Chapter 20
Tell Auntie Sylas Everything
Gavin
The library study room smells like old coffee and stress. Mostly stress. Sebastian's been radiating it since I walked in twenty minutes ago.
"Okay, let's try again." I shuffle through the practice questions on my laptop, the screen casting a pale blue glow across the cluttered table between us.
The questions are standard stuff, the kind Sebastian's probably answered a hundred times in his sleep at this point, but today even the easy ones seem to be hitting different. "Why medicine?"
"Because I—" He stops mid-sentence, and I watch him carefully. His jaw tightens first, then his whole body follows suit. He runs both hands through his shaggy black hair, dragging his fingers through it until the whole mess is standing up at odd angles, like he's been electrocuted.
It's a tell I've learned to recognize; it means his brain's spinning faster than his mouth can keep up, which usually happens right before he either gets brutally honest or completely shuts down.
Right now, the scared edge in his eyes is leaning toward shutdown. What is going on in that brain?
"Can we skip that one?"
The question hangs there between us, heavy and uncomfortable. Doc doesn't skip questions. Doc doesn't skip anything. He powers through, caffeinated and determined, like he's got to prove to everyone, including himself, that he belongs.
But right now, he looks fragile in a way I've only seen a handful of times, and every instinct I have is screaming at me that this goes deeper than med school interview prep.
I want to hug him and make whatever this is better.
"Babe, that's literally the first question they'll ask."
"I know that." Sharp. Sharper than usual. He's sitting across from me, but might as well be miles away. "Just... next question."
Something's wrong. Been wrong since I got here. Wore my grey sweats because he mentioned loving them last week, but he barely looked at me. He didn't even complain when I put my feet up on the table. Doc always complains about that.
"Alright. Tell me about a time you overcame adversity."
"Pass."
"Doc—"
"I said pass." He's rubbing his temples now. Classic Doc stress response. "Try another."
"These are the basic questions, Doc. The ones you've nailed a hundred times." I close the laptop, lean forward. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. I'm just—" He laughs, but it's all wrong, bitter and sharp. "You wouldn't understand."
Ouch. That stings, but I try not to let it show. "Try me."
"It's... fuck." His hand covers his face completely now, fingers pressing into his forehead like he's trying to hold his thoughts in place.
I've seen him do this exact move dozens of times, right before he's about to let something real slip out, then catches himself and slams the walls back up.
It's his first defense mechanism. "Can we just practice? "
"We are practicing. And you're bombing it spectacularly.
" I try for a smile, keeping my voice light, even though a cold knot is settling in my stomach.
"Which is super weird because last week you made me actually tear up with that answer about wanting to be a doctor.
You talked about your grandfather and how healing people felt like the only thing that made sense after watching him suffer. "
He flinches at the mention of his grandfather. Subtle, but I catch it. Always do.
"That answer was beautiful, Doc. Raw and honest and exactly what they want to hear." I lean back in my chair, studying his face. "So what happened between then and now?"
"That was last week."
"What changed?"
"Everything. Nothing. I don't—" He stands abruptly, starts pacing. "When's your practice?"
I check my phone. "Forty minutes. Spring exhibition thing, remember? Team plays itself. There's a bunch of high school kids coming to watch to see if they want to play here next year."
"Right." He's not listening. Still pacing. "You should go."
"I've got time."
"No, you should… You should go." He's gathering his stuff now, shoving papers into his backpack with shaking hands. "This isn't working."
"The interview prep?"
"Any of it." Then, quieter: "Fuck, I didn't mean—"
"Doc." I stand too, catch his arm gently. "Hey. Talk to me."
He looks at my hand on his arm like it hurts. "I can't."
"Can't what?"
"Do this right now. The interview, the—" He gestures between us. "I have stuff going on, okay? It's not you, it's me, I just—"
"Did you seriously just say 'it's not you, it's me' me?" I try for humor, but my voice cracks.
"Gavin—"
"No, it's fine. Space. Got it." I grab my bag, proud that my hands are steady. "Good luck with your... stuff."
"Don't be like that."
"Like what? Understanding? Giving you space? Because I've been doing both of those things, and it doesn't seem to matter." I shake my head, moving toward the door. "Text me when you figure out what you want, Doc. I'll be around."
"Gavin, please—"
But I'm already gone. Walking fast toward the athletic complex, trying to outrun the feeling like we just broke and I don't know how to fix it.
Well shit. I shouldn't have walked out like that.
My phone buzzes.
Twink Doc
I'm sorry
I shove it in my pocket without responding. Whatever's eating at him, he made it clear I can't help.
Time to go hit things. Legally. In pads.
Fucking perfect timing.
The quad's mostly empty this time of day. Just me and my spiraling thoughts about Doc's freak-out. I've got thirty minutes before practice, might as well sit here and catastrophize.
What if this is it? What if he realized dating a baby gay football player is too much drama? What if—
"What's up, baby gay?"
"Holy, fuck on a football field!"
I nearly jump out of my skin. Sylas drops onto the bench beside me, crossing his long legs elegantly. He's wearing ripped jeans and a crop top that says 'Gender is a Scam’ in glitter.
"Jesus, you scared me."
"Good. Keeps you on your toes." He eyes me up and down. "I hear you locked down that gorgeous twink doctor-to-be. About time someone appreciated that ass."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Yeah. We're dating now."
"Mhmm." Sylas cocks his head, studying me. "So why the long face, honey? You look like someone scuffed your Jimmy Choos."
I stare at him blankly.
"Designer shoes, sweetie. Very expensive. Never mind." He waves a manicured hand. "Spill."
"It's nothing."
"Bitch, please. I can smell relationship drama from fifty yards. It's my superpower." He shifts to face me fully. "Talk to Auntie Sylas."
I full-on snort laugh at him. "God Sylas… Never change."
Maybe it's because I'm desperate. Maybe it's because Sylas has this weird way of making you feel like he actually gives a shit. Either way, I find myself talking.
"Doc's being weird. Like, really weird. Snapped at me during his interview prep, told me I wouldn't understand what's wrong, then hit me with 'it's not you, it's me' before practically running away."
"Oof. The classic."
"Right? And I just... I don't know what to do." I pick at my sweatpants. "Never dated a guy before. Maybe there's some rule I'm missing or—"
"Stop."
"What?"
"Stop spiraling. It's giving off anxiety, and that's my brand." But his voice is gentler than usual. Actually, he seems gentler. The whole manic energy thing he usually has going drops down so he’s at a normal person's energy level.
It's weird. I squint at him. "Why are you being so... not you? Stop it… It's freaking me out."
Sylas throws his head back and cackles. "Oh, honey, you really are a baby gay." He pats my arm, his touch surprisingly comforting. "Listen. Dating a guy is very different yet completely the same as dating a woman."
"That makes no sense."
"You. Must. Talk. To. Him." He emphasizes each word with a finger poke to my chest. "Gay boys are just as stupid about feelings as straight people. Maybe more. We just have better fashion sense while we're being idiots. Well, most of us."
He looks me up and down, then sighs, "You do have grey sweatpants going for you, so that's something at least." I think he's talking to himself now more than to me.
"But he said—"
"He said he has stuff going on. Not that he wants to break up. Not that you did anything wrong. Stuff. Going. On." Another poke and I am getting a sore spot between my pecs. "You know what that usually means?"
"...No?"
"Family shit. Money shit. School shit. Life shit that has nothing to do with your beautiful himbo ass, but he's too stressed to say it right."
Fuck. That actually makes sense.
"So what do I do?"
"You text him. You say, 'Hey, babe, I'm here when you're ready to talk.' You give him space but remind him you exist. You don't" he grabs my shoulders, "let him push you away because he's scared."
"How do you know he's scared?"
"Because baby gay, we're all scared. Every queer person is terrified all the time. We just hide it under good hair and better attitudes." He pulls me into a surprisingly strong hug. "You're doing great, sweetie. Just keep showing up."
He releases me and stands, smoothing down his crop top. "Now, I must go corrupt the young. Gender studies waits for no one." He leans down and plants a kiss on my cheek that definitely leaves lipstick. "But I'm around if you need me, baby gay. Auntie Sylas takes care of her own."
"Thanks," I manage, weirdly touched.
"Thank me by not fucking this up. That boy is too pretty to be single." He sashays away, calling over his shoulder, "And wipe that lipstick off before practice unless you want to explain Sylas's Scarlet Seduction to your teammates!"
I laugh, pulling out my phone. My reflection shows a perfect red lip print on my cheek.
Me: Hey Doc. I'm here when you're ready to talk. No pressure. Just... I'm here.
Send.
I wipe off the lipstick, mostly, and head to practice, feeling lighter than I have all day.
Maybe Sylas is right. Maybe we're all just scared idiots doing our best.
Time to go hit things and pretend I understand football while my brain replays every word Doc said, looking for clues.
Being gay is complicated.
Doc's smile flashes through my head. Then his laugh, and how I love talking to him and yeah… his body feels amazing when it rubs against mine. Worth it!