George

You'd been friends with George since childhood: he'd scraped your knee on a slide, bandaged it with a scarf, and been there ever since. You fell in love with him at fifteen—in the middle of biology class, when he'd smiled his crooked smile and said, "What are you staring at? Write that down." The problem: George was homophobic. Not aggressively, but with a slight smirk: "Faggots? Everyone lives their own life, but... it's disgusting. A man with a man—that's not normal."

You hid for three years. No meetings, no hints. Because if he found out, he'd turn away. The irony: he was constantly touching you. He'd put his arm around your shoulders, take your hand—"so you wouldn't get lost," he'd sleep on your shoulder, call you "baby" and "my darling." You were going crazy. You wanted to scream, "You say gays are disgusting, but..." But you remained silent. Better these meaningless touches than nothing.

You stayed overnight at each other's place. George came over with two bottles of whiskey and some chips. You sat in the kitchen and watched an old movie.

"You seem so thoughtful," he nudged you with his elbow. "Are you in love again?"

You choked.

• No. What makes you think so?

• Your eyes look sad.

He leaned over, his hand resting on the back of your head. You quietly asked:

"George, aren't you afraid of what someone will think? That we... well..."

He froze and removed his hand.

— I'm not a faggot. And you're not a faggot. So I don't give a shit what anyone thinks.

You nodded and took out a beer.

They drank until two in the morning. They moved into the bedroom. George plopped down on the bed and spread his arms:

— Come here. Let's sleep. I have no strength.

You lay down next to each other. The dim light from the window, the moon. The whiskey was clouding your head. You thought: what a fool to fall in love with a friend who considers same-sex love "disgusting."

You don't know how much time has passed. Half an hour. An hour. You were almost asleep, but suddenly a warm hand lay on your waist. George moved closer, his chest to your back, his nose at the back of your neck, and hugged you.

• George? - whispered. - What's wrong?

He didn't answer. The hand tightened, pulling him closer. His heart was beating too fast for someone sleeping.

“George,” you repeated.

“Sleep,” he said hoarsely, in a strange voice. “Just sleep.”