I can see you.

You're halfway down the university hallway with her. She's leaning against the wall with her hands fisted in your tight-fitting shirt, her lips surrounding yours grotesquely. Her right thigh (barely covered by a tiny denim skirt) rises, and brushes against your groin. Your eyes quickly dart towards the other end of the hall. I see you tense briefly and a frown flitters across my brow until you grin and lean into her leg.

My frown is replaced by a look of disgust. Your hands are above her head on the wall, bracing your body as she attempts to pull you in further. Her chest puffs out and I see her lopsided breasts press against your flat chest. Her hands unwind themselves from your shirt, leaving it wrinkled and messy, and grasp your hips. A moment passes before she jerks your groin violently to hers. It's plain to see that you're slightly excited by what she is doing, as your eyes anxiously flicker down the hall. Still, your hands remain braced above her.

I'm glad to see this. I don't want you touching her.

She doesn't deserve your strong hands. She doesn't deserve your soft kisses and affectionate hugs. She doesn't deserve to see you blush and hide behind your soft hair when something embarrasses you. She doesn't deserve to recognize when you find something perplexing; to see your brows knit together and the soft, pink flesh of your tongue snake out and wet the corners of your lips in frustration.

She doesn't deserve you, Josh. But I do.

You're doing it now; the frustration thing. I find this interesting until I see the arousal beneath your low-hanging boardshorts. I see a sly smile creep over her face as you and she both look around to see if anyone is watching. Her eyes towards me, and your eyes in the opposite direction again. I can see the side of your face. Of course, it seems like no-one can see the two of you, despite this being a public hallway. But at two o'clock in the morning, I'm the only one nosy enough to be watching, and hiding, in fascination. Oh, I'm sure if either of you looked hard enough, instead of being so focused on getting yourselves off, you'd be able to see me in the reflection of the trophy cabinet not far from where you're standing.

But I can't blame you for wanting sexual gratification. It's only natural. Everyone needs it. If only you were to realize that it could be so much better for you, if you were with me. I would show you pleasure that you've never known before. Pleasure that only a man can show another man. I'm sure you've never known what it's like to press your own hard body against that of another. It's bliss, I assure you. And were you to try it, whether with me or another male, I'm sure you wouldn't go back. I'm sure. I don't understand what you see in her, anyway. Chubby legs, never-ending freckles, crooked teeth. Yet still you allow her the privilege of touching you in the most intimate of ways. You allow her slimy tongue inside of your mouth. We've been roommates for over seven months now, and in that time you haven't had a girlfriend. Then, out of nowhere, you don't show up for our regular Thursday "Beer & Pizza" Night. No call, no nothing.

And I waited. I waited for you, Josh. Eight fucking hours I waited. Only to hear noises in the otherwise-quiet hallway. And there you are. With her.

I wonder if you know her name. I don't. Nor do I care to.

Wait. Someone is coming out of their room. Someone else must have heard you. I see your back stiffen and your head snap towards the sound of the opening door. I needn't worry about my hiding place. I know I'm not visible. You attempt to pull away from her, but she reclaims her grip on your shirt and yanks you closer. You mumble something quietly and she reluctantly releases her hold. Just in time, too. A guy emerges, sleep ridden, from his room and, with barely a glance in your direction, heads towards the main kitchen on this floor. You're safe. Figures.

The sly look reappears on her face as she trails her fingers down your chest, stopping at the top of your shorts. I know what she's going to do. I want to break her fingers. You seem oblivious, still cautiously staring down the hall, your eyes unmoving. I scowl as her fingertips dip beneath the soft material. There they sit; caught between the waistband and your skin. She crudely licks her lips in an attempt to be seductive (an attempt that appears to go unnoticed by you), before shoving her hand right down. From the slight yelp that you emitted, and the sharp turning of your head towards her, I can see that you weren't expecting it. I know that she's taken a hold of you; is stroking you. It kills me to see her hand moving in that rhythmic motion beneath your shorts. She shouldn't have the right to do that. A faint grin appears on your face before, once again, you turn your head and look down the hallway.

I focus on your breathing. Does she excite you? Are you enjoying this? Your breathing speeds up slightly, as her hand works harder. I see your eyes flutter shut briefly, before they're snapped open again, focused down the hall. Still her hand speeds up. She's watching your face intently, looking for further signs of enjoyment. You give her none; though your breathing is intensifying. I frown at this. I see your back arch into her touch and I feel like crying. I hate this. And I hate the reaction that it's having on me. I'm aroused. Not by her, or the fact that she's doing this to you.

I'm aroused by you. I'm witnessing your intimate moment. Judging by your breathing, the moment will be climaxing shortly. My eyes are trained on your body, your breathing, your reactions. I can't help but snake my own hand down my own body, as much as I despise myself for it. I know that this is the closest I will ever come to this level of intimacy with you. I need this. After seven months of pining and lusting and loving you, I need this. I know I would never get it from you in any other situation. Hell, you don't even know I'm gay. Surely, if you did, we wouldn't still be sharing the same room. We wouldn't have our Thursday nights. And I wouldn't have this moment.

My hand comes into contact with heated flesh and I squeeze my eyes shut, mouth agape at the sensations I'm feeling, because of you. I have to muffle a growl at the immediate response my body takes. My eyes open towards you as my own breathing increases, and a long, low moan escapes from your lips. I'm slightly puzzled to see that you are still watching for people coming down the hall, until I remember the guy that went into the kitchen and was yet to come back. My eyes skim over your back (my favorite part of your body) and I see the light muscles rippling beneath your shirt with tension. I can see the muscles and veins in your forearm flexing from being braced against the wall. Your breathing comes heavier still, and I hold mine a moment to become in sync with yours. This is our moment.

It won't last much longer. My heart races with exertion as my hand continues it's now-erratic pace and I lick my lips slowly in expectation of what is to come. Another long moan from you, louder this time and I know that in a matter of seconds, you'll release. My eyes stay focused on you, taking in every movement, every breath, everything.

This is the moment. I struggle to keep my eyes trained on you as my knees falter and my body quakes, along with yours. We're releasing as one. My eyes flutter shut of their own accord before I force them open and they land on the trophy cabinet down the hall. They flick briefly to you, before snapping back. My breath catches in my throat and all pleasure ceases.

I'm looking into your eyes. You're looking into a reflection of mine.

The trophy cabinet.

I freeze. I don't know what to do. I can't think or move or feel. I just see your eyes boring into mine, via the cabinet. You've seen me. You knew I was there. I don't know when you realized, but you never indicated that you knew. I can't breathe. You remain still, ignoring the questions from the girl in front of you.

In a moment, my senses come flooding back. A sob escapes my lips as I spin around, and flee for our room. I hear faint footsteps behind me, but with so much blood pounding in my head, they could be right on my heel for all I know. I make it to our bedroom and race into the adjoining bathroom, sobs catching in my throat as I realize the severity of the situation. I'm utterly terrified.

I slam the bathroom door shut behind me, fumbling for the lock that I know broke off four months ago. You were drunk, completely wasted, and you'd locked yourself in here somehow. I couldn't get you out, and the faculty here didn't care at 3.30 in the morning. I had instructed you to break it off with the shaving cream can. And now, the lock that I had told you to break was breaking me.

I stumble into the corner and hide my head in my arms, knowing that any second now, you're going to burst through the door, yelling and screaming about how much of a pervert I am. Sobs wrack my body as various scenarios flash through my mind, each more painful than the last.

Everything ceases when I hear the creaking of the hinges on the bathroom door. I don't move. I don't breath. I don't exist. The thought flies through my head and I desperately wish it were true. But as I feel your body heat kneeling close by, I know it's not true. I am here, and you are too. You know what I've done.

You clear your throat as a sign that you want me to look at you. But I can't. I'm so ashamed and hateful of myself. After all this time, how could I slip up so terribly? I'm absolutely petrified that I'll see nothing but hate in your eyes. Or even worse, pity. I can't look at you. I can't –

Your hand reaches under my chin, applying gentle pressure that I refuse. My sobs have stopped now, and in their place is uncontrollable shaking. Your pressure increases, and still I ignore it, until the pressure turns rough and I can no longer stop my head from being raised. My eyes lift slowly, catching on your groin briefly, poignantly displaying the wet spot there even though I can see that you're trying to hide it. Eventually, my eyes reach yours.

I don't see hate. I don't see pity. I don't see malice, or disgust, or hurt.

I see… kindness. Understanding. But surely, you're acting? Trying to make me believe that you're fine with everything, until your chance comes to humiliate and degrade me?

Your breath ghosts across my face, still somewhat heavy from running, smelling faintly of cigarettes and woman. I see your throat tighten as you swallow; lips parting a little from the effort. I look at you through watery eyes as your face comes closer. Your head turns slowly, and your lips come close to my ear.

"Thank you, Mitchell."

I frown in confusion at your whispered words as your eyes come back to meet mine. Before I can realize what's happening, your lips are pressed against my own in the softest kiss that I have ever experienced. Again, my breathing ceases as my mind fights to process what's happening. My lips are the first to respond; frantic and eager. My arms wind around your neck and yours around mine.

Of course, we can never be together. We both know that.

But for now this – this - is enough.

A/N – If you read Inevitably, I'd highly suggest taking a look at my updated profile.