Absurd.
The word was like a sticky insect that had been crawling across the surface of Eric's brain since that afternoon. It made no sound, yet it was more unsettling than any noise.
"What the hell..." Eric muttered to himself, alone in the driver's seat of his sports car, staring at the steering wheel. "It was just a look."
But he knew it wasn't "just a look."
In that damned, perpetually stuffy classroom for An Introduction to Sociological Theory, when his and Shawn's gazes had collided in mid-air, the entire world had seemed to hit the mute button. Shawn's eyes were dark, like a lake with a thin layer of ice on a deep night. There was no provocation in them, no question, just a pure, undisguised stare.
And yet, Eric's heart had skipped a beat in that moment. A strange, unfamiliar, unnamable feeling, like a faint electric current, had shot up his spine, instantly paralyzing his limbs.
Absurd.
He, Eric Dane, the star quarterback of the school's football team, had a beautiful girlfriend and a group of brothers who would go to bat for him. His life's trajectory was as clear as a geometric line in a textbook—straight, defined. And Shawn O'Pry... what was he? A weirdo who was always alone.
They were from two different worlds.
But that look, that feeling, had taken root in his consciousness like a virus. He found himself unconsciously searching for Shawn's figure in the hallways, subconsciously glancing toward the corner where Shawn usually sat in the cafeteria. And every time he realized what he was doing, a wave of emotion, a mixture of panic and self-loathing, would wash over him.
He had to do something. He had to prove that this was all just an absurd illusion. He needed a powerful, irrefutable piece of evidence to reaffirm to himself "who Eric is." He needed an anchor to drag him back from these strange, unsettling waters to solid ground.
He thought of Madison.
"So, you've been distracted all night just for this?" Madison looked at the large bouquet of roses Eric had magically produced from the back seat of the car, a polite surprise on her face.
"I wanted to surprise you," Eric said, trying his best to make his smile look sincere. He had driven for two hours to bring her to this mountaintop restaurant, which was said to have the most beautiful night view in the state. He had booked the best table, ordered the most expensive dishes, and even had a foolish velvet box in his pocket containing a necklace he had bought.
He needed all of this to be perfect.
"It's beautiful here, Eric, thank you," Madison's tone was gentle, but her gaze drifted to the twinkling lights outside the window, not to him.
"Madison," Eric tried to take control of the conversation, "we... we haven't had a good talk like this in a long time. About us."
"Don't we talk every day?" Madison smiled, picking up her knife and fork and elegantly cutting the steak on her plate.
"No, I mean, talk about the future," Eric felt his palms sweating. "Like... after graduation, where do you want to go? Will we..."
"Oh, speaking of that," Madison interrupted him enthusiastically, as if she had just remembered something. "I saw your mom again today! Aunt Eleanor said she's thinking of opening a pottery class in the city, do you think I should sign up? She said I have a real talent for aesthetics."
His mother again.
Eric felt as if the romantic scene he had so carefully constructed had just had a huge hole smashed through it by the name "Eleanor," and a cold wind was whistling in.
"Madison, can we not talk about my mom?" his tone was a bit stiff.
Madison was taken aback, seemingly not expecting him to say that. "Sorry, I just think... she's very interesting."
Eric suppressed his anger and took a large gulp of water from the glass on the table, setting it down heavily with a "thud." A few nearby tables cast curious glances their way. He felt like a clown, all his efforts ignored.
"Eric, what is wrong with you?" Madison finally focused her gaze entirely on him, her eyes holding a hint of confusion and distance.
Looking into those beautiful eyes, the anxiety and panic in Eric's heart surged up again. He needed proof, he needed that anchor. He took the velvet box out of his pocket, opened it, and pushed it in front of her.
"This is for you."
Madison looked at the necklace, her expression complicated. There was surprise, there was emotion, but more than that, there was... difficulty.
"Eric, this is too expensive... I can't accept it." She pushed the box back.
Eric shot to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He said nothing, grabbed his jacket, and in front of the astonished gazes of everyone in the restaurant, turned and strode away.
In the training gym, the smell of sweat and hormones was thick enough to cut with a knife. The squeak of sneakers on the floor, the roars of his teammates, all intertwined into a symphony of masculine power.
Eric vented all the anger he had brought from his encounter with Madison, as well as a deeper anger at his own incompetence, onto the field. His movements were aggressive, every collision like he was trying to smash through a wall.
After practice, the locker room was filled with an air of exhaustion and restlessness.
"Are you really not pissed off? About that 'KissGate' thing?" Ben yelled as he took off his shirt. "That kid was publicly humiliating you. If it were me, I would've beaten him to a pulp."
Shawn's name, like a needle, unexpectedly pierced Eric's eardrum. His hand, which was twisting open a water bottle, paused. A complex emotion surged up—the shock of a sore spot being hit, an inexplicable irritation, and a hint of an impulse to defend Shawn that he himself was unwilling to admit.
But he immediately snuffed out that impulse. Defend him? On what grounds?
The chaos and frustration in his heart found a perfect outlet at that moment. He had just suffered a crushing defeat with Madison, a heavy blow to his male identity. And now, an opportunity presented itself. An opportunity to reintegrate with the group, to prove once again that he was "normal."
He needed to vent. The anger from Madison's rejection that had nowhere to go, the self-doubt that had arisen from a single look—all these negative, corrosive emotions needed a target. And Shawn was the perfect target.
So, he spoke. His voice was louder and colder than he had intended.
"Pissed off? Over a clown like that?" Eric's voice was full of disdain and disgust. He took a towel from his locker and said contemptuously, "He's just a pathetic loser trying to get attention by being outrageous, as disgusting as a buzzing fly. The more you pay attention to him, the more he acts up. God knows if he's got something wrong with his head, or some special kind of sexual fetish."
He deliberately used the crudest, most insulting metaphors. He wasn't stating a fact; he was performing. He was performing an attitude for everyone, and more importantly, for himself. See, I loathe him, I despise him, we are two completely different creatures. I, Eric, am one of you, a thorough, unquestionable straight man.
Ben burst out laughing, his voice echoing in the locker room. "I think he's just a total perverted homosexual, fantasizing all day about how to climb into your bed. People like that should be sent to a mental hospital!"
"Don't worry," Eric sneered, his voice like ice. "If he dares to stick to me like a piece of gum again, I don't mind personally beating him until he pisses his pants."
Ben slapped him hard on the shoulder, cheering loudly, "That's right! That's how you deal with that kind of pervert!"
In that moment, he felt a long-lost, sick pleasure. He had succeeded. He had transformed his inner turmoil and anger into a sharp joke and, in doing so, had won the validation.
The night was deep.
Eric drove his sports car alone on the empty streets. The window was open, and the cold wind rushed in, messing up his hair and blowing away the feverish atmosphere of the locker room.
The fleeting sense of belonging and power, gained by humiliating someone else, was rapidly fading, like foam melting on a beach after the tide has gone out. In its place was a deeper, colder emptiness.
Had he won? What had he proved?
He had just used the most cowardly way to turn his own fear and insecurity into a knife to stab someone else.
That look. After he had used the word "disgusting" to describe it, it hadn't disappeared. Instead, it had become even clearer.
He parked the car in front of his house but didn't get out. He leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, and a weariness as heavy as lead settled over him.
He had screwed everything up. He had hurt Madison, and he had hurt Shawn. He thought these actions could fill the void inside him, but instead, they had only dug the hole bigger and deeper.
He had successfully proven to everyone that he was a "normal" man.
But he had never hated himself more.
Absurd.
The word surfaced in his mind again. But this time, it was no longer referring to the look, but to himself.