It doesn't surprise you anymore when he knocks on your door at night, and recently you've taken to leaving it open, so that he pokes his head in, horse-skittish, mumbling a "hey" like he's afraid of offending you by using too much air. Sometimes he asks you what you're up to or if you're busy, but more often he just says "Dude, pizza," or "Playstation, huh?" two-word offerings that are more hopeful than inquisitive.

Sometimes you decline, wrapped up in a book or a CD or a conversation, but most of the time you accept the invitation, because his face lights up and his eyes get puppy-bright, and he all but stumbles over his paws to get you a slice or pop in a game. You're not above a little hero-worship, and if you're going to be honest, it's nice to be around someone who doesn't want to pick a fight, who's just content in your presence. He's a great audience. He listens to your stories with full, undiluted attention and laughs in all the right spots, no matter how many times he's heard it before. He has opinions if you ask for them, but he doesn't try to tell you what to do. He doesn't tell you that you're being stupid or that you've had too much to drink. He doesn't ever try to change you.

He'll never set your skin on fire, and he'll never leave you so cold that it feels like you'll never be warm again.

*

You know the first time before you do it that you're going to kiss him, and you know he won't object. It's a balmy Sunday in July and you've been abandoned by your friends for the cool promise of the mall, too tired to be enticed away from your spot on your back under the ceiling fan. He settles down beside you by slow degrees, like someone pretending to be asleep, as if you won't notice if he makes the transition smooth enough. When he's stretched out and relaxed you roll your eyes left to look at him, smiling kind of shy-like--see, I mean no harm. He turns fuschia, embarrassed to have been caught. He's suddenly very much the blushing virgin, and it doesn't turn you on as much as you thought it would.

"Hey, rook," you say, because you never address him by his name. It might mean something if you started treating him like an equal.

"Hey, Mark," he says, trying to sound normal, only he's failed because only Zito and Chavvy ever call you anything but Mulder. "Hot, eh?" he says, like it's another suggestion, and you really don't want to talk. Talking takes too much thought for the way you feel right now, so you roll over and press your mouth firmly to his, which is open and eager beneath you, and it's the easiest thing you've ever done.

*

You've just left a four-hit shutout in the seventh inning, and you're feeling good, full of promise, so that you don't even care when he follows you down to the clubhouse; for this brief moment even he gets a share of your smile. "Great game, huh?" you ask, dragging your shirt over your dusty head, cocky, yeah, absofuckinglutely, why shouldn't you be? But he doesn't stroke your ego, doesn't say anything, in fact. He touches a spot on your ribs, a tender darkness curled between the lines of bone, a closed mouth, a kept secret. The tough boldness of his thumb discovers it and you wait, you wait for him to ask, you wait for him to fuck the whole moment up.

And maybe he surprises both of you a little, because he doesn't. He says, "Yeah, you looked good out there," and he's still connected to you by the slimmest of margins, touching, recording, and for the first time in awhile you think maybe he hurts as much as you, and it feels alright.