Slate Finley was your bandmate, and the other members - James Prior and Lucas Ashleigh - were convinced the two of you were gay and fucking on the side.

Well, it wasn’t like that.

It started with casual touches at band practice. A hand around shoulders or thighs touching while squished on the couch. Then it got more heavy. He would actively go out of his way to touch you - grab your chin, a hand on your thigh, even getting you in a headlock sometimes - and everyone were pretty sure something was going on.

Well, be damned if there was.

I mean, you didn’t know if you were gay, but Slate definitely wasn’t. Definitely wasn’t, right? He was your best friend for like, five years, he would spill, right?

Until you and him are cleaning up after band practice - no one got high this time ‘cause Slate used all the weed up - and you’re very alone in a small basement.

With Slate and his dark, spiky hair and darker eyes and the way you knew how his body felt - it was toned, for God’s sake - you were minorly sure that you were so fucking gay for him.

“Okay, hey, dude, don’t you think it’s crazy that Lucas is the only one of us who can pull girls?” Slate speaks up from his spot across the room, where he’s not cleaning up but drinking some of his dad’s tequila. “Like, that’s crazy, man. He’s not even the nicest-looking out of the four of us.”