9It's really hard when you fall head over heels for a friend. Especially when your name is Billy, and their name is James, implying that you are a) both male, and that b) this renders you as homosexual, at the least, and at the most, as bisexual. And that those implications are a little too true for comfort. Especially when the so-called James is sitting about five feet from you, completely absorbed in his Spanish book. Or, at least, absorbed enough so that he isn't noticing that you're staring at him, and not your History book.
And did we mention that you're sitting on your bed? Yes, the two of you are studying for midterms in your bedroom. And, yes, there is quite a lot of innuendo someone could take from that. And, yes, you really, really wouldn't mind if some of that innuendo were actually occurring, and not just because Alexander the Great is really dull to you.
But there he sits, totally unaware. On one level this is a really good thing, because it's be a little awkward if he knew that you'd bend over backwards for him, follow him to the ends of the earth, and pretty much break your neck just for him to remain happy. Not only awkward, but also potentially abusive. He could, with that information, make you do anything. Well, no, he doesn't need that information to make you do anything, the information would just alert him to the fact that he could make you do anything and everything. And then he might use you because he knows that, no matter what, you'd do anything for him.
Except that James isn't like that. You know he would never do that to you. And this is a good thing, even if on some semi-erotic (ok - mostly erotic) level you like the idea of being subservient to him. But it's barely something you'd want. It just appeals slightly on one level, most likely a level that'll never actually become an actuality. Which is perfectly alright, because remaining unrequited is something you can deal with.
Even if he is sitting there, managing to look unbearingly hot and chaste at the same time, only a few steps from your grasp. And if you did act on your impulses (and it would only be a slight kiss), it's not like he would cut you out of his life. He would probably blush, because even around you he acts like such a prim and proper schoolboy, and in that soft tone he uses so often tell you that he doesn't feel that way about you. And you know he'd regret that, because he'd be afraid to hurt you, but that he'd also know he couldn't fake it just to make you feel better.
And then maybe you could laugh at the absurdity of it. Because if anyone ever asked, they'd assume that, if there was anything beyond a feeling of friendship between the two of you, it came from James to you, not the other way around. Because James is a bit quiet, and sort of pretty, and doesn't make it obvious when he likes a girl. He's a prim boy from another time, made out of place by an old-fashioned mother, who managed to be old-fashioned despite having never wed but having had a kid. And this can get mistranslated, especially by some of the gossipy girls you know. Teenage girls seem to especially adore discussing which boys might be gay, and possible secret affairs between male friends.
And then there's you. You're loud, and will flirt with almost any girl in sight. It's fun, you'll admit, but it doesn't really mean a thing. Yet it seems to be enough evidence for everyone to remain convinced, whereas James doesn't even have false evidence to rely on. You are far from prim and proper, and are always encouraging James to stop behaving like someone from Victorian England. But he never does, yet he never tells you to cease your efforts. It's like a game. Sort of like flirting, you suppose. Except that you know it isn't flirting, even if you'd like it to be, and that James likes the girl who sits next to him in English, the one who is always reading the Kurt Vonnegut books when the teacher is talking.
And five feet has never seemed like such a distance to you before. He seems a million miles away, even if you are so focused on him that you can hear him breathing. And for a moment you half-wonder if maybe he knows. Maybe he does, and just doesn't want to mention it for fear that it's not true and you'll think he's odd for thinking it is, or because he doesn't want to embarrass you. And even if it would be a little easier on you if you knew that he knew, you know that it wouldn't exactly change things. You still wouldn't be able to sweep him off his feet and cart him off to bed, you still wouldn't be able to take away his breath and kiss him. You'd love to, it'd be really nice to, but it just isn't going to happen, even if he does know.
He reads Vonnegut now. You can tell because you've seen him reading them, and also because of his flagging English grade. It's slightly cute, even if it means you'll never have him. It's slightly cute, even to an 11th grade male such as yourself. But probably only because he's involved. You wouldn't remotely care if it involved the Vonnegut-reading girl and the boy who sits in front of her. Maybe if it involved her and the girl who sits behind her, but that's another deal entirely. And that'd just be hot, not really cute. Even if you are gay, two girls getting it on with one another is something you can appreciate.
You briefly wish you were the pen that he is currently chewing on, before rationality gets the better of you and you flush slightly, looking back at your History book for the first time in what must've been ten minutes. But soon enough Alexander the Great has been abandoned for an adonis that's closer to you. And, yes, you do realize how cheesy that sounded, but you don't really care either. Might as well use that English vocab you're forced to learn, otherwise you would actually realize how much of a waste of time it was to memorize it all every week.
But he still has managed to remain oblivious to your long, drawn out staring session. A make-out session would be far more enjoyable, but staring at him is perfectly fine with you. Especially considering that you'll never have a make-out session with him, but you can have all the staring sessions you want - just so long as he doesn't notice.
And now he's actually looked up. At first he looks a little shocked to see you staring, but a smile is there soon enough to erase any suprise that was there. He laughs and remarks that you're still on the same page, and you scowl and say it's not your fault that ancient history is so damn boring. And then he tells you that while it may not be your fault that the stuff is boring, it will be your fault if you flunk the midterm. So you grumble a bit and begrudgingly go back to looking at the book, and you know that for a moment or so he'll continue to look at you, as if checking for sure that you are studying. And you know exactly when he's back to looking over his Spanish book, so you can go back to looking at him unnoticed.
And, within another ten minutes, the whole process will repeat itself. And if he notices the pattern, that whenever he looks up you're always looking at him, and that not a single page has been turned in your History book, he doesn't say so. Because even if you wanna take him to bed, he's still your prim and proper friend. And he'd never be rude to you.