The kiss was quick, interrupted by Clapton pulling away with a gasp and staring at you with fear for a moment, before diving back in and taking exactly what he wanted, what you wanted. It was a long night of passion and an unsettling realization for Clapton.

He hadn't spoke to you after that, clearly plagued with the fact that he had fucked another boy. He could barely look at himself in the mirror.

'I'm not gay' he repeated in his head on the walk back home. 'I'm not gay'.

You were friends for months, meeting in the final year of high school and clicking immediately. He'd found you attractive, sure. And maybe thought about what it would look like if the two of you were together, but would always be torn apart with a shake of his head.

You walked the halls alone, the only noise being the heels of your shoes against the tiled floors. Finally, it was the end of the day and people would stop pestering you about why you and Clapton hadn't been talking for a while, but then you saw him.

He noticed you quickly and turned his head away, his expression braided with guilt and what appeared to be sadness. You needed to talk to him, scream at him for ghosting you, or calmly asking how he was; a starter to rekindle that friendship. It was your choice.