The homophobic kiss

 I kept running, and eventually, I found myself in the bathroom, surprisingly empty. 

 "Just perfect," I muttered to myself, my voice shaky as I slid down the door, sitting on the cold floor. It didn't take long before the dam of tears broke, and I buried my face in my hands. 

 Yes, I, Luis—a fully grown 18-year-old man—was crying on the bathroom floor, and I wasn't ashamed of it. 

 The only thing I felt in my chest was the sharp sting of rejection. 

 The way he looked at me when he called me gross—doing everything he could to push me away—broke my heart. If he was this homophobic, I might as well flush my fantasies of us ever being together down the drain. If he could be this disgusted by being with another guy, if he only wanted to sleep with women…

 But why did he call me cute? Why did he touch me, pull me close, and recognize me in the dark? 

 No one ever did, but he did. He raised my hopes, only to crush them with the rejection, telling me being gay was disgusting. 

 My crush of four years—was it really ending here? I needed to go home, finish next semester with him still in my class, and then disappear from this city forever.

 I wiped my face, stood up, and splashed cold water on my face. 

 Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I couldn't help but hate the guy staring back at me—the Mexican-American mess who couldn't even get his crush. But somehow, I felt like I deserved it. I sniffled and blew my nose before heading for the door.

 This was why I didn't hesitate to break down when I felt like I couldn't handle it anymore. After a good cry, I could always pull myself together—even if it didn't erase the hurt. Crying didn't make rejection hurt less. It just made me realize that crushing on a homophobe was like self-harm, and I promised myself I'd put that behind me.

 I tugged my sleeves over my palms and pushed the door open, turning to leave when I almost collided with someone.

 "Excuse me," I muttered, lowering my head to sidestep them. I didn't even want to think about the fact that some stranger might've heard me crying and was probably mocking me inside.

 "Why the rush to leave?" A slurred voice made me snap my head up.

 "Garber?" I frowned, surprised to see him standing there, drunk. Despite my resolve, my heart skipped a beat.

 I needed to get out of here. He had heard me cry and stayed behind. No doubt, I'd become the laughing stock among his friends—and then the whole school when the break ended. The thought terrified me, and I was about to bolt when Garber reached out, gripping my wrist and pressing me against the wall.

 My eyes widened in fear—and, despite myself, excitement.

 He was holding me again. Even in his drunken state, he was looking into my eyes. And even though I knew he'd be disgusted if we were a couple, a tiny part of me couldn't help but hope as his face leaned closer to mine.

 What was he trying to do?

 Before I could process my thoughts, the answer hit me with the force of a punch.

 His lips crushed mine, and heat spread through my belly.

 He rested his palms on my shoulders, still keeping his gaze locked with mine. He gripped my wrist and tugged me toward the last stall in the restroom, locking the door behind us. 

 "What are you trying to do? Let go, you bastard!" I tried to push him off, but he slammed me back against the wall and closed the space between us, until all that was left separating us were our clothes.

 "Don't you want this?" His voice was low, eyes intense. I didn't miss the slight tremble in his lips—lips that my heart had raced for every time he spoke at school events or won a game.

 Watching him on TV was the reason I'd dropped my game controller at home, and now here he was, in the flesh, asking me if I wanted this. 

 Oh, he wasn't asking—he was confirming. He was testing to see if we wanted the same thing. 

 I nodded, but the question lingered in my mind: Why was this homophobic guy acting like he wanted to devour me in a club's bathroom stall?

 "Then I won't ever let go!" he growled before his lips crashed against mine again.

 This wasn't my first kiss, but it sure felt like it. The first one had been a stolen peck in middle school. 

 As if he could sense my hesitation, Garber bit my lower lip until it bled, then pushed his tongue into my mouth. I tasted his musky scent, mint, and the alcohol he'd been drinking—was it whiskey?

 He moaned into the kiss, fisting my hair with one hand while the other held my right hand, pulling me even closer. 

 Then, he intertwined our fingers, and that was when the light-headedness hit me. I couldn't breathe properly, and panic crept in. I fluttered my eyes open, just in time for him to pull away.

 I glanced at his lips, now swollen and plump, and I wanted more. I wanted him to take all of me if that's what it took to feel that kiss again.

 I thought my desperate prayers were about to be answered when the bathroom door swung open, and I heard footsteps.

 We had company.

 "Garber was a little too much earlier, don't you think?" a voice said. I didn't recognize it, but if he knew about what happened, he must've been in the bathroom earlier.

 "He's just an overachiever, but you can't blame him—his father's scandal…" Ethan's voice trailed off as the sound of urinals filled the air.

 "What scandal?" the other voice asked.

 "His dad got caught in bed with his male driver. Hilarious, right? That's the real disgust. He has to maintain a clean image to avoid being dragged into it," Ethan explained as he fiddled with his belt.

 "It must be hard for him," Chen said. My eyes widened.

 "Hard my ass. That bastard deserves it. He's handsome, top of his class, and comes from one of the richest families in the city. No one can be perfect, and he deserves this and more," Ethan said, and I noticed Garber stiffen beside me. He seemed as shocked as I was, and I could see sadness flicker in his eyes.

 Before I could react, the third guy spoke up. 

 "Didn't Garber leave before us? What if…" He didn't finish, but the implication was clear. 

 "If that bastard was here, he would've snapped. He's the school's favorite, but he's got some screws loose," Ethan said, and Garber smiled, a strange look in his eyes.

 My stomach twisted. Did he just take being called a psycho as a compliment?

 "I'll check," Chen said as he kicked open the first stall. 

 Seven more stalls remained between us, and my heart began to race—excitement, fear—fueled by the thought of getting caught. Would Garber stay homophobic in front of everyone? But before Chen could reach our stall, Garber came up with a quick solution that made me hard in a way I couldn't help but feel embarrassed about.

 I buried my face in his shirt to hide my blush.

 "Jammed. The last stall is always jammed. It's a curse or something," Chen muttered, banging on the door. "No one. He must've gone out for another smoke," he said, and I heard his steps receding.

 "That nicotine addict," Ethan scoffed.

 "Let's get out of here and bang some chicks. I still love our sister, though," Ethan continued as they left.

 Garber turned to me, his expression unreadable. Without waiting for a response, he grabbed my ass, helped me off his lap, and led me out of the club.