Boy Friends

Prologue

It’s twelve minutes past five on a Sunday morning, when I realise I’m in love with Simo Lorca.

The thought that I love my best friend arrives fully formed in my head, like it’s always been there.

A piece of knowledge I’ve held for so long, yet always chosen to ignore.

There’s no denying it. I am in love with him.

And suddenly the truth isn’t scary at all. It’s just fact.

Next to me on the sofa, Simo sighs in his sleep.

His warmth seeps into my skin, his breath the only sound.

We’re sprawled out on the L-shaped couch, my legs facing one wall, his legs another; our heads meet in the middle.

From where I lie propped up on a bunch of cushions, my gaze falls across his sleeping form.

His chest lifts and breath escapes through his parted lips.

And maybe it’s the first rays of the rising sun that press against the curtains and fill the lounge with a cool glow, or it’s ten years of soaking up his features, but Simo’s lips are what a Renaissance painter’s wet dreams are made of.

The bottom lip is full and soft, while the upper lip is two sharp lines arcing into a Cupid’s bow.

I have never allowed myself to think about kissing them.

To imagine their weight on mine. That’s asking for heartbreak, and I don’t have a single masochistic bone in my body.

But in the early morning, with the world still caught in a dream and Simo dreaming next to me, I see clearly.

For the first time, loving him comes easy.

Even in his sleep, Simo remains calm and put together.

He rests on his back, duvet tucked in, no slobber in the corner of his mouth, his hair perfectly tousled.

His lashes form two dark curves against the rise of his cheeks, and I almost – almost – reach out to trace them.

The half-light softens his edges, steals his imperfections.

I miss the pockmarks on his temples, even though they make him feel self-conscious.

I like the spattering of scars on his skin, though I have never told him this.

In my eyes, they make him even more beautiful.

The vein above his eyebrow has faded into shadow too, the one that appears whenever he’s deep in thought, or when he gets annoyed with me.

Sometimes I provoke him just to see it pop.

He doesn’t stir when I pull the TV remote out from under his shoulder, careful not to disturb his dreams. We stayed up late, celebrating his birthday, only for midnight to strike and mine to begin.

We were born on consecutive days, hours apart.

We always spend our birthdays together, as they blend into each other, making sure we remain the exact same age.

With a deep breath, I sink back into the sofa. My body grows heavy and my eyes flutter shut.

I know that when I wake up again, this moment of clarity will appear to me like a dream.

I’ll turn to him, seconds away from telling him every fuzzy detail I recall – Simo, I had the strangest dream; I was in love with you, would you believe it?

– but I’ll stay silent. Because I’m not ready to say it in bright daylight.

So right now, in this moment with him close to me, I savour the peace.

I am filled by the knowledge that I love the boy lying next to me.

With one heavy blink, consciousness slips away.

The last thing I see is the shape of him filling my vision, following me into slumber.