Vanilla Iced Scones #3
Then, Liam let out a sudden, breathless laugh. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the rug, lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Fucking hell," Liam gasped, laughing harder. Talia started to laugh too, a soft, disbelieving sound that bubbled up from her chest. She pressed her face into the crook of Andre's neck, her body shaking with mirth.
The laughter faded. The room settled into a heavy, satisfied silence.
And then a sound cut through the stillness.
Andre's phone. Buzzing against the hardwood floor where he'd left it by the sofa. A short, sharp vibration that somehow penetrated the thick fog in his brain.
Blake.
Morning. Call me when you can. Love you.
Love you.
The words arrived like a bucket of ice water. Not gradually — all at once. A full-body shock that snapped the world back into focus with brutal, nauseating clarity.
Andre scrambled backward, his spine hitting the front of the sofa.
"I—" Andre's voice cracked. He couldn't look at them.
He stood. The room tilted violently and he grabbed the arm of the sofa to steady himself. His stomach was churning, a hot, acidic wave rising from somewhere deep in his gut.
"Andre—" Talia started.
He didn't hear the rest. He was already moving, stumbling down the narrow hallway, his hand finding the bathroom door by memory. He crashed through it, dropped to his knees on the cold tile, and threw up.
He retched until his stomach was empty, until his throat burned and his eyes watered, until there was nothing left but dry, agonizing heaves.
He collapsed back against the cold wall, pulling his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs.
He was shaking — a violent, uncontrollable tremor that rattled his teeth.
He looked at his hands. The same hands that painted the canvases in the studio. The same hands that held Blake in the dark. The same hands that had just touched Liam and Talia in places they never should have.
He had to leave. He couldn't look at them. He couldn't look at himself.
Andre stood up, his legs weak and unsteady. He splashed cold water on his face, avoiding the mirror. He walked back to the living room. Liam and Talia were sitting on opposite ends of the sofa. They both looked up when he appeared. Talia's face was pale. Liam's jaw was tight.
"I need to go," Andre said. His voice was flat. Dead.
"Andre, wait—" Liam stood.
"I can't. I need to go."
He found his coat on the hook by the door. His keys were in the pocket. His phone was still on the floor by the sofa and he grabbed it without looking at the screen.
"Please," Talia said quietly. "We should talk about—"
"There is nothing to talk about." Andre pulled the door open. The cold air from the hallway hit his face and he almost threw up again. "This didn't happen."
He pulled the door shut behind him and stood in the corridor, his back against the wall, his eyes closed. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples.
He pulled out his phone and opened the Uber app. His hands were shaking so badly it took three attempts to type the address. He ordered the car and then stood there, in the dim hallway, waiting.
The realization of what he had done — the gravity of the mistake — washed over him like a tsunami. He had fucked his friend's girlfriend while his friend watched, and then he swallowed his friend's cum. All while Blake was ten thousand miles away, telling him he loved him.
The Uber arrived seven minutes later. Andre got in without speaking. He sat in the back seat, his forehead pressed against the cold window, watching the lights of Waterloo blur past. The driver had the radio on low — some late-night talk show, voices murmuring about nothing.
When the car stopped outside the flat in South Kensington, Andre paid and got out. He stood on the pavement for a long moment, looking up at the dark windows. The bakery was closed, the metal shutters pulled down. The street was empty and silent.
He let himself in and climbed the stairs in the dark. He didn't turn on any lights. He walked straight to the bathroom and threw up again — though there was nothing left, just bile and the taste of his own disgust.
He sat on the cold tile floor for a long time, his back against the bathtub, his knees pulled to his chest. The cannabis was still in his system, making the edges of everything soft and unreal, but the nausea and the shame were sharp enough to cut through it.
He had to tell Blake. He knew that with absolute certainty. He couldn't carry this. It would poison everything — every kiss, every touch, every "I love you" would become a lie built on top of the truth he was hiding.
But not over the phone, ten thousand miles away, the night before a quarterfinal.
Andre pulled himself off the floor. He brushed his teeth twice, scrubbing his tongue until it hurt. He changed his clothes, shoving the ones he'd been wearing to the bottom of the hamper. He got into bed — their bed — and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, his body rigid, his mind racing.
He did not sleep.