Hearing the Rumors

Elliot sat in the back of his Intro to Lit class, head down, sketchpad open on his desk. His pencil scratched out a stormy sea—waves crashing, dark and wild—while the professor droned on about symbolism in some novel he hadn't read. He liked the back row; it was safer, quieter, a place to disappear. His ocean-blue eyes stayed fixed on the page, avoiding the chatter around him. He didn't talk much—didn't want to—and so far, no one had pushed him to.

Until the whispers started. Two guys a few seats ahead, slouched and bored, were muttering under the lecture's hum. Elliot didn't mean to listen, but their voices carried, sharp and careless. "Callahan's at it again," one said, snickering. "Heard he went off on some freshman yesterday—called him a fag and shoved him into a wall. Dude's unhinged."

"Yeah, total homophobe," the other replied, smirking. "Last year he nearly beat the shit out of that guy who came out. Like, full-on screaming in the lounge, 'fags don't belong here.' RA had to drag him off. You don't mess with Bryce if you're… y'know."

Elliot's pencil froze mid-stroke, the lead snapping against the paper. His stomach lurched, cold and tight, and his breath hitched. "Homophobe!! " The words clawed at him, digging into the fragile shell he'd built since his parents died, since he'd learned to hide who he was. He ducked his head lower, dark hair falling into his face, hands trembling as he gripped the sketchpad. *He can't know,* he scolded himself, panic rising like bile. "Don't look at him, don't act weird, don't give him anything. You're nothing here. Stay nothing." No one knew his secret—not these guys, not anyone—but now, Bryce wasn't just loud and mean. He was dangerous.

Class dragged on, but the room tilted around him. His chest tightened, his pulse thudding in his ears, and a sick, queasy feeling coiled in his gut. When the professor finally dismissed them, Elliot bolted, mumbling an excuse about his bag as he slipped out. He stumbled to the nearest washroom, shoving the door open and lurching toward the sink. His hands gripped the cold porcelain, and he stared at his reflection—pale, wide-eyed, those ocean blues glassy with dread. His stomach heaved, and he bent over, dry-retching, the urge to puke twisting his insides. "Why him?" he thought, ragged breaths escaping. "Why do I have to be in the same room with that guy?"

He turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face, letting it drip down his cheeks and chin. It stung, sharp and grounding, pulling him back from the edge. "Get it together", he scolded himself, wiping his eyes with shaky fingers. "He doesn't know. He can't. Just… stay quiet." He stood there, breathing slow, until the nausea ebbed, then dragged himself back to class, slipping into his seat as the professor started up again.

Lila was there now, perched in the chair beside him, her purple-streaked hair bright against the dull room. She glanced at his sketch, tilting her head. "That's intense," she said, tapping the jagged waves. "You okay? You look kinda off."

He flinched, then forced a small, shy smile, voice barely above a whisper. "Just… tired," he mumbled, eyes darting back to the page. It wasn't a lie—not completely—but he didn't want her digging. She didn't know him—not the orphan, not the secrets—and he needed it to stay that way.

She hummed, unconvinced, but let it slide. "Fair. This class is a snooze anyway." She started rambling about her weekend, and Elliot nodded, half-listening, grateful for the distraction.

Later, they left together, crossing the quad as the sun dipped low, painting the grass in gold and shadow. Lila nudged him, grinning about some dumb story, and he managed a faint, nervous smile, too shy to pull away when she looped her arm through his. That's when Bryce saw them.

He was trudging back from practice, sweat-soaked and scowling, his gear slung over his shoulder. His green eyes swept the quad—then stopped. Elliot, head down, those ocean blues hidden behind dark lashes, walking with that loudmouth girl. She was chattering, tugging him along, and Elliot's lips twitched, soft and unsure. Something twisted in Bryce's chest—quick, sharp, like a jolt he couldn't name. "What the hell is that?" he thought, fingers tightening on his bag. Was it her? The way she clung to him? Or those damn eyes, always pulling at him—sad in the dorm, scared this morning, now… something else?

He scowled, shaking it off, but his pace faltered. Elliot glanced up—just for a heartbeat—and their gazes locked across the grass. Those ocean blues widened, startled, then dropped fast, Elliot's flush creeping up as he muttered to Lila and hurried her along. Bryce's jaw clenched. "Why does he keep doing that?" he wondered, the twist flaring hotter. "Looking away like I'm gonna hit him." It wasn't about the girl—not really. Was it?

"Callahan! Move your ass!" a teammate shouted, snapping him out of it. Bryce grunted, tearing his eyes off Elliot and storming off, the feeling simmering like a cut he couldn't stop poking.

Back in the dorm that night, Elliot sank onto his bed, alone, the weight of the day pressing down. "He hates people like me", he thought, scolding himself again. "Don't look, don't slip. He'll hurt you if he knows." He curled up, staring at Bryce's messy side of the room, a silent threat in the dim light.