Basement Sessions

TWO YEARS EARLIER

The basement was always cold, even in spring. Concrete floor. Beat-up couch. One string of Christmas lights wrapped haphazardly around a support beam like someone gave up halfway through decorating. The kind of space you made your own when no one else cared to claim it. Beck was playing something low on the acoustic—not a full song, just a looping pattern of chords that never quite resolved. He did that sometimes. Wrote half-songs. Got distracted. Moved on.

He was cross-legged on the floor. Shirt half-hanging off one shoulder, head down, hair in his eyes. I was pretending to read, leaning sideways in the old recliner with one sock on and one off. Neither of us had spoken in ten minutes, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was loaded.

Then he stopped. Fingers stilled on the strings. The last chord rang out and died in the corner of the room like a question no one wanted to answer. I looked up. Beck was already moving—guitar shoved aside, body crossing the floor like gravity meant nothing. I opened my mouth to say something, but then—his mouth was on mine.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and hunger, like he’d been holding his breath for months and finally gave in. I froze. Not from fear. Just shock.

We’d been circling this thing for a while. Nights like this, moments that lasted too long, stares that didn’t look away fast enough. But Beck always pulled back. Changed the subject. Picked up a guitar and let the silence do the talking.

Not tonight.

He kissed me like he was reclaiming something. Hands in my hair, then gripping my waist, tugging me down from the chair and onto the floor with him. I followed without thinking. Clothes were gone in pieces. I couldn’t tell you who started it, only that by the time I realized my shirt was off, Beck’s hand was already wrapped around my cock and I forgot how to breathe.

"Beck—"

He didn’t answer. Just kissed me harder. Moved his hand with intention, with rhythm, with a confidence I didn’t know he had. I should’ve asked why. Why now. Why me. But I didn’t. Couldn’t.

My hips bucked into his palm. I moaned into his neck. And for a second, just one impossible second, the world went quiet except for the sound of us. There was no house. No parents upstairs. No label for what we were. Just hands and skin and that look in his eyes like he finally knew what he wanted—and for once, it was me.

I held onto him like he might disappear again. Like this moment might collapse under its own weight. But it didn’t. Not yet. And when I came, it was with his name on my lips and a breath caught halfway between regret and something dangerously close to love.

I never wrote about that night in the moment. Too close. Too loud. Too sacred. But later—months later, after he was gone and the silence set in—I gave it a title: Track 32 – The Last Great Hit. Because nothing’s sounded that good since.

PRESENT DAY

The letter came on a Wednesday. Registrar’s Office, typed in blocky font like it was scolding me before I even opened it.

RE: Academic Standing / Undeclared Status Check-In.

Translation: Pick a major or get off the pot.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I just didn’t know what I cared about enough. The things I liked didn’t seem practical, and the practical things didn’t light me up. So, I kept drifting through electives and pretending that was a strategy.

The registrar’s building was across campus, tucked behind the library like a secret no one wanted to keep. To get there, you had to pass through the Financial Aid office, which resembled a DMV crossed with a prison visitation room. People came out either smiling like they’d just been handed a second chance—or crying like they’d been told they had to drop out. Dealer’s choice.

I grabbed a coffee first. One of those burnt medium roasts from the student union that tasted like cardboard but made you feel like you were doing something right. Then I cut across the quad, dodging a tour group and two guys throwing a frisbee like it was life or death.

Inside, the waiting area buzzed with the usual static: pens scratching forms, someone sighing too loudly, the distinct hum of fluorescent lights slowly killing everyone’s will to live. I checked in at the desk, took a number, and sat between a guy whispering aggressively on speakerphone and a girl writing "fuck capitalism" in bubble letters on the back of her folder.

And then—I saw him.

Beck.

Across the room, half-turned in profile, was someone I hadn’t seen in two years—but could’ve spotted in a crowd of thousands. He was leaning against the far wall, thumbs tucked into the pockets of a denim jacket that looked almost exactly like the one he left behind. Faded the same way. Same lazy slouch to the shoulders. For a second, I thought it was his old one—until I remembered I still had that one, tucked in the back of my closet.

Apparently, he’d come back for it. Apparently, he’d come back.

My brain flatlined. All the air left the room.

And then—

“Nolan Hart?”

I froze. The voice came from the hallway. Advisor, clipboard, business-casual anxiety.

I didn’t move.

“Nolan Hart?” A little louder this time.

I turned just in time to see Beck’s head lift. He looked straight at me. Direct. Sharp. Immediate. Not like a stranger. Not even like an ex. Like someone who remembered everything in one breath.

I stood. Awkwardly. Knocked my knee against the chair and fumbled my now-warm coffee.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away. And I hated that I still wanted to read whatever was written in his face.

I followed the advisor down the hallway, mind already shot, heart throwing elbows in my chest. Inside, I sat across from a woman who looked like she’d seen one too many undeclared students and wasn’t emotionally equipped for another.

“So… Nolan. You still haven’t selected a major.”

Yeah. No shit.

She talked. I nodded. None of it stuck. My head was still spinning in a hallway two minutes ago.

Ten minutes later, I stepped back into the waiting room, scanning the space like I was expecting him to still be standing exactly where I left him.

He wasn’t. They’d already called his name.

I exhaled, long and slow, and sat down again in the same chair, like it might have answers.

The girl next to me glanced up from her phone.

“You waiting on someone?” she asked.

“Sort of. Maybe. I don’t know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been here?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

She looked at the time. “I’ve been waiting three hours. But who knows. Time doesn’t exist in this place.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t listening. Not really.

Because even though Beck was gone again, the weight of his eyes on mine still hadn’t lifted.

I stepped back out into the sun like I’d just come up for air. Campus was louder than it had any right to be—bikes rattling over cracked pavement, some kid yelling into his phone about an exam, the sharp hiss of a soda can opening somewhere nearby. But it all felt like background noise to the static still buzzing in my chest.

Beck. Here. Real.

My feet moved, but my mind didn’t catch up. I found myself halfway across the quad before I realized I hadn’t even decided where I was going.

I sat on a stone ledge near the fountain—mostly because it was there and empty—and let the coffee cup drop into the trash beside me. My hand was still curled like I was holding it.

The last time I saw him, it was from behind. That alone cracked something open.

And the second I saw his name again in my inbox, I couldn’t help but remember the first time he cracked me open—not physically, not yet—but in the way that mattered more.

TWO YEARS AGO

It was a few days after the deck. After he’d said that thing—cool and quiet—about me only limiting myself to girls.

The line had haunted me, like the echo of a song lyric I couldn’t place but kept humming anyway.

I found him in the basement again. Same guitar. Same slouch. Same tiny smirk when I came down the stairs like I wasn’t looking for him, but of course I was.

Hey," I said, flopping onto the couch.

"Hey." He didn’t stop strumming.

I let a moment pass, watching his fingers move over the frets like second nature. Beck never bragged about the things he was good at. He just did them, like breathing.

"You meant what you said the other night?" I asked.

He looked up, slow. The music stopped.

"Which part?"

"The part about me limiting myself."

Beck shrugged, but his eyes didn’t flinch. "Yeah. I meant it."

I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek. Then, after a beat: "So… what do you call it? What you do? Not limiting yourself."

That made him laugh. It wasn’t mocking—just surprised. "That’s one way to put it."

"I’m not trying to be a dick," I said quickly. "I just… I don’t know anyone who talks about this stuff. Not where I’m from."

Beck set the guitar down. Turned toward me, arms draped over his knees.

"You’re not being a dick," he said. "You’re being curious. There’s a difference."

I nodded again, slower this time. "So… what do you call it?"

"I don’t know. I guess I’d say I’m bi, if I had to slap a label on it." He paused, then smirked. "But mostly I just like to keep my options open."

I raised an eyebrow. "Like a college major?"

He grinned. "Exactly like that. Except with kissing."

I laughed, a little too hard, and shook my head. "See, this is what I mean. I’ve got questions."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like… how do you know? That you like both?"

Beck tilted his head. "How’d you know you liked your first crush?"

"I dunno. I just… did."

"Same."

That shut me up for a second. Not because I didn’t get it—because I did, and that realization felt like stepping onto a floor I didn’t know was there.

"You ever, like… told your dad?" I asked.

Beck’s face flickered, just for a second. "He didn’t ask," he said, leaning back again. "So I didn’t tell."

Silence settled between us like a blanket we didn’t want to pull off.

Then Beck looked over, eyes softer now. "You think it’s weird?" he asked, voice low.

"No," I said, almost before he finished asking. "Just new."

That made him smile. Real and full and almost shy.

"New’s not always bad," he said.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded, heart pounding a little too fast for how still we were. And maybe he felt it too—because he didn’t pick the guitar back up. He just sat there. And so did I. Both of us, new. But not bad.

PRESENT DAY

My thumb moved before my brain caught up. 

Click. Message open.

"Of course I saw you."

"You look good, by the way."

"Wanna meet up?"

I read it twice. Car door slamming. Taillights fading down a street that didn’t have enough words to explain what we were. Now he was back. Not in a dream. Not in memory. Not in the lyrics of that half-finished song we never wrote.

Real.

And I’d looked into his eyes. Two years. No contact. And still—it hit like a hook I never stopped humming.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. Opened the notes app. Scrolled past grocery lists, half-hearted reminders to email professors, and found the file labeled simply: Greatest Hits.

I added a new line.

Track 33 – Spotted at the Financial Aid Office. Jacket included. Still hits.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was chasing something that had already ended. It felt more like the record had just skipped—and dropped back into the part I’d never stopped waiting for.

TWO YEARS AGO

"You really don’t have to let her talk to you like that, you know.” Beck said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather, but his jaw was tight, and he wasn’t looking at me—he was staring at the back door she’d just slammed.

I shrugged, running a hand through my hair and trying to act like it didn’t sting. “It’s fine. She’s just… like that.”

“Like what? A black hole of joy and basic human decency?”

That earned a reluctant laugh from me. “She’s not that bad.”

Beck arched an eyebrow, slow and skeptical, like he was giving me a chance to take it back. I didn’t.

We were sitting on the edge of the back deck, dusk creeping in around the trees, the smell of charcoal still lingering from someone’s half-hearted attempt at grilling earlier. I had a beer I wasn’t old enough to drink and a headache I couldn’t blame on alcohol.

“She makes you smaller,” Beck said, softer now. “You get quiet when she’s around. Like you’re trying not to take up space.”

I looked over at him then, surprised by how plainly he’d said it. Beck never sugarcoated things, but this was different—like he wasn’t trying to win a point. Just name a truth.

“I dunno,” I muttered. “You’re from the city. You’ve got options. The pickings are slim here.”

He turned toward me. Slow. Certain. Eyes dark in the fading light.

“That’s because you’re only limiting yourself to girls.”

The words landed like a note in the wrong key. Not harsh. Just unexpected. And somehow—true.

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. And Beck didn’t press. He just leaned back on his elbows, stared up at the first stars bleeding through the sky, and let the silence hold.

PRESENT DAY

The text app mocked me with its blinking cursor.

Hey.
Delete.
I didn’t know you transferred.
Delete.
Is it weird if I say it’s good to see you?
Delete.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, thumb hovering, phone screen glowing like it might contain the right words if I just stared long enough. It had been hours since the registrar’s office. Since that look. Since the denim jacket. Since my entire nervous system did a hard reset.

I hadn’t seen him leave. Hadn’t seen him on campus again. Just that one, stolen beat before the door closed.

I thought about that night on the deck. About how I didn’t respond. How I just sat there and let the moment pass like it didn’t mean anything.

It did. And so did the basement. And so did the way he looked at me today.

I started typing again.

Hey.Pause.It’s Nolan.Obviously.Delete.

Finally, I typed:

I saw you today. Wasn’t sure if you saw me. Would be cool to catch up. If you want. No pressure.

I hovered over the send button like it might bite me. Then I added:

Still have your jacket, by the way.

Send.

The message just sat there. Blue bubble. Delivered. Unread.

I tossed the phone onto the bed like it was radioactive and leaned back against the wall, trying not to imagine every possible way that text could backfire.

We hadn’t spoken in over a year and a half. The last real conversation happened maybe six months after he moved. It started normal—memes, stupid updates, a playlist or two we both swore we’d listen to. Then it got quieter. Shorter replies. Longer gaps.

Until one day, Beck said what we were both probably thinking.

“This is hard, man. I think it’s harder for me than it is for you.”

I didn’t argue. I just said I understood. Because I did.

I understood that he was hurting. I understood that maybe he needed space. I just hadn’t realized how permanent that space would be.

After that, there was nothing. No more calls. No more messages. Just a jacket he forgot and a memory I couldn’t shake.

So now, sitting here—two years later—staring at the glowing screen like it might punch me in the chest again, I started to wonder if texting him had been a mistake. Was it too casual? Too soon? Too late? Should I have just walked up to him when I had the chance?

I pulled the phone back into my hands. Still unread. Maybe he’d blocked me. Maybe he changed his number. Maybe he saw the message and laughed. Or cringed. Or worse—maybe he felt nothing.

I pulled up the thread. Re-read what I’d sent.

I saw you today. Wasn’t sure if you saw me. Would be cool to catch up. If you want. No pressure. Still have your jacket, by the way.

Too much? Too little? Too… me?

I dropped the phone again and groaned, dragging a hand over my face. “I’m an idiot,” I muttered to no one.

And then—the buzz. Short. Sharp. Immediate.

My phone lit up. One new message.

From Beck.

I didn’t open it right away. Just stared at the screen, chest tight, breath shallow—like the world was holding its breath with me. Whatever came next… it was going to change something. Maybe everything.

I didn’t open it. Not right away. Just stared at the notification lighting up my screen, thumb hovering like I needed a minute to build armor.

Beck: 1 new message.

It didn’t matter what it said. He responded. Three times.

TWO YEARS AGO - BASEMENT

It started with music. Not anything specific—just Beck sitting cross-legged on the rug in that cold-ass basement, strumming something low and aimless on his guitar. The kind of song that wasn’t finished. Maybe never would be. The strings buzzed under his fingers like he was thinking more than playing. I was on the couch. Sprawled sideways. Half asleep, half watching him like I always did when I thought he wouldn’t notice.

He stopped playing mid-chord. I looked up. And then he was on me. Not gently. Not violently. Just… immediately. Like a fire that had been waiting for oxygen.

His mouth found mine, and I swear I forgot how to breathe. Hands under my shirt. My belt undone. My back hitting the couch cushions. Everything happened too fast and too slow. I remember trying to say his name, trying to ask what was happening, but all I got out was—

“Wait—”

—and then his hand was on me. Stroking. Firm. Sure. Hungry.

My breath hitched so hard I felt it in my knees. My hips moved without asking permission. His mouth was on my neck. I grabbed his arm just to stay grounded. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to.

There was no talking. Just skin and heat and the sound of both of us falling apart in real time. I came hard, and fast, and so much that I felt dizzy afterward. I don’t even remember Beck finishing—just that he pressed his forehead to mine for a second, breathing like he’d just sprinted.

Then he pulled back. Fixed his clothes. Didn’t say a word. Just:

“I’m gonna head up.”

And I said:

“Yeah, okay.”

Like it was normal. Like we hadn’t just crossed a line we couldn’t uncross.

PRESENT DAY

My chest tightened in that same way it did two years ago in the basement, when I realized I didn’t want answers—I just wanted him.