Logan opens his eyes to decaying, plastic glow in the dark stars he had stuck to his ceiling with Mikhael almost twelve years ago, back when they were only seven.

It is Wednesday. It is still dark outside. Both his hands are shoved in his track pants, and he has lost track of how many times this has happened over the course of the past year. All he knows is that it definitely isn’t the first, and certainly won’t be the last.

He remembers his dream. Mikhael was in it; he always is.

He was running his slender fingers along Logan’s thigh, and whispering things in Logan’s ear that Logan had only heard on late-night television shows he used to be banned from watching.

Before he can remember what Mikhael’s lips tasted like on his, he stops himself.

No.

I can’t linger on these dreams.

I have to get ready for school.

I can't do this again.

Logan turns to his alarm. It’s only been fifteen minutes since the old clock downstairs rung six. A sigh of relief escapes past his lips—for this means he has time to make himself look decent, to hide what he has just done over the thought of his best friend.

The soft mattress sinks down against his strength as he pushes himself up and heads to the bathroom. He washes his hands, takes a shower, and wonders why he didn’t do both at the same time once he is toweling himself down.

His uniform hangs from his chair. He grabs it, gets dressed, and thinks about Mikhael; yet not in the same way as he had before. Now, Logan is worried. Worried of what Mikhael would think if he knew of these feelings Logan had for him. Worried about what kind of face Mikhael would make if he said that, yesterday on the rooftop, his heart was beating so loudly that he could barely hear himself talk.

Worried, that this happens all the time Mikhael is nearby now, and that it might never truly go away at this rate.

Logan laughs. “Silly,” he mutters as he picks up his backpack. “Silly,” he echoes, as if it will make the feeling seem lighter, any less of a burden than it already is. As if to remind himself, that Mikhael will never be interested, neither in him, nor in anyone else—for he’s always been this way, alone with his sketchbooks, alone with the ocean, and definitely not together with Logan.

Sometimes Logan wishes he were the sea so that Mikhael would draw him too sometimes. But he isn’t, and he soon washes the thought down as quickly as it came with the orange juice in the cup next to his breakfast. He feels sick—as he scoffs down his two miserable-looking pieces of toast—even though he knows he isn’t really ill. It all started when they discussed their university choices, when Mikhael said the words Logan knew were coming—I’m going to art school.

Logan lingers in the corridor. For once, he doesn’t want to greet Mikhael with a smile, nor does he want to rush outside in order to see his friend as quickly as possible. Because it’s their last week, and even though he thought he could take it until the final term arrived, it is now that he realizes he isn’t as brave as he’d thought himself out to be.

Logan’s mother takes a peek at him from the kitchen’s open archway. She asks him, “Is everything okay?”

To which Logan nods. To which Logan says, “I was just checking if I haven’t forgotten anything.” And then, he is out, his skin bathed in the summer breeze and warm new light from the sun that has begun to rise over the horizon of his little town.

The walk to Mikhael's apartment is brief, yet, it gives Logan enough of a chance to regain his composure. He doesn’t like it, that taking two deep breaths before knocking on Mikhael’s has become some sort of ritual for him, but it’s not like he can help it either.

Mikhael isn’t wearing a shirt as he opens the door. “Come in,” he says with a nod, his words casual and short, before he’s shuffling back to his room again.

Logan can hear him opening his closet. A slight urge to ask Mikhael if he forgot to do his laundry again bubbles within his gut. But Logan stays silent. It would only be a bother, he thinks, as he takes two other deep breaths for good measure.

Mikhael’s laptop is open on the kitchen counter. There are three tabs pulled up, but Logan is unable to read them. He curses himself for forgetting his glasses in their clubroom, shuffles through his bag, and pulls out a magazine with the words A R T - T O D A Y—arranged ways he doesn’t believe he could have thought of himself—on its cover.

By the time he looks back up and blinks again, Mikhael’s computer is closed, and Mikhael himself is standing before Logan. “What’s that?” he asks Logan, his voice dry, as if he forgot to drink any water before getting out of bed this morning.

“I thought you might like it.” Logan hands him the review, slow and steady, as if Mikhael might break, or kick him out and hate him forever, should he not be careful with his potentially sudden movements.

Mikhael spares the cover a glance. He’s doing that thing again, where he refuses to look Logan in the eye. “Thanks,” he finally says. “It looks nice.”

“No worries!” Logan hopes he sounded enthusiastic enough, though he isn’t too worried, for he has even managed fool himself this time. Mikhael takes a step forward and pauses next to him as he slides into his shoes. They are too close once again, and Logan’s skin feels like it is scorching hot, even more so when Mikhael’s hand brushes against his.

It burns, he thinks. It burns. He forces himself to speak, past the lump in his throat, past the nerves running through his veins. “Let’s go?”

“Sure,” Mikhael says.

As they move along together, side-by-side towards their destination—only stopping once, so that Mikhael can buy himself lunch from a nearby convenience store—Logan cannot hear anything aside from the tapping of their footsteps, slowly engulfed by silence of their soon-to-be old classroom, once they arrive.