Chapter 5 #2
"You tell me," I said. "You lived a lie for twenty years. Was that hate, or fear?"
Something shifted in Elijah's expression. "Fear," he said after a moment. "Definitely fear. But Adrian, that doesn't make it less dangerous. Scared people do desperate things when cornered. And if you're wrong about him..."
"I'm not wrong." I wasn't sure how I knew that, but I did. "You should have seen him today. The way he reacted when I asked him real questions. He's not a true believer. He's just never been given permission to doubt."
"So you think you're going to give him permission?" Andrew asked.
"If that's what it takes."
Phoenix, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet during the serious part of the conversation, suddenly clapped their hands together. "Well, I think it's fascinating. When's the next date?"
"It wasn't a date," I protested, but Phoenix waved me off.
"Coffee is absolutely a date, darling. A first date. Which means there needs to be a second one."
"There's not going to be a second one," I said. "He practically ran out of the coffee shop. I probably scared him off completely."
"Please," Phoenix scoffed. "Repressed boys always run. It's what they do. But they come back. They can't help themselves."
"This isn't some cheesy porno you watched online," Sam said acidly.
"Isn't it, though?" Phoenix grinned, unrepentant. "Beautiful closeted boy, sexy confident gay, family drama, religious trauma... we're missing a few elements for a proper bodice-ripper, but the bones are there."
"Can we please not talk about my life like it's entertainment?" I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on.
"Sorry, babe." Phoenix's expression softened slightly. "But you have to admit, there's a certain poetic justice to it. One of them finally seeing the light? Coming over to our side?"
"Our side isn't something you convert to," Andrew said firmly. "Sexual orientation isn't a choice. You can't seduce someone gay."
"No," I agreed, "but you can seduce someone into honesty. Into admitting what they already know about themselves."
The room fell quiet for a moment, everyone processing that. Finally, Diana spoke up.
"And what if he already knows? What if he's been fighting it his whole life, and you pushing him forces him to confront it before he's ready?"
"Then maybe it's time," I said. "Maybe he's been ready for a long time and just needed someone to see him. Really see him."
"Or maybe you're projecting," Elijah said gently. "Maybe you're seeing what you want to see because it makes this whole thing feel less predatory."
That hit harder than Sam's accusations had. Because Elijah knew me. Knew my patterns, my defences, my tendency to rationalize things when I wanted them badly enough. And for some unknown reason, even to myself, I wanted this badly.
"Look," Andrew said, checking his phone, "it's getting late, and we're not going to solve this tonight.
Adrian, I'm not going to tell you what to do.
You're an adult, and so is he. But..." He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Just be careful. With him and with yourself.
The line between liberation and manipulation can be thinner than you think. "
The meeting broke up after that, everyone drifting to their own spaces.
Jamie and Phoenix immediately started planning what they were calling "Operation Hot Coffee" (I didn't ask), while Diana went to the kitchen to start her evening baking marathon.
Sam disappeared upstairs without another word, still radiating disapproval.
I was about to follow suit when Elijah caught my arm.
"Walk with me?" he said, nodding toward the back door.
We ended up on the small deck behind the house, the spring air cool and sharp with the promise of rain. Elijah leaned against the railing, quiet for a long moment.
"You want to tell me what's really going on?" he said finally.
"What do you mean?"
"Adrian." He gave me that look. "I've known you for three years. I've seen you chase guys, and I've seen you get bored with them. This isn't either of those things."
I stared out at our excuse for a backyard, not sure how to explain something I didn't understand myself. "He's different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. He just... is." I scrubbed a hand through my hair. "When I look at him, I see someone who's never been allowed to be himself. Not for one fucking second of his life. And maybe it's stupid, but I want to see what happens if someone gives him permission."
"And you think you're the right person for that job?"
"I think I might be the only person willing to try."
Elijah was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "Don't break that kid, Adrian. He's probably already broken enough."
The words followed me upstairs to my room, echoing in my head as I got ready for bed. Don't break that kid.
As if I had that kind of power. As if Jesse Miller was fragile enough to shatter at my touch.
And yet, I couldn't shake the image of Jesse's face when he'd fled the coffee shop. The genuine hurt in his eyes when I'd pushed too hard.
Maybe Elijah was right. Maybe Jesse was more fragile than I'd realized.
Or maybe I was the one in danger of breaking.
Because somewhere between the bathroom confrontation and the coffee shop interrogation, this had stopped being about a dare. Stopped being about proving a point or winning a bet.
I'd told my friends that Jesse was trapped, that he needed someone to throw him a rope. But, I was starting to wonder if I was the one who'd been caught.
I was pursuing Jesse Miller.
But increasingly, it felt like he was pursuing me.
I lay on my bed later that night, staring at the ceiling, replaying the coffee shop conversation for the hundredth time. Jesse's face when I'd asked about spontaneity. That flash of something—longing? terror?—before he'd shut down completely.
My phone buzzed. A text from Phoenix, the other resident insomniac of the house:
Stop brooding. I can hear you thinking through the wall.
Fuck off.
Make me. Also you're totally obsessed.
I groaned and rolled over, opening my laptop with no particular goal in mind. Just needed to do something other than think about Jesse Miller's catastrophically repressed everything.
Except apparently my brain had other plans, because I found myself scrolling through Google results for "men's underwear boutique Kansas City."
What the hell was I doing?
I knew what I was doing. I was thinking about Jesse's tighty-whities. Standard-issue, probably bought in a plastic-wrapped six-pack from Target by his mother. White cotton briefs that screamed "I've never made a single choice about my own body."
It was tragic, really.
It was also absolutely none of my business.
My cursor hovered over a boutique site. Claude & Stone. Expensive. The kind of place that sold boxer briefs in individual boxes like they were fucking jewelry.
This is insane, I told myself.
I clicked anyway.
The thing was, it wasn't about the underwear. Not really. It was about... permission. Jesse needed permission to want things. To choose things. To acknowledge that his body existed for something other than shame and performance.
And maybe I was absolutely full of shit, justifying this as some kind of noble gesture.
But Christ, the image of Jesse in something that actually fit him, something chosen rather than assigned—
I was scrolling through options before I'd fully admitted what I was doing. Not the jockstraps, not yet. That would send him into cardiac arrest. But there—charcoal grey boxer briefs, modal fabric, sleek lines. Sophisticated. The kind of thing a guy wore when he gave a damn about himself.
And okay, fine, maybe also these black ones. And the navy.
My finger hesitated over "add to cart."
What are you doing, Costas?
I could hear Elijah's voice in my head, warning me about projection. About wanting to save Jesse. About treating someone's identity crisis like a game.
But I could also see Jesse's face in the coffee shop. The way he'd looked at me when I asked if he'd ever wanted something just because he wanted it. Like I'd asked him to translate ancient Greek on the spot.
The guy wore underwear chosen by his church's modesty standards, and he wasn't even Mormon. He'd probably never even considered that there were other options.
Fuck it.
I added all three to the cart. Then, because I'm apparently an asshole with a credit card with too high of a limit, I added a fourth pair. Deep burgundy, slightly more daring cut. Something to grow into.
At checkout, I paused at the gift message option.
Life's too short for boring underwear. Consider this an educational expense. Constitutional law requires proper foundation garments. –A
Too much? Probably too much. No, definitely too much.
I typed it anyway and hit purchase.
My phone buzzed again, another message from Phoenix.
I know you're doing something stupid. I can feel it in my bones.
Your bones are wrong.
My bones are never wrong. What did you do?
I locked my phone and tossed it aside, staring at the order confirmation on my laptop screen.
Two-day shipping. They'd arrive Wednesday.
I had until Wednesday to figure out how to give Jesse Miller a box of expensive underwear in public without making it weird. That should be easy, right?
I closed my laptop with more force than necessary and grabbed my phone again.
I bought him underwear.
I'M SORRY, YOU WHAT
Get your ass in here RIGHT NOW
I found Phoenix in their room, sitting cross-legged on their bed in an oversized hoodie and full face of makeup—their version of casual evening wear. They looked at me like I'd just confessed to murder.
"Explain," they demanded.
"He wears tighty-whities."
"So?"
"So, they're tragic."
"Adrian—"
"Hear me out." I paced their small room.
"The guy has never made a choice about his own body.
Not one. Everything is prescribed. Monitored.
Approved by committee. I just—" I stopped, running my hand through my hair.
"I thought maybe if he had something that was his choice.
Something nobody else knew about. Something that wasn't about being good or righteous or whatever the fuck—"
"Something that makes you think about him in his underwear," Phoenix finished drily.
"That too," I admitted. "Look, I know how it sounds."
"It sounds like you're trying to seduce a closeted fundamentalist with luxury underwear."
"When you say it like that—"
"How else would I say it?" But Phoenix was fighting a smile. "What did you buy?"
I showed them the order confirmation. They scrolled through, eyebrows climbing higher with each item.
"These are nice," they admitted. "Like, really nice. Did you take out a loan?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny this allegation, I plead the Fifth."
"You spent two hundred dollars on underwear for a guy who's currently pretending you don't exist."
"Yep."
Phoenix studied me for a long moment. "You're really doing this. The full court press."
"I'm giving him options," I corrected. "What he does with them is up to him."
"Uh-huh. And if he wears them?"
"Then he wears them."
"And if he doesn't?"
I shrugged, trying for casual and probably failing. "Then he doesn't."
Phoenix flopped backward on their bed with a dramatic sigh. "You're already in love with him, aren't you?"
"I'm not—" I stopped. Shit. "I'm interested."
"You spent two hundred dollars."
"I have disposable income."
"You bought him four pairs. With a gift note."
"It's not—" I sat down on the edge of their bed. "Fine. Maybe I'm more invested in all this than I had initially planned to be. But come on. If you'd have seen him at the coffee shop you'd know the guy is drowning, Phoenix. And he doesn't even know he's underwater."
Phoenix sat up, their expression softening suddenly serious. "I know. And I know you want to help him. But babes, you can't save everyone."
"I'm not trying to save him."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
I thought about Jesse's face in the bar bathroom. In the coffee shop. The way he looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language when I suggested he might want something for himself.
"I'm trying to give him permission," I said quietly. "To want. To choose. To exist outside of what they've told him he has to be."
"With underwear."
"I have to start somewhere, don't I?"
Phoenix laughed, shaking their head. "You're absolutely ridiculous. You know that, right?"
"Been told that before."
"When are you giving them to him?"
"Thinking Wednesday when they arrive. Student union. Public enough that he can't freak out too badly."
"He's going to die."
"Probably."
"And you're going to enjoy every second of it."
I grinned. "Definitely."
Phoenix grabbed a pillow and hit me with it. "You're terrible. I love you, but you're terrible."
"Love you too."
Back in my room, I lay in bed staring at my phone. The order confirmation glowed in the darkness.
What are you doing, Costas?
Playing with fire. Crossing lines. Pursuing something that could blow up spectacularly in my face.
But also—and here was the thing I couldn't quite shake—maybe giving someone permission to imagine a different life. A different version of themselves.
Even if that version started with something as small as choosing your own underwear.
I fell asleep thinking about Jesse's face when he opened that box.
This was either going to be hilarious or a complete disaster.
Possibly both.