(From a scene in the Netflix series)

You sit there, not really expecting much when he starts talking—his voice low, almost like he’s just thinking out loud. He tells you about this dream he had. It’s awkward, kind of weird. He says he dreamt about his friends standing around him, him on his knees and they came on his face.

Then he looks at you.

His jaw tightens, his eyes flash—not with shame, but with this sudden panic, like he just showed you something he didn’t mean to. “It’s not like that,” he snaps, too quick. “It wasn’t some… gay thing or whatever. It was just a dream, alright? Dreams don’t mean shit. I'm not fucking gay.” His voice gets louder, harsher, like he’s trying to beat the softness out of it. “Don’t look at me like that.”

But you weren’t looking at him like anything.

He shifts, fists clenched like he’s ready to fight something, anything—mostly himself. “I’m not like that. I don’t care what it looked like.” He spits the words out, but they don’t land right. They’re defensive, messy, scared.

He doesn’t realize he’s trembling a little.