The screen stuttered, a digital snowflake catching at the edge of Joel’s vision, just before the power flickered. It wasn’t a full outage, just a quick dip, enough to make the console gasp, a tiny, almost imperceptible hiccup in the otherwise smooth, virtual world they inhabited. Joel’s hand, slick with nervous sweat on the controller, tightened. Beside him, Tommy let out a small, almost guttural sound, more a hum of annoyance than actual words.
“You okay?” Joel asked, not really looking, his eyes still glued to the glowing pixels where his character, a heavily armored brute, was about to launch into a critical attack. The momentary glitch had thrown off his timing, a fraction of a second, but enough. Tommy’s character, a nimble rogue, had already moved, anticipating. It always felt like Tommy anticipated everything.
“Yeah,” Tommy mumbled, his voice a low thrum in the small space. The smell of cold, slightly stale pizza crust and the faint scent of winter air, carried in on their clothes from earlier, hung thick. Joel felt the heat from Tommy’s arm, an inch away, a constant, low-level radiation against his own side. It wasn’t an intentional closeness, just the inevitable geometry of two bodies sharing a worn beanbag chair for hours.
The battle flared, a cacophony of digital swords clanging, spells erupting in bursts of light. Joel’s character went down, a pathetic, almost comical crumple. He swore under his breath. Tommy’s rogue, however, danced through the chaos, an impossible flurry of movement, picking off enemies one by one. The final boss, a hulking abomination of jagged polygons, exploded in a shower of loot.
A collective sigh, long and drawn out, left both their chests. Joel leaned back against the wall, the rough texture of the paint peeling slightly against his hoodie. He ran a hand through his damp hair. Tommy, still hunched forward, let his controller clatter onto the plush carpet. The faint outline of a forgotten, half-empty can of cheap soda was visible next to it, condensation rings already dried onto the threads. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, a tired gesture.
“We did it,” Tommy said, his voice raspy. He turned, his shoulder brushing Joel’s. Joel felt a jolt, a static discharge that had nothing to do with the power flicker. His skin prickled. He tried to ignore it, to attribute it to the excitement of the game, the late hour. But it was always there, this subtle hum when Tommy was near. His throat felt dry. He swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears.
“Yeah,” Joel managed. “Finally. That took… forever.” He glanced at the clock on Tommy’s nightstand. 1:47 AM. The digits glowed an unforgiving red. Outside, the world was utterly silent, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow that seemed to swallow all sound. He could almost hear the individual flakes hitting the windowpane, a whisper against the glass.
Tommy stretched, a long, languid movement that pulled his t-shirt taut across his lean frame. Joel’s gaze snagged on the line of his spine, the way his muscles shifted. He quickly looked away, staring at a stain on Tommy’s carpet. A dark, indeterminate splotch. Coffee? Soda? Something else entirely. It didn’t matter. It was safe to look at.
“Think your mom will kill us for being up this late?” Tommy asked, a small smile playing on his lips. His voice was lighter now, the tension of the game having dissipated. Joel watched his lips as he spoke, the faint curve, the way the light from the screen painted them a soft, almost bruised purple.
“Nah. She knows how it is,” Joel replied, his own voice a little rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. “She probably figures we’re still working on that history project.” A convenient lie, one they’d used countless times. It was a flimsy excuse, but it bought them hours of uninterrupted time.
Tommy chuckled, a low, warm sound. He pushed himself off the beanbag, the cushions sighing in protest. He went to the small, scratched wooden desk, grabbing two half-eaten bags of chips. He tossed one to Joel, who caught it clumsily, nearly fumbling it. His hands felt too big, too clumsy, compared to Tommy’s easy grace.
“So, the future,” Tommy said, crunching on a chip. “You still set on… what was it? Environmental science? Reforestation?” He leaned against the desk, one leg bent, the sole of his socked foot resting against the wall. The pose was casual, unthinking, yet it held Joel’s attention, the simple curve of his calf muscle. It was stupid how much he noticed these things.
Joel ripped open his bag of chips, the crinkle loud. “Yeah. Maybe. Or something with… renewable energy. Wind farms. Something that actually feels like it matters.” He picked at a chip, breaking it into small pieces, not quite meeting Tommy’s gaze. It felt like a test, this conversation, though he knew it wasn’t. It was just Tommy, asking about his life.
“That’s cool,” Tommy said, genuine warmth in his voice. “I mean, actually cool. Not just, like, ‘cool, you want to hug trees’ cool.” He grinned, and Joel felt a faint flush spread across his cheeks. He could feel it, a warmth that had nothing to do with the stale air or the gaming heat. He cleared his throat again, trying to push it down.
“What about you?” Joel asked, redirecting. “Still… graphic design? Or are you gonna finally admit you just want to draw comics for a living?” He tried to keep his tone light, teasing, but there was a tremor in it, an underlying current he hoped Tommy didn’t hear. He watched Tommy’s face, hoping to read something, anything, in his expression.
Tommy paused, a chip halfway to his mouth. He looked out the window, at the silent, snow-covered yard. The streetlights cast long, ethereal shadows across the drifts. “I don’t know. Graphic design sounds… stable. My dad always talks about stable. But the comics… yeah. The comics. It’s just… dumb, right? Drawing superheroes.” He looked back at Joel, a slight uncertainty in his eyes. He seemed to shrink a little, the usual confident energy dimming.
“No,” Joel said, immediately, instinctively. His voice was firm, stronger than he expected. “It’s not dumb. It’s… what you’re good at. What you actually like doing. That’s not dumb. That’s smart.” He felt a fierce, protective surge in his chest. He wanted to reach out, to reassure, but his hands stayed firmly clasped around the chip bag.
Tommy looked at him then, a long, steady gaze that made Joel’s heart do something complicated and fast against his ribs. It wasn’t a questioning look, or a judging one. It was something deeper, something that saw through the flimsy excuses and the nervous energy. Joel felt utterly exposed. He could practically feel the blood rushing to his face.
“Yeah,” Tommy said softly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Yeah, maybe.” He pushed off the desk, walking over to his bed. The bed, an old twin frame, was tucked into a corner, piled with mismatched blankets and a lumpy pillow. He picked up his phone, swiping through it. “We should probably actually try to sleep. It’s almost two.”
Joel nodded, pushing himself up from the beanbag. His legs were stiff, his back a little sore. He followed Tommy to the bed, the familiar ritual of a sleepover. They both shed their hoodies, tossing them onto the floor in a heap. Joel felt the cool air on his arms, raising goosebumps. He caught a faint whiff of Tommy’s deodorant, something clean and vaguely woodsy, as Tommy moved past him.
Tommy got in first, burrowing under the thickest quilt, turning to face the wall. Joel hesitated for a second, then slid in beside him, his side pressing lightly against Tommy’s back. The bed was small, not quite big enough for two seventeen-year-olds to sleep comfortably without touching. It was an unspoken, familiar closeness. A necessity, almost.
The darkness was a heavy blanket, broken only by the red glow of the alarm clock and the soft, steady breathing of the other boy. Joel lay still, listening. The house creaked, an old settlement sighing in the cold. He could hear the faint drip of a faucet downstairs, a rhythmic punctuation to the winter night. He felt Tommy shift, settling deeper into the mattress. Joel’s hand, resting beside his hip, twitched. He wanted to move it, to pull it away, but it felt glued there, a silent tether.
“Do you ever think about… what it’s actually going to be like?” Tommy’s voice was a low murmur, muffled by the quilt. It startled Joel, who hadn’t realized Tommy was still awake. He thought he’d already drifted off. He leaned closer, trying to catch the words, the warmth of Tommy’s breath a faint caress against his cheek.
“What what’s going to be like?” Joel asked, his voice barely a whisper. He felt a weird, nervous energy coil in his stomach. This felt like a dangerous conversation, a precipice they were teetering on.
“Everything. After high school. Like, we’re almost out. And then… it’s just us, right? No more school bells. No more… this.” Tommy shifted again, turning slightly, so his voice was clearer, closer. Joel felt the heat of Tommy’s back against his front, a solid, comforting weight.
“No more… this,” Joel repeated, the words tasting strange on his tongue. He thought about it. No more late nights, no more shared controllers, no more half-eaten chip bags on the floor. The thought settled in his chest, a cold, heavy stone. It was a future he hadn’t fully allowed himself to envision, not really.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Tommy continued, his voice softer now, almost wistful. “Like, we’ve always had this. Since… what, second grade? Building those awful Lego castles? And now it’s just… over. Or different. I don’t know.” He sounded genuinely uncertain, a rare crack in his usually steady demeanor. Joel felt a strange pull, a desire to smooth away that uncertainty, to make it okay.
“It won’t be over,” Joel said, his voice surprisingly firm. “It can’t be. We’ll… we’ll figure it out. We’ll still find time. Even if it’s different.” He meant it. He really did. The idea of not having this, of not having Tommy, was a hollow ache.
Tommy hummed, a low sound of agreement, or maybe just resignation. “Yeah. I hope so. It’s just… everyone talks about moving away. New cities. New lives. It feels like… a lot, sometimes.” He sounded small, vulnerable, in a way Joel rarely heard. It made Joel want to reach out, to touch his shoulder, to offer some physical comfort, but he held back, his hand hovering, an inch away.
“It is a lot,” Joel admitted. “But… new things can be good too. Right? Like, we don’t have to stay stuck. We can still… grow. And be us. Just… somewhere else, maybe. Or doing something else.” He thought about the wind farms, the sprawling fields, the giant turbines turning in the sky. He thought about Tommy’s comics, the intricate worlds he built on paper.
“Yeah,” Tommy said again, a faint smile in his voice this time. “New places. More opportunities to mess up.” A nervous laugh. “Think I’ll get a pet. Like, a really big dog. Or maybe a cat, but a mean one. One that judges everyone.”
Joel laughed quietly, a genuine, easy sound. The tension in his chest eased a fraction. “You, with a mean cat? No way. You’d just end up coddling it. It’d turn into a fluffy, evil tyrant.” He pictured it, Tommy trying to wrangle a grumpy, overweight cat. The image brought a fresh wave of warmth.
“Probably,” Tommy admitted, another soft laugh. “What about you? What’s your first ‘adult’ purchase?”
“A really good coffee maker,” Joel said without hesitation. “Like, espresso. None of that instant stuff. And maybe a plant. Something I won’t kill in a week.” He’d been thinking about it, about those small, tangible markers of independence.
They fell silent again, but this time it wasn't heavy. It was a comfortable quiet, filled with the soft sounds of the house, the murmur of the winter night. Joel felt the rhythm of Tommy’s breathing against his back, slow and steady. The heat radiating from him was a pleasant anchor in the cold room. He felt… safe. Utterly, completely safe. He hadn't realized how rare that feeling was until now.
He imagined their futures, separate yet intertwined, like parallel lines that never quite touched, but always ran alongside each other. It was a hopeful, scary thought. A familiar dread tried to creep in, the fear of change, of distance, but it was pushed back by the solid, warm presence beside him. For now, they were here, together, in the small, cluttered room, on the edge of everything. That was enough.
He felt Tommy’s breathing deepen, the slow, even exhalations of sleep. Joel stayed awake, listening. He focused on the quiet, the way the air shifted almost imperceptibly with Tommy’s every breath. He could hear the faint whisper of his own blood in his ears, a counterpoint to the gentle rise and fall of Tommy’s chest against his back. The light from the window, filtered through the thick snow outside, cast faint, shifting patterns on the ceiling. He wondered what Tommy dreamt of, if it was vast landscapes or intricate comic panels.
Joel shifted slightly, very carefully, turning his head just enough to see the back of Tommy’s head, the dark hair mussed against the pillow. The curve of his neck. The soft, relaxed line of his shoulders. He watched him, really watched him, the way he would watch a rare bird, a quiet, profound observation. He felt the insistent thrum again, the static in his blood, stronger now in the quiet dark. It wasn’t just friendship, not entirely. It was something else, something unnamed, something potent and unsettling and utterly, terrifyingly beautiful. He felt a quiet ache in his chest, a yearning so profound it almost felt like a physical pain. He didn't want the night to end. He didn't want this feeling to end. And for a long, long time, he just lay there, suspended in the quiet, watching the soft curve of Tommy's sleeping form, the world outside forgotten, the future a distant hum.