Christopher had begun watching people more carefully. Not out of suspicion - more like wonder.
He noticed how Donny touched things: the gentle tap of his fingers against soda cans, the way he adjusted his collar before speaking. He noticed how Benjamin leaned forward when laughing, eyes closed like it was too much joy to handle.
But noticing came with weight. One afternoon, he caught Benjamin laughing with a senior boy - Sam - and something fizzed sour inside. He didn't know what to call it. Not jealousy. Just… fear. Of not being chosen.
So Christopher started drawing again. Portraits of Donny's hands. Sketches of Benjamin's smirk. Little things. He gave one to Donny, who held it like it was treasure.
"This is… beautiful," Donny said.
Benjamin peered over his shoulder and added, "You even got the freckle by his wrist."
Christopher flushed. "I look a lot."
Donny whispered, "I'm glad you do."
It was a moment - small, but sharp. Not quite love. Not quite clarity. But enough to know that something strange and holy lived in the act of looking.
And later that evening, when Christopher fell asleep with the sketchbook still open beside him, his dreams were filled with rooftop sunsets and boys who gazed back.