed and tired after this simple conversation, I got up and said, "It's getting late, I should go."

He immediately stood up, blocking my path with his bare alabaster chest.

I stopped abruptly and looked up into his sad eyes as he pleaded, "Don't be mad. Please?"

His eyes glistened with something unfamiliar. Something that penetrated his mysterious demeanor. It looked like. . . guilt? Guilt for leaving me alone? Or guilt for something else?

I sighed and impulsively placed a hand on his chest. "I can't stay mad at you for long," I tapped his collarbone with my finger, then realized what I was doing. I retreated from his chest quickly and took in a sharp breath. I avoided eye contact as I walked out and said, "Goodnight."

I walked out of the house quickly and leaned against the outside wall. I still held back the tears, not letting myself be affected anymore.

I had a brand new resolve. It wasn't my friendship with him on the line anymore; it was a relationship that he desperately wants, maybe even needs. He seemed so happy, it hadn't been like that in a while. Why take that away from him by expressing my childish and immature jealousy?

My feelings no longer mattered. I refused to do that to him.

As I made it to my bedroom, after what seemed like days, I flopped down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The same words kept running through my head:

Let him go. Let these feelings go.

I honestly was developing a headache from all this over thinking. What was standing in the way?

I sat up and looked across my room to the opposite wall.

His eyes.

The painting I had hung there earlier.

The shade of blue that melted my heart.

It answered my question.