Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

his backpack on the bed, I blurt, "I need to talk to you."
    He turns to me with suspicion. "About?"
    "The stick that's been up your ass for the last two weeks. The whole fucking team is tired of your bitching and none of us have any idea what the hell is wrong with you." Way to be too fucking blunt, Fleury. This'll go over well. I should have thought this out better.
    "Yeah? They must've forgotten I'm not the one in this room who likes to stuff shit up his ass."
    I bite back the "fuck you" and other really nasty personal attacks. I deserve a pat on the back for this. We need to have this conversation, and I admit I started off poorly. With a shitload of effort, I manage to address him calmly.
    "How could they forget? You've been complaining about me and everything else constantly for weeks now. And I haven't even done anything for you to bitch about since you threw Wayne's ass out in January. So please tell me what the fuck I—we—did to piss you off so we can fix it and move on, because the team is sick-to-fucking-death of hearing you and ready to toss your shit out on the curb if you don't shut the fuck up."
    Heath blanches, a fearful look washing over his features. I'm sure my alarm upon seeing his echoes on my own face.
    "Heath? Jesus, what's wrong?"
    He sits down heavily on the edge of his bed, mechanically, without thought, like the way someone would sit if you've just told them a dear family member died. His cocoa brown eyes look haunted. He whispers, "Don't kick me out. You can't, Fleury. Please… you can't kick me out…"
    I get down on my knees on the floor between his legs and look up at him. He stares past me, not at me. I put my hands on either side of his head to try to get him to focus on me.
    "We're not going to kick you out. I promise. But you gotta talk to me. What's eating you? What's causing this?"
    "I can't afford to go anywhere else. I don't have anywhere else to go. I… I have to stay here." Still whispering. Still haunted. Still not processing what I'm saying.
    "Okay. You can stay. Heath, you can stay. Shhhh. It's okay."
    I wrap him in a hug, one hand soothingly stroking the light brown waves of hair. He clings to me, his arms below mine and pulling down on my shoulders. I feel like I'm soothing a small child who lived through a trauma his parents didn't. The idea of being forced to leave scares the bejeezus out of him.
    So he won't be leaving. Simple as that.
    "You gotta stop complaining about everything, though. Whatever's going on with you, it's not the team's fault, is it?" Heath shakes his head no. "Okay, so don't take it out on the team. Call me whatever the fuck you want—I can handle it—but you gotta stop being rude to the rest of the team. Can you do that?" Heath nods yes. "Good. I'm gonna go tell them we talked and no one's making you leave, okay? You stay in here and I'll come get you when it's time for practice."
    I stand up and exit the room, leaving Heath still catatonic on his bed. When I enter the living room, the guys who are there all look up at me. I tell them I spoke to Heath and smoothed things over; he'll stop being a complete shit about everything. They shrug and everyone goes back to their own business.
    Then I go find Drew and tell him the rest.
    ****
    For the next couple of days, Heath avoids me like the plague. I get it. I saw him vulnerable and he doesn't want to face that. I have no issues with that.
    Before the buttcrack of dawn on Saturday morning, the team boards a couple of buses to go to an invitational meet hosted by one of our big conference rivals. I think about sitting with Heath on the bus… for all of about two seconds, just long enough for him to glare daggers at me which say "don't even think it, you fucking fag." The epithet definitely comes through in the glare. Impressive, really.
    So Drew and I chat with the other seniors and juniors in the back of the bus, having a good time. Heath sulks alone toward the front. When we stop for food, Drew and I can't offer to pay for him without making a scene, so we don't offer. Heath sits alone. A couple of the other guys notice, but Heath's body language says "don't bother me," so no one does.
    I wish I knew what to do, but I don't. He has to be willing to accept some help. Right now, he isn't.
    When we reach the meet five hours later, the runners get to watch the first few event finals of the pentathlon while we warm up.
    I love watching Drew perform. When he throws a discus and his muscles flex, I get