Learned Reactions

by Jayce Ellis

  “I don’t like the idea of you living so far away,” Carlton grumbled, and Deion smiled.

  “Why don’t we sleep off whatever we drank, and we can talk about it in the morning?” The big shit had been said. They deserved to sober up before they dealt with any attendant feelings.

  Carlton stared at him for a few long beats before he slowly nodded and ran a hand over his face. “That sounds good. Smart. You’re always so smart.” He started toward his bedroom, then paused in the kitchen doorframe and turned. “You’ll still be here, right? You won’t go?”

  Deion’s heart softened. God, he adored this man. “I’m not going anywhere, C. Go to bed.”

  Carlton paused for another second before he walked off, then Deion pulled up a chair and collapsed into it. It was only Day One. How in the hell would he get through nine more of them?

  * * *

  Carlton craned his neck, straining to hear sounds of life from the bedroom, some proof Deion hadn’t reneged on his word and snuck out in the middle of the night. He thought he heard the bed creak, but that could just be his imagination.

  What was worrisome, though, was that Carlton was afraid to walk down the hall and check. His stomach clenched, then tumbled over itself, at the idea of walking into an empty room.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not ever, but especially not with them. Deion was his rock, the only constant in what Carlton could admit was a sometimes intentionally isolated existence. He’d swear to his dying day he preferred it that way, picking and choosing who crossed his threshold—few—and who warmed his bed—fewer than that, no matter what rumors he let fly.

  But now that silence was oppressive, stifling in a way it shouldn’t be. He padded to the kitchen, aware of creaks on the floorboards he’d never noticed, scanning for any indication he was alone in his house.

  Carlton hated this. Hated it. His friendship with Deion was supposed to be soft, warm, comforting, with the ease that only decades of familiarity could bring. And he’d be damned if they spent the next nine days walking on eggshells around each other.

  That thought firmly in the forefront of his mind, Carlton set about making breakfast. Bacon—no, sausage, Deion loved sausage and Carlton had picked some up just for him—eggs, and cheese grits. Plus more freshly shredded cheese on the side, because that boy popped grated cheese like Carlton popped mini powdered donuts—ravenously, and without remorse. Deion didn’t come out, though Carlton knew he’d smell it if he was awake. Nothing had woken Trey up faster than breakfast, and before now, Deion had been the same. He huffed, loaded up two plates, scrounged in his bottom cabinet for a tray, then padded to the bedroom, knocking lightly.

  The “yeah” that came from inside sounded too awake for Deion to have been asleep this whole time, and too tentative to be his best friend. Dammit.

  Carlton pushed inside, balancing the tray while nudging the door with his foot. Deion raised one brow and pushed himself up on the full-sized bed Carlton had bought when Trey’d shown up, convinced he’d toss it as soon as Trey went off to college. He hadn’t even bothered getting a headboard, anything to make Trey feel welcome, like this was truly his home. Shame compounded his already raw emotions, and Carlton started to back out the room.

  “C, wait. Where’re you going?” Deion straightened further, the sheets pooling at his lap. He wore a sleeveless undershirt, his muscles still well defined even though Carlton knew he wasn’t a gym rat. Carlton forced himself not to fixate on the sight and took a deep breath, trying for a sheepish grin. The way Deion rolled his eyes told him he hadn’t quite succeeded, and that made him laugh, the swirling morass in his head notwithstanding.

  He held up the tray. “I made you breakfast. Figured we could both use some. You hungry?”

  “I could eat.” Deion flipped his locs behind him and braided them down his back, tying them together at the ends, and Carlton was struck with the desire to do that for him. Not that he knew how to braid. But he’d learn.

  “You just gonna stand there?” Deion asked when Carlton remain rooted in place, his voice warm and teasing despite the shitstorm of last night.

  “No, asshole. I was waiting for you to get ready.” Lies, but Deion didn’t call him out.

  Instead, Deion patted the bed, where he’d smoothed out the sheets and made a space for him. “I’m ready.”

  Carlton wasn’t, but he carried the tray over anyway, and Deion took it from him, laying it across his lap. Their fingers touched for the briefest of moments, something that wouldn’t have even registered years ago, maybe even days ago, but now felt distinctly charged.

  Carlton sank on the mattress. “Deion,” he started, and waited for Deion to suck in a deep breath before looking up, “I’m sorry about last night. For what I said and all.”

  Deion snagged a sausage, watching him silently while he chewed it. Then he shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, you didn’t say much of anything. But breakfast is a good start, if you’re trying to apologize.” He chuckled, and Carlton was struck dumb by how easily Deion dismissed his piss-poor behavior.

  And it didn’t ease his nerves, not one bit. “I guess we need to talk about it,” Deion continued, but this time his eyes were aimed squarely on the bowl of grits, and he scooped up a helping without saying more.

  Deion looked as eager for this conversation as Carlton was. Which was to say, not at all.

  Carlton nodded. “We do,” he said, “but not today, okay?” He sighed and shifted, leaning his weight to one hand on the mattress while angling his body toward his best friend, who looked at him with eyes that were still too wary, too skittish. He wanted to run a thumb over Deion’s brow, smooth out that wrinkle between them. Let him know how much Carlton cared. He just barely refrained. “I missed you, D. I miss you every time you’re not around. Let’s just—” he waved his free arm in the air before letting it fall uselessly at his side “—enjoy a couple of days before we get into that, okay? I just want to chill with you for a bit. But I needed you to know I was sorry first.”

  Deion watched him, his eyes searching Carlton’s face, and looked like he was about to push back on the idea. Then he snapped his mouth shut and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “We have time. We can talk later.”

  Carlton was struck with the urge to kiss him, but that was the absolute worst thing he could do. Even if he just knew Deion’s lips would be soft, with the hint of saltiness from the sausage and cheese. Even if he knew Deion would strain against him, fighting for control before relinquishing it. Even if he knew Deion would welcome him into his body, spread his legs and give as good as he got.

  Holy hell. Carlton cleared his throat and sat up. “I’m gonna take a quick shower and throw some clothes on.” And jerk off. Twice if I can swing it. “Anything you want to do today?”

  Deion gave him a little half grin and shook his head. “No. I’m down for whatever.”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll leave you to it.” Carlton stood and walked to the door, stopping to look back over his shoulder at the last second. Deion looked up guiltily, then shrugged. Had the guy been checking him out? Deion’s eyes met his and held. Yes, yes he had been, and by the raised brow and nonchalant shrug, Carlton was pretty sure it hadn’t been the first time. And something about that lightened his steps.

  He left Deion and made his way back to his own bedroom. At nineteen, it’d been easy to avoid the topic, skirt around it like it didn’t exist, push it to the realm of never. But he was an adult, or was supposed to play one on TV. And that meant acting like one, and having that hard conversation. But he had no clue what the hell to say. Especially about the fact that, heaven help him, he was glad Deion’s feelings hadn’t changed.

  Did that make him an asshole? Probably so. But knowing his friend still thought about him, still cared for him, still wanted him, told him something he’d longed to hear. He wasn’t the worthless, useless, hopeless piece of crud his parents had p
roclaimed.

  And that? That was a start.

  Chapter Five

  Carlton at his most charming was dangerous. Super affectionate, over-attentive shit that made Deion need far more time in the shower than usual. He was going to have to cut Carlton a check for the water bill when he left in three days.

  He’d been here a week, and Carlton had avoided having a real conversation. To be fair, Deion hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t wanted to push. Hadn’t wanted to do anything that might jeopardize the fragile truce they’d silently agreed to over grits and sausage. Deion’d let his anger bubble over, but even now, couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He’d laid it out there, all on the line, and if nothing else, Carlton wouldn’t be able to say he didn’t know.

  Deion’s biggest concern, though, was what would happen when he went back to Chicago. He’d previously muted the notifications for the dating app, but maybe he should try again. It couldn’t be worse than what he’d seen before, and anything had to be better than sitting on his ass, twiddling his thumbs, pining over his best friend.

  With that thought in mind, Deion pulled up the app and let the notifications load. And Jesus fuck, that was a lot of dick. He scrolled until he found one—and it was literally only one—with a selfie chest shot. That looked as good as it was going to get. Deion clicked on the message.

  prvt93: hey man, nice pfp. Got any more?

  Deion closed his eyes and gave thanks for the innocuous message. This, he could respond to, except he didn’t keep pictures of himself on his phone. He wasn’t about that selfie life.

  Deion walked to the hallway bathroom and posed, clicking a few times. He looked, frankly, awful. These so-called natural lights made his dark brown skin look gray as hell, which he knew was a damn lie. Deion tried a few more shots, but nothing worked, and he didn’t want to go outside. Aside from the steadily overcast days, it’d be just his luck Carlton would come home and start asking questions.

  Speaking of which... Deion left the bathroom and padded down the hall to the master bedroom. Surely Carlton’s bathroom had better lighting. He walked in and paused, surveying the space. A king-sized bed, the sheets tucked in military-style. Deion chuckled. Carlton had tried to break that bed-making habit in college, but had never made it more than three days before stripping the sheets and starting over with a fresh set.

  Photos were on both of the two nightstands—one of Carlton and Trey in his cap and gown, and another of Olivia, Carlton’s niece, holding a generic diploma case and a cap. No doubt they were her middle school graduation pictures, and Deion wondered if Carlton had been invited to her ceremony. Probably not, and part of Deion ached for the hurt that must’ve caused.

  He shook himself and hurried into the bathroom, flicking on the switch. Ahh, that was much better. This was that softer light, the kind with the yellow base that made him look warm and not casket-ready. Deion snapped a few pics, then unraveled the French braid he’d pulled his locs back into, letting them fall loose around his shoulders. They had a nice little wave going, and Deion clicked a few more times before the self-consciousness kicked in and he headed back to the living room.

  Now that he looked at them, none of the pictures were quite right, but Deion wasn’t doing this shit again. He picked a photo and hit send. A response came through almost immediately.

  prvt93: didn’t think I’d hear from u! totes worth the weight tho

  Deion read the message twice, blinked, and groaned. Even ignoring the misspelled word and cutesy phrases, he had no freaking clue how to respond. Thanks? You too? He didn’t flirt, he didn’t hook up, and he didn’t text anyone that wasn’t Carlton. Or sext, or whatever he’d be doing if he responded. His phone lit up with another message, and almost despite himself, he checked it.

  prvt93: you the shy type?

  Now, that Deion could respond to.

  dc4life: yes. definitely. I have no clue what I’m doing.

  After a moment, he added, lol. He could do cutesy too.

  The guy responded with a winky emoji, and Deion felt himself grin. Maybe he could do this after all.

  He must’ve gotten lost in the conversation, because he didn’t hear the door open until Carlton dropped his keys in a bowl. Deion startled and dropped the phone. It landed face-up, the profile picture of the guy smiling up at them.

  Carlton frowned, crossed the short distance to the couch, picked up the phone and glanced at it, his brow furrowing slightly.

  “Everything okay?” Carlton asked, his hand outstretched. Deion snagged the phone and sat up to make room for Carlton next to him.

  “Yeah.” His voice sounded like he’d gargled with glass. He coughed, trying desperately to clear his throat, then spoke again. “Yeah, I’m fine. Really.”

  Carlton’s disbelief had to be swinging from the rafters, but he nodded and didn’t press. He scooted closer, until their thighs touched, then leaned back and threw his arm over the top of the sofa. Almost like he was wrapping his arm around Deion, except he was absolutely not.

  “What’ve you been up to?” he asked, his voice almost...apprehensive somehow, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. “You were on the phone pretty hard when I walked in.”

  Deion didn’t want to have this conversation. And he could tell Carlton didn’t really want to either. That thought gave him pause. Carlton had no reason to be apprehensive about what Deion did. He should be happy to know Deion was actively trying to move on, right?

  Who’re you trying to convince? Deion squeezed his eyes shut for the briefest moment before opening them and trying for his best smile. “I was talking to a guy online.”

  Carlton’s jaw tightened, and Deion watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Then he smiled, and it was big and broad and full of the friendly affection that was the hallmark of their relationship. Deion kinda fucking hated it right now. “That why you got your hair hanging down like some sort of a sex god?”

  Deion barked out a laugh and pushed his shoulder. “Yeah, okay, man, whatever.”

  Carlton chuckled, but it faded quickly, leaving that all-too-knowing stare that always made Deion feel stripped naked, no matter how many layers frigid Chicago winters had forced him to wear. Carlton’s gaze dropped, and he reached out to flick a loc. “It looks good, man. I like it. Bet he did too, huh?”

  The shudder that threatened to ripple all the way down Deion’s frame was kept in check by the barest of strings, and he bit into his lower lip hard enough he drew blood.

  This was good, Carlton showing an interest in Deion’s love life. He should be grateful, and he was. Seriously. He sucked in a breath and matched the smile. “He did.”

  Carlton grinned. “Let me see what you sent.” Deion fumbled for his phone and pulled up his photos. Carlton snatched the phone and started scrolling. And typing.

  “What’re you doing?” Deion asked, reaching for it.

  Carlton held it out of reach. “Sending them to myself. Gotta have pics of my best friend and shit.”

  And... Deion didn’t know what to do with that. Nothing about that read “just friends,” but maybe Deion was reading too much into it. No, he was absolutely, definitely, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt reading too much into it.

  So he settled down, answered Carlton’s questions, laughed along with him. Tried his damnedest not to read too much into Carlton’s—inability? refusal? Deion couldn’t tell—to look him in the eye. Whatever truth Deion wanted to pull from it was purely in the form of speculation, and was a one-way track to heartbreak.

  Eventually Carlton gave the phone back and they settled into silence while a preseason basketball game played in the background. But it wasn’t comfortable, not really. An underlying tension filled the space between them, a disquiet Deion couldn’t pinpoint the cause of.

  After who knows how long, Carlton yawned and stretched his long arms high overhead. “Think I’m gonna hit the sack, man. It
’s been a long week and we only have a few days left.”

  They hadn’t even eaten, but as Deion watched his friend stand and shake himself, he realized he wasn’t hungry. Nerves had taken up residence where his hunger should be. Nerves about what Carlton really thought, really felt about Deion’s dating, even though he’d been outwardly supportive.

  Carlton rounded the back of the couch, pinned Deion with a stare that made him want to haul Carlton down and kiss that grin off his face, then walked off in the direction of his bedroom. Deion could imagine him pulling back those cool, tight sheets, climbing into the center of the bed—no sides for him—and letting sleep take over.

  Deion wanted to be there with him. To snuggle close, wrap a hand across Carlton’s chest and feel the press of his lips against Deion’s forehead.

  He sighed. He was a goddamn fool, and he was going to have a strong come-to-Jesus moment when he got back to Chicago.

  He nestled onto the couch and grabbed the remote. Basketball was off, and a UFC match was starting. Good. Something short and hopefully bloody was exactly what he needed.

  He must’ve fallen asleep just like that, because the sharp knock at the front door, the ringing of his—no, Carlton’s—phone, and the pounding thud of bare feet on hardwood all combined to jar Deion awake. He pushed up, scrubbing a hand over his face, and stared at the door. Carlton fumbled with the locks, like he couldn’t get them open soon enough, then yanked the door open.

  On the other side, soaking wet from a storm that must’ve started while Deion was asleep, stood Carlton’s niece, Olivia.