to stay in touch with his fans. He always hit the three S’s: sad, sweet, and silly. For sad, he thanked tommyin_da_house for asking about his injuries and explained that a full recovery would take a long time; for sweet, he answered aplolsgirl03’s post where she asked to marry him with a quick spin on how talented and funny she was, and how she’d find a straight guy soon; for silly, he found gayfratbro’s comment about climbing into bed with Auggie instead of dragging him out and informed him that he’d have to provide his own footsie pajamas.
Throughout all of this, Genesis’s message was in the back of his head. His thumb paused in the middle of scrolling, and he remembered the cane catching him on the shoulder. He was typing out his joke about footsie pajamas, and he remembered the weeks after the attack, Theo’s glassy eyes and the way his head rolled on his neck. When he’d finished answering the comments, he closed his social media apps and started getting ready for class. This semester, he had a relatively late start—nothing until eleven.
But his phone buzzed again almost immediately. It was a snap from Dylan. He was lying on his stomach in bed, one hand playing with his curls in way that accentuated the muscles in his arm. The message said, Rambo, let me see them guns.
Since the attack—and the story Auggie and Theo had concocted about Auggie defending himself from a mugger—Dylan had dropped “little bro.” Now it was thug, beast, monster, stud, and the one that seemed to be Dylan’s personal favorite: Rambo. Auggie took a picture of a corner of his face, his eye squinting in mock anger, and wrote, Creep.
Dylan’s next snap was of him on his back, shirtless, his lower lip caught by his teeth, his fingers playing with one nipple. Please?
Auggie immediately screenshotted the image. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he sent Dylan a picture of his coat.
The snap that came back was of Dylan’s abs, his thumb hooking the waistband of a jockstrap. I keep thinking about how you fucked up those muggers. I know violence shouldn’t turn me on . . . The next snap came almost immediately: Dylan’s fingers inching down the elastic to expose matted blond pubic hair, the bulge of his dick outlined where the jock’s fabric pulled tight. . . . but you’re just such a fucking man.
The heat that started between Auggie’s legs pooled in his belly, ran up his chest, and sent a flush into his throat. He wriggled out of his tank, adjusted the lighting in the room, and did a few pushups. Then, after checking himself in the mirror—his arms were tiny next to Dylan’s or Theo’s—he perched on the desk, fist under his chin, elbow on his knee. He sent the selfie before he could reconsider.
Dylan’s response: his hand squeezing his junk, the words fuck yeah. Then, almost immediately, another: his face, the curls a messy tangle over his eyes. Been missing you and that killer body. Gym?
Part of Auggie thought about the vast silences that opened up in their messages, all the times Dylan didn’t answer, even times when Auggie really needed someone. The usual flood of excuses followed. Dylan was busy. Dylan had made it clear he wanted to build something real, which meant moving slow. Dylan hadn’t known that Auggie needed someone because Auggie hadn’t told him. And so Auggie walled away the tiny voice that said Dylan ought to have known, at least for the big stuff, without Auggie telling him.
Another snap came from Dylan. This one was a checklist: 1. Gym 2. Yoga 3. Meditate 4. Smoothies 5. Chill and catch up.
Auggie snapped a picture of himself rolling his eyes.
Dylan’s snap back was cockier than usual, on his back again, arm behind his head, exposing the blond fur of one pit. Fuck yeah, slayer.
Auggie went to the shower and jacked off. He got ready for the day, snapping his way through the process, and then, dressed in Sperry’s, khakis, and a Vineyard Vines sweatshirt, he sat on his bed. He kept thinking about the interaction with Dylan, about being called Rambo, about the way Dylan got hot just for a picture of Auggie. Dylan didn’t worry about Auggie getting home safely. Dylan didn’t nag about Auggie finishing his homework. Dylan didn’t give humiliating lectures about condoms or about how most people couldn’t separate sex from the emotions that came with it. Dylan didn’t even seem