The air in Hamilton Reynolds’s bedroom was thick with the competing scents of teenage arrogance and incense. He lay on his unmade bed, one arm slung behind his head, the other scrolling listlessly through his phone. The screen glowed with the face of a girl he’d fucked two months ago, a pouty-lipped blonde whose name he could barely recall. Chloe? Carly? It didn’t matter. She was just another entry in a long, sordid list, a failed experiment in a life he’d spent desperately trying to force into a shape it refused to take.
He was an asshole, and he knew it. It was a fact as solid and unchangeable as the oak of his dresser, a piece of furniture his father had pointedly ignored during their last screaming match. Hamilton didn’t just know he was an asshole; he wore the title like a well-fitted leather jacket. It was armor. It was a weapon. Most importantly, it was a convenient excuse for the gnawing, hollow feeling that had taken up permanent residence in his gut.
Before he’d even managed to walk across the stage and collect his high school diploma, a flimsy symbol of an education he’d barely paid attention to, he had carved a path of casual destruction. Two girls. Two pregnancies. The first was Jessica, a sweet, mousy thing from his sophomore math class who had looked at him with such wide, trusting eyes. He’d taken her in the back of his father’s BMW after a football game, a clumsy, hurried affair fueled by cheap beer and his own frantic need to feel something other than the electric pull he felt toward the quarterback in the locker room showers. When she’d tearfully told him she was pregnant, his first reaction wasn’t panic or regret, but a cold, detached annoyance. He’d told her to handle it, his voice flat and devoid of empathy. He gave her three hundred dollars he taken from his father’s ‘hidden’ stash of emergency cash. She had. The last he saw, she’d transferred to a school on the other side of the state.
The second was Mackenzie, a fiery redhead who thought she could tame him. She was wrong. He’d fucked her against the wall of a frat house during a summer party, a brutal, possessive act meant to erase the memory of a boy’s hands on his hips the week before. When the news came, he was even more dismissive. "Not my problem, you said you were on the pill." he’d texted her, before blocking her number. He wasn’t going to be a father to the child of a slut, after all. That was the line he fed himself, the justification that let him sleep at night. He was just a kid, he told himself, and they were just sluts. All those girls who’d spread their legs for him were. It was a simple, ugly equation that balanced his books.
The truth, of course, was that he was trying to prove something. To whom, he wasn’t entirely sure. Certainly not to God; He knew the truth, but maybe to his parents, maybe most of all to the terrified boy who lived inside his skin. He was trying to prove he wasn’t gay. Every thrust into a girl’s warm, willing body was a denial, a frantic, sweaty prayer. Please let this work. Please let me be normal. But it never did. The release was fleeting, the satisfaction nonexistent, leaving behind only the bitter taste of ash and the persistent, undeniable fact of his own desire. He hadn’t realized yet that this desire he tried to keep hidden inside was normal for him.
The turning point, if one could call it that, came during senior year. He’d crashed a party on the local college campus; he was drunk enough to be loose-lipped but not so drunk he couldn’t remember. He’d ended up in a dark bedroom with a guy named Leo, a lanky art student with eyes the color of sea glass. It wasn’t planned; it just happened. One moment they were talking, the next their hands were on each other. It was the first time Hamilton had felt a genuine, unforced spark of attraction, a current that ran straight from his groin to his heart. It terrified him.
But a secret like Hamilton’s, especially one attached to a dick that was slightly thick and almost eight inches long, doesn’t stay secret for long in the hormone-fueled echo chamber of high school. Leo, it turned out, had a big mouth. Within a week, the whispers started. Then the texts. Then the direct messages on social media, complete with a few discreetly sent dick pics from guys he’d never spoken to, asking if the rumors were true.
To his surprise, the world didn’t end. In fact, for Hamilton, it began. The gay population of his high school, and a few curious "straight" boys, discovered that his reputation as an asshole was far less interesting than his physical attributes. He had no problems lining up sexual encounters. The anonymity was a relief. The impossibility of pregnancy was an added bonus. He could finally act on the impulse that had been driving him for years without the messy, terrifying consequence of fatherhood.
He developed a routine. He’d find a guy, usually someone a little younger or a little more desperate than him, and he’d fuck them. Hard. In his car, in their parents’ basement, once in the equipment shed behind the football field. He never kissed them on the mouth. He never stayed the night. He never, ever let them think it meant anything.
If any of the guys he fucked had any hopes of a relationship with him, he would squash that idea in a heartbeat. He remembered one boy, a sophomore named Mark who had gotten that look in his eyes after, the one that spoke of sleepovers and hand-holding and meeting the parents. Hamilton had been pulling his jeans on, his back to the boy, when Mark had whispered, "So… maybe we could do this again? Like, for real?"
Hamilton had turned, his face a mask of cold disdain. "Do what again?" he’d asked, his voice dripping with condescension.
"You know. This. Us."
Hamilton let out a short, harsh laugh. "There is no 'us,' kid. You were a convenient hole. That’s it." He saw the boy’s face crumple, the hope draining away to be replaced by a raw, wounded humiliation. It should have made him feel something—guilt, shame, anything. All he felt was a grim sense of satisfaction. The armor was holding. You’re just a pussy with a dick next to it, he told more than one guy, the words a poison he administered to others just to keep from swallowing it himself.
His parents, meanwhile, had watched his descent into obnoxiousness with a mixture of horror and helplessness. They were good people, decent people, who pretended to have no idea how they had spawned such a monster. His father, a man who believed in hard work and quiet dignity, but had given Hamilton anything he’d wanted, couldn’t stand his son’s arrogant behavior. His mother, a woman who had once dreamed of a warm, loving family, now flinched whenever Hamilton entered a room. The final straw had been the day his father found a used condom wrapper in the pocket of his son’s jeans while doing laundry. He hadn’t yelled. He had just looked at Hamilton, his face a mask of profound disappointment, and said, "We can’t do this anymore. We can’t have you here."
The solution was money. It was their solution for everything. They found a medium-sized, private liberal arts college five hours from home, a place with a decent reputation and a student body large enough for Hamilton to get lost in. They paid the deposit, filled out the financial aid forms, and packed his bags with an urgency that bordered on relief. They were shipping him off, exiling him. And Hamilton, for all his bluster, was secretly terrified.
So Hamilton began his freshman year of college as a handsome, five-eleven, moderately muscular 18-year-old with a bigger-than-average dick and the attitude that any man he met would want to take his dick up the ass. He swaggered onto campus on move-in day, his sunglasses perched on his nose, a smirk playing on his lips. He sized up every guy he saw, a predatory gleam in his eyes. The lanky guy struggling with a mini-fridge? Potential. The jock-type helping his mom with a TV? Definitely potential. The shy, bookish boy in the oversized band t-shirt? Easy prey.
His cocky attitude got him noticed. The sex talk during orientation reinforced the idea that college was for experimentation. But with any experiment, safety was a concern. Condoms were free for the asking at the Student Union. He took a bag of them with him after the meeting along with the free foil packets of lube. And as he pushed the sack into his backpack, he gave a quick smile to the shy student who seemed reluctant to take a bag of rubbers.
“I’m not sure about this,” the young man with short, straight brown hair said.
Hamilton saw an opening. “You can always use them when you jack off. It keeps things from getting messy.” He paused and waited for a response. He could tell the guy was thinking. “If my roommate were gone, we could go back to my room, and I’d show you how.” He smiled as if he were only trying to be helpful.
“I don’t have a roommate.”
“I’m Hamilton.” A student with no roommate, a place to fuck without the worry of discovery or the tight confines of a back seat.
“I’m Todd.”
“Nice to meet you, Todd. My first friend in this place that’s so far from home.”
“Yeah,” agreed Todd. “It’s a little scary.”
“Why don’t I walk with you back to your room. We can get to know one another better. Maybe have some fun.”
Todd smiled and nodded. “OK.”
Hamilton grabbed another bag of condoms. Hook, line, and sinker, he thought. Oh, I bet his ass is cherry and tight.
The walk to Todd’s dorm was short, the silence between them filled with the rustle of leaves on the pavement and the distant thump of a bass line from another building. Todd’s room was on the third floor. It was exactly as Hamilton had hoped: a single bed, a neatly made desk, and no sign of another personality cluttering the space. It was a clean slate, perfect for defiling.
Todd fumbled with the key, his nervousness a palpable thing. Hamilton stepped in close behind him as the door swung open, his hand resting on the small of Todd’s back, guiding him inside before kicking the door shut. The click of the latch was loud in the quiet room.
“Cozy,” Hamilton said, his voice a low murmur. He dropped his backpack onto the floor, the bag of condoms making a soft crinkling sound.
Todd just stood there, looking unsure. “So… uh… what did you want to show me?”
Hamilton closed the distance between them, moving with a practiced ease. He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he cupped Todd’s jaw in his hand, his thumb stroking the smooth skin. He saw Todd’s eyes widen, a flicker of panic and curiosity warring there. Before he could protest or ask another question, Hamilton leaned in and pressed his lips to Todd’s.
The kiss was gentle at first, a soft exploration, but Hamilton deepened it, his tongue tracing the seam of Todd’s lips until, with a sigh, the younger man parted them. It was a surrender. Hamilton’s other hand slid around Todd’s waist, pulling him flush against his body as he kissed him thoroughly, tasting the innocence he was about to consume.
His hands began to roam, sliding under the hem of Todd’s t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. Todd shivered, a soft moan lost in their kiss. Hamilton’s fingers mapped the curve of his spine, the dip of his waist, before moving around to his stomach and then lower, palming the growing hardness in Todd’s jeans. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Todd’s, both of them breathing heavily.
“See?” Hamilton whispered. “No mess.”
He sank to his knees, looking up at Todd’s dazed expression. He made quick work of the button and fly on Todd’s jeans, pulling them down along with his boxers. Todd’s cock sprang free, hard and leaking. Hamilton wrapped a hand around the base, stroking him slowly a few times before leaning forward and taking him into his mouth.
Todd gasped, his hands flying to Hamilton’s shoulders to steady himself. Hamilton was methodical, using his tongue and lips to bring Todd to the edge of pleasure, his hands kneading the firm globes of his ass, pulling him closer. He could feel Todd’s knees start to buckle. He pulled off, stroking him with his hand as he looked up. “Let’s move to the bed.”
He guided a pliant Todd to the mattress, laying him down on his back. Hamilton quickly stripped off his own clothes, his own erection jutting out, thick and demanding. He grabbed the bag from his backpack, tearing open a condom and a packet of lube. He rolled the latex on with practiced speed and slicked himself up generously.
“On your hands and knees,” Hamilton instructed, his voice firm but not unkind.
Todd obeyed, turning over and presenting himself. Hamilton knelt behind him, positioning his cock at the tight, puckered entrance. He pushed in slowly, watching as Todd’s body tensed and then gave way. He heard a sharp intake of breath, a pained groan. He paused, letting Todd adjust, before sinking in the rest of the way.
“Relax,” Hamilton soothed, his hands gripping Todd’s hips. “Just feel it.”
He began to move, his strokes starting slow and deep. The room was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing and the slap of skin on skin. He fucked Todd in a steady rhythm, watching his own cock disappear into the virgin hole. After a few minutes, he pulled out. “Turn over. I want to see your face.”
Todd flipped onto his back, his legs automatically falling open. Hamilton entered him again, this time watching Todd’s face as he began to thrust. He saw the initial pain melt away, replaced by a confused pleasure. Hamilton leaned forward, changing the angle, and Todd cried out, his back arching.
“Ride me,” Hamilton commanded, lying back on the bed.
Todd hesitantly straddled him, sinking down onto Hamilton’s cock. He was awkward at first, but Hamilton guided his hips, showing him how to move. Soon, Todd was bouncing on him, his own cock slapping against his stomach, his head thrown back in ecstasy.
Finally, Hamilton wanted control again. He gripped Todd’s hips and rolled them, putting Todd back on his back without ever pulling out. He hooked Todd’s legs over his shoulders and drove into him, hard and fast. This was the position he’d been waiting for. He could see every flicker of emotion on Todd’s face, the shock, the pleasure, the overwhelming sensation. He pounded into him, chasing his own release, and when it came, it was a powerful, shuddering climax deep inside the condom.
He stayed there for a moment, catching his breath, before slowly pulling out. He disposed of the condom in the small trash can by the desk. Todd lay on the bed, looking wrecked and blissed out, his chest heaving.
Hamilton lay down beside him, propping his head up on his hand. He leaned in and gave Todd a soft, lingering kiss on the lips, a rare gesture for him, but the perfect capstone for the deception.
“That was amazing,” Hamilton said, his voice full of manufactured warmth. “I can’t wait until we get together again.”
Hamilton never visited Todd’s room again. When Todd approached him a few weeks later outside the library, Hamilton pretended not to recognize him. As much as he enjoyed the privacy offered by Todd’s single dorm room, he didn’t want the entanglements that a second session with Todd might produce.
“You’re a real jerk,” said Todd, fighting to keep the emotional lump in his throat down where it belonged.
“I’m actually a fucking asshole,” said Hamilton. “Expect very little from me and you won’t be disappointed.” He smirked and waited for Todd to walk away.
Since his encounter with Todd, Hamilton’s eyes searched for opportunities as he attended class and learned the layout of the campus. He discovered the campus gym, the shared laundry rooms in the dorms, the dark corners of off-campus house parties. He had always been the master of the quick, anonymous fuck. And that hadn’t changed. He’d find his target, flash a confident smile, and say something just arrogant enough to pique their interest. "You look like you know what you’re doing," or "I bet you’re a lot of fun." It was a line he used on everyone, and it almost always worked. He’d lead them away, use them, and leave them without a second glance.
But it won him few friends. His roommate, a quiet, studious boy named Ethan from a small farming town, tried to be friendly at first. "Hey, man, I’m Ethan. Where you from?"
Hamilton, who was busy flexing in the mirror, barely glanced at him. "I’m here to fuck, not make friends. Keep your shit on your side of the room."
Ethan, to his credit, just nodded slowly, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. He quickly learned to be invisible when Hamilton was around, a ghost in his own dorm room.
The other guys on his floor learned the same lesson. They’d invite him to play video games or grab a pizza. "I don’t do pizza with virgins," he’d say, or something equally cutting. He built a wall around himself, brick by cruel brick, and then wondered why he felt so alone.
The nights were the worst. After the thrill of the conquest had faded, after he’d wiped himself clean and sent some nameless guy on his way, the silence would rush back in. His dorm room, cold and impersonal, would feel like a tomb. Ethan would be asleep, his breathing a soft, rhythmic reminder of a normalcy Hamilton couldn’t touch. He’d lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of a touch still lingering on his skin. The satisfaction was gone, replaced by a hollow ache that no amount of sex could ever fill. He was a king in an empty kingdom, the sole ruler of a wasteland of his own making.
He told himself he was winning. He was the one in control. He was taking what he wanted, when he wanted it, and leaving the emotional wreckage for someone else to clean up. He’d scroll through his phone, looking at the faces of the guys he’d fucked, and feel nothing but a detached sense of accomplishment. He had them all. The soccer player, the theater nerd, the stoner who lived down the hall. They had all wanted him. They had all been a testament to his power, his desirability. It was a metric he could understand, a scoreboard he could actually win.
One Tuesday afternoon, he was killing time in the campus coffee shop, nursing a black coffee and scrolling aimlessly through his feed when a shadow fell over his table. He looked up, annoyed at the intrusion, and his eyes landed on a guy standing by the counter. He was maybe an inch taller than Hamilton, with a lean, swimmer’s build that was obvious even under a simple gray t-shirt and worn jeans. He had dark, curly hair that fell across his forehead and a pair of glasses perched on his nose, giving him a look of serious, intelligent focus. He was talking to the barista, laughing at something she said, and the sound of it was warm and genuine, completely alien to the cynical world Hamilton inhabited.
Hamilton felt a familiar, unwelcome twitch of interest. This one was different. He didn’t have the desperate, hungry look of the guys Hamilton usually targeted. He seemed comfortable in his own skin, confident in a way that had nothing to do with arrogance. It was the confidence of someone who knew who he was and didn’t need anyone else’s validation.
The guy got his coffee, a complicated-looking latte with extra foam, and turned to find a seat. His eyes swept the room, and for a fraction of a second, they met Hamilton’s. There was no flash of recognition, no flicker of desire, just a brief, neutral glance before he moved on, settling into a worn armchair in the corner and pulling a thick textbook from his bag.
The dismissal was like a splash of cold water. No one dismissed Hamilton. No one looked at him and just… looked away. It was a violation of the natural order as he understood it. He felt a prickle of irritation, hot and sharp. He finished his coffee, stood up, and walked out of the shop without a backward glance, his jaw tight. He didn't know the guy's name, but he already hated him.
A few days later, he saw him again. This time it was in the library, a place Hamilton rarely ventured unless he was looking for a quiet corner to jerk off. The guy was at a carrel, hunched over a laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration. Hamilton walked past slowly, his steps deliberate, projecting an aura of casual cool. He expected the guy to look up, to notice him, to offer one of those deferential glances he was so used to. But nothing. The guy didn’t even flinch. He was completely absorbed in his work.
Hamilton’s irritation hardened into resentment. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? He was just another piece of ass waiting to happen, and he was too stupid to even know it. Hamilton decided then and there that he would have him. It wasn't about desire anymore; it was about principle. He would break that quiet confidence, wipe that serene look off his face, and make him just another notch on the bedpost. He would remind him of his place.
He started his campaign subtly. He’d "accidentally" run into him near the student union, making sure to brush against him just a little too closely. He’d take the treadmill next to him at the gym, grunting and sweating with exaggerated intensity, trying to draw his eye. He’d sit a few tables away from him in the dining hall, laughing loudly with a group of guys who hung on his every word, his performance designed for an audience of one.
The guy, whose name Hamilton eventually overheard was Liam, remained oblivious. Or maybe he was just ignoring him. Either way, it was infuriating. Hamilton’s usual methods weren't working. Liam wasn't desperate. He wasn't impressed. He seemed to exist in a different dimension, one where Hamilton’s raw, animal magnetism was just background noise.
The breaking point came a week later. Hamilton was leaving the gym, feeling pumped and aggressive after a particularly intense workout. He saw Liam walking ahead of him, heading toward the dorms. This was his chance. He sped up, closing the distance between them.
"Hey," he said, his voice a low, confident rumble.
Liam stopped and turned, a polite but slightly puzzled look on his face. "Hi?"
Hamilton stepped closer, invading his personal space, letting his presence wash over the other boy. He could see Liam’s eyes flicker, taking him in, the broad shoulders, the tight t-shirt, the smug look on his face. He saw a flicker of something, not fear, but… caution.
"I've seen you around," Hamilton said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He let his eyes drift down Liam's body and back up, a gesture so practiced it was almost reflexive. "You're pretty cute."
Liam blinked. He adjusted his glasses, a small, nervous gesture. "Uh, thanks?" He took a half-step back, a clear signal that Hamilton chose to ignore.
"I'm Hamilton," he said, sticking out a hand.
Liam hesitated for a moment before taking it. His grip was firm, his hand dry. "Liam."
"Liam," Hamilton repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth like a piece of candy. He didn't let go of Liam's hand, just held it, his thumb brushing lightly over the other boy's knuckles. He watched Liam's throat bob as he swallowed. He had him. The caution was giving way to something else, something that looked an awful lot like interest.
"So, Liam," Hamilton continued, his voice smooth as silk. "I was wondering if you'd like to come back to my place. My roommate's out." He let the invitation hang in the air, thick and unambiguous.
Liam finally pulled his hand away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He looked down at his shoes, then back up at Hamilton. There was a long silence. Hamilton was already mentally celebrating, planning the exact way he'd fuck him, the exact words he'd use to crush him afterward.
"I appreciate the offer," Liam said, his voice quiet but steady. "But I'm going to have to say no."
Hamilton stared at him, his smirk frozen in place. "What?"
"No," Liam said again, a little more firmly this time. He met Hamilton's gaze, and his eyes weren't nervous anymore. They were clear. Unflinching. "I'm not interested."
The words hit Hamilton like a physical blow. It wasn't just a rejection; it was a complete and total invalidation of everything he believed about himself. He was Hamilton Reynolds. People didn't say no to him. They didn't have the capacity.
"Why not?" Hamilton demanded, his voice losing its smooth edge, taking on a harsh, aggressive tone. "You got a boyfriend? You a prude?"
Liam just shook his head, a small, almost pitying smile touching his lips. "No, nothing like that. I'm just not interested in being another conquest for you."
The word hung in the air between them: conquest. He saw right through him. He saw the armor, the performance, the desperate, hollow need that Hamilton tried so hard to hide. And he wasn't impressed. He was repulsed.
"You don't know anything about me," Hamilton snarled, his face burning with a humiliation so sharp it was painful.
"I know enough," Liam said softly. He took another step back. "I see the way you look at guys. Like they're things you can use and throw away. That's not what I'm looking for." He turned to walk away.
"Fuck you," Hamilton called out, his voice cracking with rage. "You're just a pussy with a dick next to it anyway. I wouldn't want you."
Liam paused, but he didn't turn around. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, man," he said over his shoulder, before continuing on his way, leaving Hamilton standing alone on the path, his entire world shattered.
For the first time in his life, Hamilton Reynolds had been told no. And it wasn't just a no. It was a mirror held up to his face, forcing him to see the ugly, pathetic creature staring back. He stood there for a long time, the cool autumn air chilling him to the bone, the cocky facade crumbling away into dust, leaving behind nothing but the terrified, hollow boy he had always been.
The walk back to the dorm was a pilgrimage of shame. Each footfall on the cracked pavement was a hammer blow to the carefully constructed scaffolding of his identity. The world, which had always been his playground, now felt like a vast, cold courtroom, and every passerby a juror silently judging him. The familiar sounds of the campus, the distant shout of a frat boy, the drone of a moped, the laughter from a nearby window, were no longer a backdrop to his conquests. They were the soundtrack to a life he wasn’t a part of, a life of easy connections and genuine laughter that had always been just beyond his reach.
He reached his dorm building and pushed through the heavy glass door, the rush of warm air doing nothing to chase the chill from his bones. The climb up the three flights of stairs was a slog, his legs feeling like lead. He reached his door, Room 3B, and stood there for a long moment, his hand resting on the cold metal of the doorknob. It was a barrier. On the other side was the illusion of control he had so meticulously curated. On this side, he was just a boy who had been seen, and found wanting.
He finally turned the knob and stepped inside. The room was dark, save for the faint orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, painting the furniture in shades of gray and shadow. He didn’t bother with the light. He didn’t deserve the comfort of it. He let his backpack slide from his shoulder, the thud on the floor unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence. He moved like an old man, his body aching with a weariness that went bone-deep, and collapsed onto his bed.
The mattress groaned beneath him, a sound of protest that mirrored the scream building in his own chest. He sat rigid, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, staring at the opposing wall. Liam’s words weren’t just echoing; they were carving themselves into his psyche. “Like they're things you can use and throw away.” It wasn’t an accusation; it was a diagnosis. A terminal one. All the charm, the practiced smiles, the confident swagger, it was all just a cheap magician’s trick to distract from the fact that the box was empty. He had nothing to offer. He was a taker. A user. A void.
A strange pressure built behind his eyes, a foreign sensation he hadn’t felt in over a decade. He fought it, blinking rapidly, his jaw tight. He was Hamilton Reynolds. He didn’t do this. He didn’t break. But the pressure was immense, a dam cracking under a flood he could no longer contain. A single, scalding tear escaped, tracing a hot, humiliating path down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another, until they were a silent, relentless river.
The memory hit him then, unbidden and vicious: the smell of burnt sugar, the pristine white of his mother’s party dress, the smell of the ruined chocolate cake that he had accidentally dropped, his mother’s perfume as she left for her party, the glint of the buckle on his father’s belt. The searing pain across his back and the lesson learned: crying only makes it worse. Weakness is punished. He had built a fortress around that little boy, walling him up with bricks of arrogance and mortar of casual cruelty. But now, the walls had turned to dust, and the boy was weeping.
The soft click of the door latch was like a gunshot in the quiet room. Hamilton flinched, his head snapping up. Ethan stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light of the hallway. He took one step inside and stopped, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. Hamilton braced himself for a sarcastic comment, a sigh of annoyance, anything but what came next.
Ethan didn’t speak. He simply closed the door softly, plunging the room back into near darkness, and walked toward him. His movements were slow, deliberate, non-threatening. He didn’t go to his own bed. He came to Hamilton’s. He didn’t stand over him; he sat down on the edge, a careful distance away, the mattress dipping slightly with his weight. He just sat there, a quiet, solid presence, saying nothing, his gaze fixed on the window, giving Hamilton the illusion of privacy in his own complete breakdown.
The silence was more profound than any words could have been. It wasn’t an empty silence; it was a full one. It was a space that held Hamilton’s pain without trying to fix it or dismiss it. It was an offering. And in the face of that quiet compassion, the last of Hamilton’s control shattered. A raw, guttural sob tore from his throat, a sound so ugly and full of pain it was barely recognizable as his own. He doubled over, his face in his hands, his body shaking with the force of a decade’s worth of unshed tears.
He cried for the little boy who just wanted his mother to stay. He cried for the teenager who learned that a fleeting touch could feel like love, even when it wasn’t. He cried for the hollow man who had tried to fill the emptiness with bodies, only to find it had grown deeper with each conquest.
He cried until he was empty, until the sobs turned into ragged hitches of breath and he was left slumped, a trembling, spent mess. He slowly lifted his head, his face swollen and sticky with tears, and looked at the roommate he had treated with nothing but contempt. He expected to see pity, or worse, satisfaction. But Ethan’s eyes were clear, and in them, Hamilton saw something he had no name for. It wasn’t pity. It was… understanding.
“How?” Hamilton’s voice was a shredded whisper, raw from disuse and tears. He couldn’t manage more than that single, broken word. How can you sit here? How can you look at me? How are you not repulsed?
Ethan seemed to understand the question buried in the single syllable. He shifted, turning his body more fully toward Hamilton. He still didn’t speak, not right away. He just held Hamilton’s gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting the question hang in the air between them. The tension was a palpable thing, a tightrope stretched over a chasm. Hamilton held his breath, waiting for the fall, for the final, crushing judgment.
Then, Ethan’s gaze softened. He took a slow, deliberate breath. “I may have hated some of the things you said or did,” he began, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos in Hamilton’s head. He paused, letting the admission land. “But you haven't given me the chance to know the real you. The one underneath.” He gestured vaguely with his head toward Hamilton’s chest. “The one who's been hurting. The one who's been hiding.” He held Hamilton’s gaze, his own unwavering and sincere. “I bet once you let him out, we'll find out that we both like him.”
Epilogue
With Ethan's help and friendship, Hamilton began the long arduous road to recovery. He began seeing a counselor and building true relationships with others. After graduating from college, he entered a graduate program to become a counselor; he found a true sense of worth in giving to others. He's working on a successful relationship with Ethan's cousin Bradley.
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