This was so stupid. Staas knew that. It had been fourteen years ago. He was okay with it. It had happened and it was life and it was unfair and it wasn't his fault. But he could never forget how scared and nervous Carey had looked that day, how hopeful that expression had become when Staas had supported him. How happy he'd looked after they'd kissed.
Staas had tried. God, how he'd tried. He'd been young and optimistic, and he was a teenager, he could get off to just about anything. So their experiments hadn't gone completely awry. But eventually he'd had to face facts. As much as he loved his friend, and as much as he'd tried to get excited at the thought of the next step, he just hadn't been. He liked sex with girls, not with guys, no matter how much he loved Carey.
Their friendship had been strained for a while, but it never broke, and eventually they'd gotten back on an even keel. But Staas had known. He'd seen the occasional glances his way, the smiles meant to cover hurt, the careful way Carey touched. Like he'd been going to break if Staas had touched him too much. Staas had made sure that hadn't lasted long. He'd blasted through that with hugs and cuddles and casual hands on arms and shoulders. But the rest of it . . . Those things had lingered, becoming rarer but still present, up until Carey had died.
Staas burrowed into Ira, knowing how ridiculous this was. But it felt so good to be held and comforted, even if he shouldn't be this grief-stricken. He tried to control himself, tried not to just weep like a baby, but it was so hard. Carey had loved him and Staas had loved Carey, but not enough, and now Carey was gone. And his mama was gone and the kids didn't have a grandmother or mothers or anything but him and it wasn't fair.
He breathed every time Ira told him to, and after a few minutes he calmed down enough to stifle the tears. He stayed where he was for another minute, just breathing in Ira's presence and slowing his heart rate and trying to figure out how to make this better.
When he finally pulled away, he covered his hand with the sleeve of his hoodie and wiped at his eyes and cheeks, muttering a weak, "Sorry." He gave a hollow little laugh and added, "Wow. Didn't mean to freak out on you, dude." He got up then and moved to the kitchen sink, where he ran some water over his hands and scrubbed over his eyes. He turned the water off and leaned heavily against the counter, the edge pressing sharply into his palms.
It felt good.
He was pretty sure he'd be getting a new tattoo soon.