Distractions
He wasn't entirely certain how it had happened.
Though he would never say such a thing, his brain worked in a relatively simple way at times. There was a rug, and things he would rather not have clogging up his thoughts got swept under it. This method normally worked fairly well for him. He dealt with things when he had to, when there was no other choice, but otherwise, he wouldn't give a second thought to them.
But he sat in his office, staring at the wall beyond his desk, tapping a pencil absentmindedly. Absorbed in everything but his scribbles of potential-yet-incomplete designs, formulas, calculations. Absorbed in the things that had started rolling out from under the rug.
Of course, he and Rachel weren't on speaking terms for the time being. That didn't help things very much. It only served as a constant reminder of the things that had driven them apart.
Namely, him.
And Scott.
And Devon.
And the things he wanted but would not admit to.
It wasn't that he didn't like bisexuals or didn't believe they existed. No, he'd grown out of his stifling Republican small town childhood many years ago. He had friends of all sorts. He supported everything they believed it. It just didn't feel right to label himself that way, however.
Sure, he was sexually attracted to guys, from time to time. He wouldn't say as much, but the fact stared him in the face. He just didn't think that made him bisexual, somehow. He didn't feel like it. He felt like it ought to be about love and not just raw sex. He felt like it should have less to do with random, now-and-again flings and more to do with how one felt. But he simply could not admit it to Rachel, because how could she understand?
How could he?
He felt like he ought to ask someone, but he didn't know who, and he didn't know how without implying that he himself might be--and that simply was not an option at the time. Besides, he hadn't exactly hopped into just any guy's bed ever since Scott had--
Which was always about when, in his train of thought that he didn't want to have rolling anyway, he simply stopped thinking for a time.
It distressed him to know how much thinking about that night affected him. It hadn't hurt nearly as much before, after it happened, days after, weeks. He hadn't given it much thought until he had to argue with Devon about why it simply would not work out.
It could never work with someone he considered a friend anyway. Nothing with emotions involved. It didn't work that way. It couldn't. It was simply sexual venting. It was simply a miscalculation. That word seemed to settle with him better. A number of miscalculations, but miscalculations nevertheless.
He had snapped his pencil at some point during his distractions, and it took a few tries for a lackey to gain his attention, saying his name a few times. There had been a few setbacks and a few mistakes, a number of annoyances. He felt like he didn't have the time to fix everything that might go wrong. There was some much-overheard yelling, venting, letting off a little steam. He didn't need any incompetence to further screw up his life. He wasn't there to fix stupid screw-ups; he was there to create art in the form of science and machinery.
He spent the rest of the day with the door to his office locked, back to his own calculations and grand, theoretical ideas, despite spending some of that time staring at nothing once more, and thinking about everything.
It was bothersome. Surely he would be better off if Rachel as simply dropped the subject. That was the way he worked. And now...now he just could not work properly.
That idea was disposed of as quickly as he could. Simply ridiculous. How could something like that interfere with his day? With his life?
But it wouldn't go back under the rug.
Though he would never say such a thing, his brain worked in a relatively simple way at times. There was a rug, and things he would rather not have clogging up his thoughts got swept under it. This method normally worked fairly well for him. He dealt with things when he had to, when there was no other choice, but otherwise, he wouldn't give a second thought to them.
But he sat in his office, staring at the wall beyond his desk, tapping a pencil absentmindedly. Absorbed in everything but his scribbles of potential-yet-incomplete designs, formulas, calculations. Absorbed in the things that had started rolling out from under the rug.
Of course, he and Rachel weren't on speaking terms for the time being. That didn't help things very much. It only served as a constant reminder of the things that had driven them apart.
Namely, him.
And Scott.
And Devon.
And the things he wanted but would not admit to.
It wasn't that he didn't like bisexuals or didn't believe they existed. No, he'd grown out of his stifling Republican small town childhood many years ago. He had friends of all sorts. He supported everything they believed it. It just didn't feel right to label himself that way, however.
Sure, he was sexually attracted to guys, from time to time. He wouldn't say as much, but the fact stared him in the face. He just didn't think that made him bisexual, somehow. He didn't feel like it. He felt like it ought to be about love and not just raw sex. He felt like it should have less to do with random, now-and-again flings and more to do with how one felt. But he simply could not admit it to Rachel, because how could she understand?
How could he?
He felt like he ought to ask someone, but he didn't know who, and he didn't know how without implying that he himself might be--and that simply was not an option at the time. Besides, he hadn't exactly hopped into just any guy's bed ever since Scott had--
Which was always about when, in his train of thought that he didn't want to have rolling anyway, he simply stopped thinking for a time.
It distressed him to know how much thinking about that night affected him. It hadn't hurt nearly as much before, after it happened, days after, weeks. He hadn't given it much thought until he had to argue with Devon about why it simply would not work out.
It could never work with someone he considered a friend anyway. Nothing with emotions involved. It didn't work that way. It couldn't. It was simply sexual venting. It was simply a miscalculation. That word seemed to settle with him better. A number of miscalculations, but miscalculations nevertheless.
He had snapped his pencil at some point during his distractions, and it took a few tries for a lackey to gain his attention, saying his name a few times. There had been a few setbacks and a few mistakes, a number of annoyances. He felt like he didn't have the time to fix everything that might go wrong. There was some much-overheard yelling, venting, letting off a little steam. He didn't need any incompetence to further screw up his life. He wasn't there to fix stupid screw-ups; he was there to create art in the form of science and machinery.
He spent the rest of the day with the door to his office locked, back to his own calculations and grand, theoretical ideas, despite spending some of that time staring at nothing once more, and thinking about everything.
It was bothersome. Surely he would be better off if Rachel as simply dropped the subject. That was the way he worked. And now...now he just could not work properly.
That idea was disposed of as quickly as he could. Simply ridiculous. How could something like that interfere with his day? With his life?
But it wouldn't go back under the rug.