Friday, October 17th 2014

Jack woke up with a start, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. His head throbbed, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and the sickly-sweet stench of stale alcohol lingered on his bedsheets. Slowly, the events of last night came back to him—the George, the music, the crowd, Paul, and then— him.

The guy from home.

Jack's stomach clenched as he shot upright. Fuck.

He had seen him. They had seen each other. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his forehead. Had anyone from home said anything yet? His phone was on the floor beside his bed, still dead. He had let the battery drain overnight, too afraid to turn it back on.

What if he messaged someone? What if word was already spreading?

No. No, he was being paranoid.

Who would he tell? Sure he was there himself.

He had been just as scared as Jack. He had bolted first. That had to count for something.

Jack exhaled shakily, forcing himself to get up. His head spun slightly as he pulled on a hoodie and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, swallowing back the wave of nausea threatening to rise.

Breathe. Just act normal. Don't let them see you freaking out.

He rubbed his hands over his face and dragged himself out of his room, stepping into the sitting room. The clock read 3pm. He had slept in very late.

'We're ordering spice bags, do you want one?' Millie asked from the couch, she and Ciarán wrapped in blankets like two pensioners who had given up on life.

Jack blinked at them. No interrogation. No 'where the fuck did you run off to?' Just a normal conversation. 'What's a spice bag?' he asked, trying to sound normal.

Ciarán gasped like Jack had just kicked his dog. 'What's a spice bag?' he repeated, looking personally offended, 'are you actually serious, like?'

'Your life is about to change forever, my friend,' Millie added, shaking her head. 'It's the holy trinity of Irish cuisine: fried chicken, salt and chilli chips, and curry sauce. It's sexy.'

Jack smirked. 'Go on so, I'm starving.'

The TV was on in the background, a drag queen with a massive pink afro doing what looked like stand-up in front of an audience of pensioners. None of them were laughing.

'What the fuck are ye watching?' Jack asked, kicking off his shoes and stretching his legs out on the coffee table.

'Drag Race,' Millie answered. 'It's like America's Next Top Model for drag queens.'

Jack frowned. 'And that's meant to be a selling point?'

'Oh here we go,' Ciarán teased.

'-only it's way more iconic than a bunch of women with heroin chic complexes,' Millie said. 'That's Laganja. She's bombing this week's challenge. But wait for Bianca, she's class at comedy. We reckon she'll win the whole season.'

Jack watched for a moment, pretending not to be interested.

'What do they get for winning?' he asked.

'A hundred grand.'

'Fuck off? For just dressing up like a woman?'

Ciarán scoffed. 'It's so much more than that. They have to sing, dance, act, sew, do improv—honestly, it's like the Olympics of drag.'

'Right...' Jack said, unconvinced.

'And there's loads of drama,' Ciarán added, gesturing to the screen. 'Drag queens are nuts, believe me.'

Jack barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere. His stomach still twisted at the thought of the guy from home. He's not going to say anything, Jack told himself. Why would he? He'd been the one to bolt. But still, what if word got back? What if someone asked why Jack had been there? He could already hear Wham Bar and Begs grilling him.

'What are you doing for Halloween?' Millie asked, snapping him out of his own thoughts. 'We're going to a house party if you want to join. Savannah said to invite you too.'

'Oh, you know her?' Jack asked, grasping for something normal.

Millie smirked as Ciarán waggled his eyebrows. 'Oh, they know each other alright,' he teased, and Millie rolled her eyes, 'they've done some arts and crafts together, if you get me?'

Unsurprisingly, Jack didn't.

'I dunno,' he said, feeling hesitant. Maybe he should just go home for Halloween. Take a break from all the Dublin craziness.

'Oh come on! It'll be fun!'

'Do you not like dressing up, or something?' Millied asked.

'Would you ever let me put you into drag?' Ciarán added.

'I know you're not talking to me,' Jack said, although he couldn't help but laugh, 'yeah, no. Dressing up isn't really for me.'

'What? Not your thing?' Ciarán made air quotes with his fingers, his smirk deepening.

'Not my thing, sorry. I'm straight.'

'Straight men have been doing drag for centuries, you know? From Shakespeare all the way up to Mrs. Brown,' Millei said matter-of-factly.

'You might surprise yourself,' Ciarán added.

'I'll leave it to the professionals, thanks.'

'Well, you're welcome to come to the party if you want,' Millie said.

Jack hesitated. The thought made his skin itch. What if he was there? It was one thing seeing him in the George, but another thing entirely to be at the same party. Would he tell people? Would he corner him? Would he ask?

'Yeah, I'll see. Put me down as a maybe,' he said eventually, although noncommittal.

Millie grinned. 'That's a yes.'

Jack wanted to protest, but something stopped him. His thoughts flickered to Paul—Savannah's friend. He had been confident, sure of himself. Jack didn't know why that stuck with him. Surely Paul would be at the party. The thought confused him. He didn't know why he cared.

'So, what did you think of your first experience in the George?' Ciarán asked, a cruel grin on his face as he poked. 'You disappeared early. Get lucky?'

Jack shook his head too quickly. 'I was too drunk,' he lied. 'I went home.'

Ciarán raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. 'Sure you did. Well, Paul was asking about ya, by the way.'

Jack's stomach did a weird little flip. 'Paul?' he repeated, trying to sound casual, but his voice was too flat. 'Why?'

'Just said you were cute.'

'Right.'

Jack tried to brush it off, to smirk and roll his eyes like it meant nothing, but the words stuck to him like glue.

Paul was asking about you.

Why?

What had he said? Did he actually think that he was cute, or was Ciarán just winding him up for a reaction? The idea unsettled him—not because he was freaked out by it, but because he wasn't. He should have felt weirded out by the thought of it, should have laughed it off like a joke, but instead, there was something else. Something foreign and uncomfortable curling in his chest. Paul had looked at him like—like he was interested. Like Jack was someone worth looking at that way. And the strangest part? Jack didn't hate it. For a split second, he even let himself linger on the thought of Paul—of the way he'd smiled, the way he'd noticed him. There was something oddly thrilling about it, like standing too close to the edge of a cliff just to feel the rush.

'And this whore went home with Savannah,' Ciarán said, dragging Jack out of his thoughts again, 'could barely walk when she got in this morning.'

'Literally,' laughed Millie and Jack hid a smile, not wanting to give Ciarán the satisfaction.

'She's in love.'

'We're not in love,' Millie groaned.

'Three times and it's a thing.'

'We've been together more than three times,' Millie corrected.

'Then it must be love, gurl,' Ciarán teased, 'c'mon, you're the one who always says lesbians don't do casual,'

Jack let the conversation blur around him, and Paul escaped his mind - and instead he pictured the guy that had been the real reason he left last night. His mind snapped back like a rubber band, yanking him straight back into panic.

The guy from home.

The real problem.

He had seen Jack. Recognised him. And worst of all, he had ran. Like the sight of Jack there, in that place, had shattered something they both had worked so hard to protect. Jack thought about messaging him, just to clear things up—to control the narrative before it got out of hand. It's not what you think. But that was the problem. He didn't even know what he thought.

But he had to do something. He had to control this. His fingers twitched at the thought of messaging the guy on Facebook—just a casual mad seeing you last night, was just there with my housemates. Play it cool. But what if acknowledging it made things worse? What if it planted the seed?

No. No messages. No evidence. He'd just deny it. Straight people went to gay bars all the time. He had been there with friends. That was normal. That was fine.

He exhaled slowly, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest. He had convinced himself of bigger lies before.

This was just another one.