✦ Chapter 19 — Soft Boy Aesthetic ✦

"He's Christian — the maybe drug addict.
The soft boy aesthetic.
The boy I dream about.
And I won't say a word."

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🌙 • 🩶 • 🌙
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The revelation of how Darth Vader tells Luke Skywalker that he is his father is exactly how being caught by Dryden felt. I hope he doesn't tell my parents about my sexual orientation—as if it were one of those big cinematic reveals. That line where Obi-Wan tells Anakin—on the verge of becoming Darth Vader—that he was the Chosen One keeps looping in my head.

Was I Obi-Wan now? Did I have the higher ground?

How could I even think about Star Wars right now—especially watching it with Dryden like we used to when we were kids?

"You should know he's a drug addict," Dryden says, not even pausing to wonder who I sent the message to. It couldn't be true. From what I knew of addicts—which wasn't much—Christian had shown no signs. Addicts gave off signs. Christian didn't give off any.

"How would you know that? Did he tell you that himself?" I ask, my voice sharp with disbelief. My anxiety is taking over fast. If it were true, I'd want to hear it from Christian himself—just like Luke heard it straight from Vader.

Dryden says nothing. That silence is its own kind of answer.

The accusation pulses through me, hot and cutting, like a knife twisting into the softest parts of me.

"Do I need to justify the obvious?" he shoots back. Suddenly the Star Wars metaphors evaporate. I'm just Luke Montgomery—too queer for some people, too confused for others, and officially Instagram official with Christian. No fantasy logic could explain what Dryden had just accused him of.

"Jesus Christ, Dryden, where did you get that idea?" I ask, my voice cracking as I defend the dyed curly-haired boy who had unraveled me in ways Dryden never had. My thumb hovers over the power button of my phone. I can't bring myself to turn it back on.

"Either you believe me, or you don't. But I saw your boyfriend doing heroin in the bathroom," Dryden says.

The blood drains from my body. That familiar magnetized jelly-feeling returns. I hate this version of anxiety. I hate that it always shows up when Christian isn't here to defend himself.

"He's not my boyfriend!" I blurt, but the words echo louder than I meant them to. They ring with guilt. I lied—to Dryden, to myself. I don't know which stings worse.

In less than a year, we'll be in different colleges. He'll be in North Carolina. I'll be in Boston. Maybe we were already letting go.

"Right, you're into the soft boy aesthetic," Dryden says, his green eyes locking onto mine. Something's different in his stare. The usual happy, grungy Dryden is gone.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I snap.

Was he jealous?

It made no sense—Dryden had been my best friend through breakups, breakdowns, and boy bands. Christian had only entered my life a month and a half ago. There was no comparison. I never wanted to kiss Dryden.

Christian? I'd already done more than half of that with him.

"Exactly what it sounds like," Dryden shrugs, as we hear my parents come in downstairs—talking about dinner or something equally ordinary. Meanwhile, my biggest secret is a powder keg between me and Dryden, ready to blow.

But he doesn't. Instead, he leaves a few minutes later, letting my parents believe we were just studying—like it's still middle school. Classic Dryden. Too good at playing pretend.

He leaves me alone, sitting on the floor of my room, stewing in the quiet paranoia that he might still tell them. That relief only comes when no one knocks on my door.

But the relief doesn't last.

Anxiety curls in my gut. I wonder if maybe telling Christian I was in was a mistake. Maybe being sick was a divine sign. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be gay.

Maybe I was just supposed to be Luke Montgomery.
Eighteen. Almost graduating. Waiting on my MIT application.
Not queer. Not out. Not anything.

Just trapped in the four walls of my mind, overthinking everything.

It's 2:30 a.m. and I finally have the periodic table memorized. I should've had it down weeks ago. The elements blur together, and all I can think about is what Dryden said.

A drug addict.

The phrase claws at my brain.

All I can see is Christian with needles. Pushing me away. Some kind of Shakespearean tragedy playing out while I stand frozen, helpless.

My body betrays me next. I can't sleep—my brain turns the tension into some hybrid of lust and longing.

I've never had sex. But tonight, I dream like I have.

Christian is there, in the dream, soft boy aesthetic and all. His lavender hair is a different shade now. His V-cut stomach more defined than it ever looked in real life. We're in his room, watching old movies. Linda's probably downstairs. But dream logic makes everything feel safe.

"I will do nothing to you," dream-Christian whispers.

But I want him to.

I ache for it.

Touch him. Kiss him. Fuck him. My subconscious screams it over and over. I inch closer. My lips brush his. My tongue begs for entry.

This version of me—the one in the dream—wants it so badly it hurts. He grants my tongue entry. Our bodies crash back onto the bed like a final act.

There's no going back.

Even in dreams, he's still Christian. Still soft-spoken, still respectful. Still making me feel like I'm not broken.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, hopping off the bed and grabbing a box of condoms. He pulls one out and tosses it to me.

I don't answer. The wrapper dangles between my fingers.

"No wonder you're so nervous," he teases, pressing a kiss to my neck.

"I'm sure," I say, finally, tearing open the condom as rain falls outside the window.

He lifts my polo over my head and tosses it into the corner. His hands slide down my back. He's gentle. His touch almost reverent as he eases into me.

It hurts—but not enough to make me stop.

Ellie Goulding plays softly in the background. My moans echo off the walls. I don't want to wake up.

I'd never tell Christian about this. Not a single second of it.

In the dream, I take control. My hand wraps around him, and he moans, quietly, like music. My mouth follows. He whispers my name.

And then—

My alarm goes off.

I shoot up in bed, hard and aching, my heart pounding.

And all I can think is:
I have to see him tomorrow.
I'm not ready.

He's Christian—the maybe drug addict.
The soft boy aesthetic.
The boy I dream about.

And I won't say a word.

╭───────────────╮
🩶 • 🛏 • 🩶
╰───────────────╯

"I ache for it.
Touch him. Kiss him. Fuck him.
My subconscious screams it over and over."

"Maybe I wasn't supposed to be gay.
Maybe I was just supposed to be Luke Montgomery."