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Conner wants to be understood.
He says that to everyone who keeps asking why he doesn’t have a girlfriend, or a fiancée he’ll be engaged to for three years before breaking up, or even a secret famous crush whom he spends too much time not-so-subtly glancing at during award shows. It’s a question he’s been getting way too often recently, and to be honest, it still catches him off-guard every time someone asks. Because he never thinks about it, ever, unless he’s reminded of it. But it’s true—most girls he was with didn’t really understand him, and he does want to be understood. At least when it’s convenient.
Tonight, it isn’t.
He’s smoking weed on the floor of his bedroom. It’s warm thanks to the newly installed floor heating, and a small part of Conner wants to build a cave out of blankets there and sleep in it, like he used to do when he was a kid. He’d share it with Owen and Lawrence and they’d read comics in the dark using flashlights and make funny voices and giggle until they couldn’t breathe.
That’d be funny if we did that now, Conner thinks, and takes a drag of his joint. The smoke fills the room. When the high washes over him, he tells himself that this is better.
He’s lying to himself.
If he had a girlfriend, he could do all these things with her, Conner considers briefly and bitterly. Not like he couldn’t have had a girlfriend—he could have one, if he just found a girl who cared about him enough. But Lawrence, who’d never been afraid to say rude shit like that to his face—or to anyone’s, for that matter—had said:
You can have anything you want, Conner. You just don’t want it.
It was such a stupid thing to say that it’d filled Conner with bone-deep rage. It’d hit him in a place where it really hurts, a kick into his metaphorical nuts. Probably because it’d just been so—so dumb. Conner did really want a girlfriend. It was just not—he just wasn’t—there was always something off about the girls he was with, and he couldn’t just settle for any girl, right?
She’d have to be perfect: pretty and sexy and funny and nice all at once, but not prettier, sexier, funnier or nicer than Conner. He wouldn’t be able to take being compared to his girlfriend. She couldn’t be too famous, either; maybe she could star in a TV show that never really took off or one that had a brief hype before fading into obscurity, or maybe she’d be a reality TV star or something.
(The fear Conner has of ending up on some Survivor-type show is terrifying in and of itself. But watching other people fail being a normal person on TV makes him feel better about himself for a moment. Sure, it’s probably a sign he’s an asshole, but at least he’s not on everyone’s screens trying to prove how much of a dickhead he is.)
Conner sighs painfully when his phone buzzes. Jay, his eyebrow stylist, has posted a selfie of his girlfriend kissing him on the cheek. It’s fucking annoying to have to hear about his crew’s relationships sometimes, but he’s not required to like and/or comment anyway, right? Whatever, if he is, someone will remind him tomorrow morning, and he’ll throw some pre-written shit from his Notes app out there. No one cares anyway.
He checks the time—it’s past midnight. Just as he takes his phone out of his pocket to send some girl a frisky text, something like hey cutie, u still up? or whatever, anything to stop thinking about how weird it feels that nobody’s in the room with him—just as he’s doing that, he hears a knock on the door.
His heart pounds suddenly, and he hopes it’s Owen, maybe. Owen from five years ago would be pretty neat, when he was still holding back on his egoism and wasn’t suddenly requesting Lawrence be part of the whole famous pop-star thing. Or a hot ex-girlfriend who wants to get back with him. Or someone with a better joint, because this one is awful—his weed roller usually puts some other stuff in there as well, but he isn’t working today and Conner’s not really up for calling anybody else. He’s not up for calling anybody. Talking sounds annoying as shit right now, but at the same time, the air is way too silent for his liking.
The door opens, and immediately, a wave disappointment washes over him. Of course it’s Sponge. Of course. The most boring guy who works for him. The only thing that guy can do is half-ass fixing things and talk in a semi-accurate British accent.
“Conner!” Sponge exclaims, like he didn’t expect to find him in his own room. “There you are. We’ve been partying, why are you here on your own? Everyone’s worried about you.” He’s talking like they weren’t just partying without Conner for, like, two hours. Doesn’t sound like they care. But okay.
“I’m busy,” Conner says, “can’t you see that?”
Sponge immediately apologizes—“Right, right, sorry. No, yeah, I could see that, I—I’m sorry”—and hesitantly points at the floor next to Conner. “…You want me to sit down?”
Usually, in any other situation, Conner would say no. He’d even like to say no right now. But it feels as though he’s going to die if he spends one more second on his own. And, wow, that’s probably not a sign he’s doing okay, but a lot of legendary musicians before him felt like dying, too, so he’s probably on the right path somehow. So even though Sponge is the most uninteresting person on the entire planet, he nods, and like a lab rat trained to do whatever is being asked of him, Sponge sits down on the floor. Weirdly, he sits down in a cross-legged position, and it doesn’t look comfortable at all; Conner assumes it has something to do with the whole bisexual thing.
It’s got self-fulfilling prophecy vibes that that’s what he’s thinking about when he’s trying to find a conversation topic.
“You’re bisexual,” Conner says, and Sponge blinks in confusion.
“Um, yeah, I am,” he responds.
There’s a pause that would probably be awkward if Conner cared enough, except he doesn’t care all that much. But the fact that he even notices means that the weed is doing its job at least somewhat sufficiently. Sponge looks torn between staring at the floor and making eye contact with him, and it does feel a bit strange, now that he thinks about it.
He chooses not to.
“…What’s that even mean?”
Sponge runs a hand through his weird hair and laughs hesitantly. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I…I just wanna know,” Conner replies, which is a pretty good reason, and it should cause Sponge to finally spill the beans about the one semi-intriguing character trait he possesses. But he can tell that Sponge currently has one of those buffering symbols spinning around inside his head.
“I mean…alright. It just means I like guys and girls. Basically.”
Huh.
Conner didn’t really know that was a thing. Like, sure, people feel that way, probably, which is totally cool with him, hashtag equal rights. But that there’s a whole new word for it…
…huh.
“Huh,” he says out loud. Then, because he’s really confused and he needs to put an emphasis on how confused exactly, he adds, “Huh.”
“Everything alright?” Sponge asks him.
“…Yeah, yeah, I just…I gotta think about this…”
“Okay, okay. Definitely. Do that.”
And Conner thinks. As well as he can with all these weed-induced clouds inside his brain, anyway. It makes sense, except it also doesn’t, and then again, it really does.
“How d’you know that you’re, y’know. Bisexual?”
Sponge blinks a few times again. “Oh. Um. Well. You just—sorry, man, why do you wanna know all this shit?”
“Because!” Conner answers, and he only notices he was shouting when he sees Sponge flinch.
“Right, right, right. That totally makes sense. I wasn’t doubting you. I’d never do that.” He pauses, allowing Conner to take in the praise, which suddenly appears weirdly calculated. “So. I knew that I was bi all my life, technically. ‘Cause, well, I kinda thought everyone felt the way I do. About everyone. I’d look at all the genders and find people, like, pretty and shit like that. My stomach would just kinda drop whenever I liked someone. Y’know? But then I figured out that, uh, most people don’t feel like that. So I kinda googled a lot of stuff and then I just, well, figured it out, I guess?”
The gears inside Conner’s brain are turning rapidly.
“And, like, I kinda find a lot of people attractive. Men. Women. That one swim instructor from the public pool in Amsterdam…”
“What’s that like?”
“Huh? What’s what like? The swim instructor?”
“Finding—” Conner coughs “—finding men attractive. What—how do you even know that you…” He trails off. His eyes drop to the floor, but his entire attention is focused on the words coming out of Sponge’s mouth.
“Uh. Okay, that’s an…interesting question. I, um, I don’t think it feels very different, like, between men and women? Like, I look at the person, whatever gender they are, and I kinda go, wow. My body starts feeling fuzzy or whatever. And when they’re really hot, I go, oh my God. Right?”
Conner nods. “Right.” He feels a bit dizzy.
“And, well. As for falling in love, I don’t—I haven’t yet, I think, but I guess you know what that feels like. Butterflies in your stomach. Feeling warm and comfortable when you’re around someone. Wanting to spend the rest of your life with them. And that’s the ‘if you know, you know’ stuff. If you feel it, you just know. Like, y’know, the stuff you felt with Ashley.” Sponge suddenly freezes and covers his mouth with his hand, like he just blurted out something he wasn’t allowed to say.
The things he’s saying sound familiar, but for some reason, it doesn’t click in Conner’s head. Nothing is clicking. He just stares at Sponge, confusion visible on his face.
This time, Sponge stares at him, eyebrows furrowed. “…You alright?”
“Yes. Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” he replies immediately, avoiding eye contact. “Is it okay if I go now? We were gonna do a breakdance competition in the pool. Eddie’s definitely gonna break a bone. Wanna come with?”
Considering this, Conner shakes his head. “Um…no.”
“Okay. Okay, well, uh. Have fun being…alone! Alone time! That’s great, everyone needs that sometimes,” Sponge says, voice a bit too loud to sound genuine, and then he steps outside and closes the door.
The second he’s gone, Conner’s entire body relaxes, the tension ebbing away. He doesn’t want to have to think about this anymore; in fact, he’s a bit pissed off at himself for asking in the first place. Bisexual. Who cares about that shit? He certainly doesn’t. It’s not like he’s attracted to men. And what was that whole thing about falling in love Sponge was so obsessed with? You just pick a hot girl and go with it. Like, yeah, love happens, he’s been in love, but that’s kind of fleeting anyway.
Butterflies in your stomach—
The only person who’s been loyal to him all his life is Owen.
God, Owen. He’s a good person. Well, good enough; he’s been acting like a prick recently, but Conner’s pretty sure that’s just a mood of his and eventually he’ll go back to normal again.
Maybe they’re going to get some ice cream tomorrow. He misses doing that. Sure, he’s been busy, but he needs to—he needs to—what does he need? Comfort? No, that’s for the weak. Conner’s not weak.
—feeling warm and comfortable when you’re around someone—
Owen would say yes if he asked, that’s for sure. He’d probably smile at Conner too… Jesus fucking Christ, that smile. (Conner kicks his feet subconsciously.) His stomach flutters
—my stomach would just kinda drop—
as he stares up at the ceiling, imagining Owen’s face smiling down at him from the cracks in the paint. The best thing in the world is when Owen gets surprised by something nice because then the corners of his mouth start twitching and sometimes he’ll even giggle under his breath before allowing himself to show his smile, teeth and all, that shiny, happy, island-in-the-sun kind of smile.
It makes Conner want to do everything, say anything, to get him to smile like that forever.
And then, of course, Owen’s going to scratch the back of his neck and he’ll say yeah, sure, why not, and they’ll both be normal about it. Because that’s what they are. Normal.
As long as he doesn’t smile at anyone else like that. Conner doesn’t even know if he does—and, wow, that thought makes his guts twist—but he hopes, he really hopes that’s just for him.
Especially because
—the rest of your life—
everything he had was for someone else. Even Ashley—he remembers what he was supposed to have been feeling now—had been having sex with other people. Because he doesn’t really get to have anything, he has to share everything, even if he deserves to have it.
He likes that Owen is just for him, likes that he’s got sides to him that are Conner’s secret, even if other people know him, because they don’t actually know him; they’ll never know him like Conner does.
But, Conner thinks, the realization washing over him like ice cold water, Owen is going to get a girlfriend one day, and she will know him
(don’t think about that)
she’ll know him as well as Conner does, maybe even better
(I said don’t think about it)
and they will kiss and hold hands and have sex and
(sex. they are going to have sex. do you understand what that means? do you know why you care? it’s because you want him so bad you want him you want him you want you want want want want want)
(—stop right now, I am telling you, you know what’s going to happen if you let this exist)
he is going to smile at her like he smiles at Conner now and it’s not going to be special to her because she won’t understand and
(stop it stop it right now do you see where this is going)
nobody is going to understand him anymore, the only person who understands how he ticks is Owen
(listen to me and stop thinking about this think about Ashley think about any other girl just please stop)
and he’s never going to
(STOP)
—Conner takes another drag of his nearly burnt-down joint, and his brain immediately goes quiet again.
He’s not gay. He’s really not.
If he was gay, though, he’d date Owen without hesitation. He’d probably have slept with him already.
In a way, Conner thinks, this is better; because like this, he can’t ruin him. He can’t throw him away, can’t make him become another empty face he won’t remember. They don’t have to force anything or be together for PR reasons or break up even though it might have worked out if they’d talked about it—Owen’s favorite way of resolving issues—
if you know, you know—
because it’s always easier to walk away. Because he doesn’t have to face anything he doesn’t want to face. Owen is just his friend, and that’s so much simpler. Conner hates it when feelings get complicated, so they don’t have to be complicated, because they’re not together. They’re friends.
“Friends,” Conner mutters under his breath, as if somebody could hear him. As if anybody would want to. “Friends…friends…we’re friends…”
Maybe that annoying part of his brain, the one that won’t shut up no matter how much he wants it to, maybe at some point it’s going to understand what that means. Friends.
If you know, you know—
They’re just friends
—if you—
and that’s all they will ever be
—if you know—
and Conner is perfectly fine with that
—you know—
no matter how pretty his eyes are,
—and if you know, then—
how beautiful he looks when he’s listening to music,
—if you know, you know.
how much he wants to kiss him when nobody else is around.
…Wait, did he really just think that?!