The question that unexpectedly sprang from Rava's mouth took both of them by surprise, leaving them feeling exposed and uncomfortable. It was as if they'd inadvertently lifted the veil from something profoundly personal, something that should remain private. Though, honestly, there was nothing to be ashamed of; they were merely... friends. Close friends. Or were they?
"Well…" Blaine hedged, his gaze drifting, "no, I'm not seeing anyone."
Such a straightforward answer, and yet it thickened the tension between them. It permeated the air, clinging to them like a persistent, unwelcome mist. Continuing the exchange with further questions like, "Oh really, why is that?" or even "Want me to help you find someone?" would've felt contrived and forced. Therefore, they continued their walk in silence, decelerating, allowing the stillness to settle around them without a rushed attempt to disrupt it.
They turned off into the park. The familiar paths, still slightly damp from the earlier light rain, led them to their usual spot. The same, well-worn bench, the place where they'd shared countless conversations recently. Everything appeared precisely the same, yet within Rava, everything felt radically altered.
This time, he had made up his mind – he wouldn't flee. He'd remain. For at least twenty more minutes, until he had to rush back home. That should suffice.
He glanced at Blaine, whose face was intently focused, bordering on pensive. It was as if Rava's question had dredged up something old and painful, something Blaine had struggled to keep buried for a while.
"I asked," Rava's fingers subtly tightened, "because I've never been in a relationship myself."
He said it nearly as a whisper, but it was clear enough for Blaine to hear. Blaine only nodded, his expression unchanged, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if his thoughts were lightyears away.
Rava could sense it: If he remained silent now, this fleeting moment would vanish forever. There would be no recovering it. His palms were sweaty, his pulse racing faster, his breath just a bit unstable. He was about to confess something he had never confessed to anyone before. Ever.
"That man," he began, his voice faltering, "the one who continuously calls me… I owe him. A great deal."
Blaine now turned fully toward him, his eyes carefully examining Rava's face.
"He's not… your ex?" he asked, not with accusation, but with measured curiosity.
"No," Rava shook his head. "It's… complicated. It has been for years. There is a lot that's strange. Difficult to describe."
He was speaking cautiously, carefully restraining himself, but, inwardly, there was a sense of quiet relief. This was the first time he could articulate this without fear, without the terror of judgment or misunderstanding.
"So, you're not gay?" Blaine asked suddenly.
That inquiry struck him like a slap. Rava's face flushed, and a wave of heat flooded through his body. It was one of those questions where there was no simple "right" answer.
In today's society, being gay wasn't a major concern, in theory, yet those stories still remained at the forefront of his mind. Stories of physical assaults, job dismissals, social isolation... all simply for existing. And yet...
If he'd ever decided that Blaine meant more than just a friend, it had occurred on the day they first met. And now, at this point, Rava knew: it was time to unveil the truth, fully. Without masks.
"Yes. I am gay..." he exhaled. "However, girls… I find them attractive in a certain way too."
Blaine gave him a gentle smile, not harsh, not mocking, but kind, almost imperceptible, as if to say, "I'm here. I understand. I'm not judging."
Rava exhaled with relief, though a tiny knot of anxiety remained in his stomach.
"What a weird evening...", he thought. But, still, he understood this was the evening to communicate, to truly talk.
But Rava didn't desire it to end there. He didn't desire silence to reestablish itself as a barrier between them. He understood that the more vulnerability he displayed, the closer they could grow – especially to those who made his emotions become something he didn't comprehend.
"That man..." he started again, choosing his words carefully, "He holds considerable influence. I don't want you getting involved with anything because of me."
He weighed each word with his breath, terrified of making a mistake, of getting it wrong. Blaine only smirked again with ease, as if the conversation was touching on nothing dangerous, and, as if everything was alright. Without a word, Blaine reached out and placed his hand on Rava's.
His fingers were warm, soft. Stable.
Rava felt his cheeks burn even more.
"Great, my face's gonna stay red the whole night..."
"Nobody's going to mess with a politician's son," Blaine stated, with a note of bravado. "Not even some petty thug."
Rava lowered his gaze slightly. He did not want to invoke that person by name, did not want to inflate the significance of the person who'd damaged his life. That man only visited him in nightmares now – but labeling him "two-bit" felt naive. And truthfully, dangerous.
He desired to warn Blaine. To say, "Please, don't pretend this is a game. Don't put yourself in harm's way for me. I'm not worthy of it." But he didn't have the opportunity.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Not a call, just a system notification. The moderators had launched the pre-stream chat, and messages and donations were already pouring in. It was part of the daily routine.
It meant one thing: exactly twenty minutes remained.
He stood up.
"Running off again, like someone in a fairytale," Blaine said, that same friendly, boyish smile in place.
Rava halted. He wished to explain, to say he had evening obligations, that he wasn't running from his emotions. But Blaine raised a hand.
"I understand." — that was the gesture. Without words. Full of acceptance.
Rava turned and virtually jogged towards the edge of the park. The air had begun to cool, the first shadows of night began to spill over the paths. He was almost at the exit when he heard Blaine call out behind him:
"Oh, by the way!" — he yelled, as if recollecting something significant but nonchalantly presenting it. "I like blokes too."
Rava froze for a second. His heart appeared to leap into his throat. He did not turn around — just smiled. Somewhere deep inside. And he kept walking, at a slightly brisker pace.
A soft breeze ruffled Blaine's hair, playing with the edge of his jacket as though attempting to quell an internal fire. He remained rooted on the bench, motionless and still, resembling a sculpted figure. Those passing gave him brief looks, but finding nothing amiss, they quickly averted their gaze. They failed to perceive the unsettling, distorted grin spreading across his face like a fissure in fragile glass.
Outwardly, he was calm, even elegant. Inside, however, a tempest raged. He felt his pulse hammering against his temples, a constriction in his chest, and a twisted form of joy blossoming unnaturally. It eventually became unsustainable, a pressure that could no longer be contained.
He threw his head back and erupted in laughter. Initially, the sound was light and authentic—but it soon mutated. Becoming fragmented, sharp, and unfamiliar. Almost primal. There was something deeply unsettling about it. Broken. Foreboding.
Several nearby pedestrians immediately slowed their pace, warily altering their course. As if their instincts had warned them to stay far away from this man. And they were, indeed, correct.
Blaine, his arms stretched along the bench's back as if embracing it, continued laughing, though more softly now. The laughter receded inward, transforming into a nearly soundless tremor. A half-smile lingered.
"Rava, you're... absolutely magnificent," he murmured, the name a repeated invocation. His eyes shone, not with love, not affection, but something else. Something heavy. Complex. Unquiet.
His phone vibrated with a brief, familiar notification. Blaine didn't look at it immediately, already privy to its content. Knew it in his core.
[SB23 is live.]
He slowly glanced at the screen, then upward at the sky. His lips compressed, and he smirked once more—though this time it was altered. Cold. Calculated. Like a gambler concealing a winning hand.
Delicately, almost with reverence, he returned his arms to the bench's back, as if the action itself carried significance. And whispered once more:
"You haven't changed a bit."
There was no censure in his voice. Nor any warmth. Only awareness. That deep, wounded knowledge that emerges after years of scrutiny, analysis, accumulating every detail.
Then, abruptly, his expression shifted—as though a mask had been discarded, revealing something beneath. Something true. Raw and distorted enough that even the night itself felt more oppressive.
He leaned back, tilted his head, and in absolute stillness, whispered:
"And that's... perfect."
In that instant, the evening genuinely felt colder, despite the persisting gentle wind.