Jude - 7. Game Over

Jacob left his door open and that's where we found ourseleves, all the pieces on the chequered board of his game. He was the master who wore the crown, the King who moved one step at a time. That night, the conversation was a blur like a television turned on with something flickering on the screen, but it didn't register in my head. The closeness Jude and I had shared, the strange, vulnerable intimacy, was gone.

My mind was replaying events. Damien on his knees in the bathroom, the sad, vacant look in his eyes, Jude's chilling confession about his brother—it all swam in my head. I finally understood that Jude’s world was a far more complicated and painful place than I could have ever imagined. He wasn’t a monster; he was a product of his environment, a boy who had learned to play a game to survive.

What might have unfolded that night, could have been an orchestrated orgy, the mixture of booze and a couple of shared spliffs, which I almost choked on, and all inhibitions were out the window. I could picture it all in my head and it wasn't just a fantasy it was an almost reality.

For one moment in that room all eyes were on me. And sure, I got a little flustered, but also excited. I could so easily conjure up Jude, who wouldn't need telling twice, to peel off his clothes. Like the unwrapping of a prize I had won. When it came to Jacob my eyes were literally glued to him. His strong muscular body, tight stomach, solid legs, all set off by a well endowed physique. And finally Damien, a boy I was in two minds about, a player or pawn I couldn't understand at all.

Jude eventually broke the silence in Jacob's room. He stood up and turned away, his jaw set. "I'm done with this," he said, his voice low and firm, directed at Jacob. He didn't wait for a response, just walked out, leaving his brother, Damien, and me, in the heavy silence he’d created.

I stood frozen for a second, not quite understanding what had happened. Then I followed him out, closing the door softly behind me. I found him in his bedroom, standing at the window staring out into the darkness of the yard. The air in the room was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with fear.

"He'll make me pay for it," Jude told me, his voice barely a whisper. "He always does. He gets what he wants or he makes you suffer."

I moved close to him, an overwhelming urge to reach out and hug him. But something stopped me. Maybe it was the subtle rigidity in his shoulders, a wall he’d built against the world, or maybe it was the knowledge that my comfort wouldn't fix this. I settled for standing beside him, a silent show of solidarity.

We finished the night in a quiet conversation that felt more revealing than anything we had ever said or done before. He spoke about his home, about the chaos and expectations he lived with, about a life that was nothing like the one he showed at school. He talked about Jacob, not with the usual bravado, but with a weary sadness. He wasn't the king in this game; he was just another pawn trying to survive.

And I, for the first time, saw him as a boy, not just a beautiful idea. The conversation was a final, quiet dismantling of the wall he had built between us and the world. We talked until the night grew old, until the first hint of light crept into the sky. It was an end between us, and we knew it. But in that moment, alone together, we could celebrate the truth. The game was over, and for one night, we were just two boys, celebrating a stolen peace.

The next morning, I said a quick goodbye to Jude after he had walked me home. We didn't talk much, and the walk felt like a long, silent goodbye. When we reached my house, he just gave me a quick hug and left. That was the last time I saw him outside of school. The sleepover, the intensity, the confusing mix of emotions—it all ended as quickly as it had begun. The final act in a play I didn’t know I was in until it was over.

We never spoke of it again. Not the encounter in the changing rooms, not the sleepover at my place or the weekend at his house, and certainly not the events with his brother and Damien. The silence was an unwritten pact, a heavy shroud we both wore. We went back to being two boys in the same school, two ships passing in a corridor. A brief nod, a quick, knowing glance—that was all that remained of the intense, consuming world we'd inhabited.

I had terrible withdrawal symptoms. My body ached for his touch, my mind raced with memories of his voice, his smell, the way he moved. I would see him on the sports field, see the easy way he laughed with his friends, and a physical pang of jealousy and longing would hit me so hard I had to stop and catch my breath. The obsession didn't die a quick, clean death; it festered. I wanted him back, wanted to go back to being a pawn in his game, if only it meant being close to him.

But time moves on. The weeks turned into months, and the all-consuming need began to recede, replaced by a dull ache of memory. I don't know what happened to Jude. We drifted apart, our lives taking different paths, and the intensity of our connection became a distant echo. Damien, I guess he grew up. I never saw him again, but I often wondered about him, about whether he was okay.

Looking back now, with the distance of years, I can see the truth. It wasn’t a love story. It was a brutal lesson in power, a master class in vulnerability, and a crash course in my own desires. I don't regret a thing. It’s part of who I am. You have to live life to have the experience, and you get to keep the memories. The good, the bad, and the ones that make your heart pound even now. The memories of Jude and that time are a part of my history, a ghost that whispers to me on dark, quiet nights. And maybe, in a way, that's what makes it beautiful.

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