Rodney Joins the Gsa

The fluorescent lights buzzed quietly overhead as Rodney made his way down the mostly empty hallway, the soft squeak of his boots echoing off the tile floors. His tight v-neck clung a little more than he liked--he'd thrown it on that morning without thinking--but it was too late now, and besides, it wasn't like anyone was around to see him.

Except there would be. In just a few minutes.

He glanced at the room numbers ticking past: A-207... A-209... His fingers tightened slightly around the worn leather strap of his bag.

Finally going to check it out, he thought, trying to ignore the little jitter in his chest. Room A-213. The college Gay Straight Alliance. It had been on his mental to-do list since the first semester, back when everything still felt new and overwhelming. But between classes, assignments, and trying to find his footing, he'd always put it off.

Now, though? He wasn't new anymore. And he wasn't hiding either.

Still, the idea of walking into a room full of strangers--even ones who were supposed to be on the same wavelength--made his palms a little clammy. He hated that Statistics had drained so much of his confidence. Numbers never made sense to him, no matter how hard he tried, and he'd spent the entire class pretending to follow along while his professor rambled on about chi-squared tests and binomial distributions.

But English, his major--that was his thing. Stories, poetry, language that twisted and turned like breath. That was where he felt most himself.

And maybe, hopefully, this meeting would feel like that too.

Rodney took a breath, ran a hand through his red hair, and stopped in front of the door to Room A-213. A flyer with faded rainbow borders was taped to it: GSA Weekly Meeting -- All Are Welcome.

Rodney stopped just short of the door, his fingers hovering near the handle. From inside, he could hear the low murmur of voices--chatter, laughter, someone dragging a chair across the floor--but the words were too muffled to make out.

He swallowed hard.

A familiar feeling crept up his spine, one he hadn't felt in a while. That flicker of uncertainty, the voice in his head that always asked: Are you sure you belong here?

Back home, in his tiny rural town, being queer was the kind of thing you kept quiet. Everyone knew, sure--but no one talked about it. He still remembered the side-eyes in church, the whispered jokes in the hallways, the way the word "bisexual" was always followed by some variation of pick a side, man.

No one had ever slammed a locker into him or called him names to his face--but there was something worse in the silence. That slow, isolating kind of rejection that made you shrink yourself just enough to survive.

Rodney adjusted his bag on his shoulder. He wasn't there anymore. He'd promised himself that when he got to college, things would be different. He could be different.

And yet, standing in front of this door, the noise behind it a low hum of belonging he hadn't earned yet, he felt the old hesitations clawing at his resolve.

It's just a room, he told himself. A room full of people who get it.

He let his hand drop to his side, took one deep breath--and then another.

You've come this far.

Rodney's fingers hovered on the handle. But his mind wasn't in the hallway anymore.

It was back in that high school auditorium, heavy with the scent of sweat and dust and costume paint. Romeo and Juliet was nearing its opening weekend, and everyone was exhausted. The lights above the stage had hummed all day, baking the cast under their glow. Rodney remembered fiddling with the ties on his doublet in the backstage mirror, cheeks still flushed from the mock fight scene he'd just finished rehearsing.

He'd stayed late, as usual. He liked the quiet of the theater when everyone else had left--liked the fantasy of it, how it felt like he was someone else under the stage lights. Someone braver. Someone more himself.

He hadn't realized Mitchell was still there.

The sound of footsteps behind the curtain sent a flicker of unease through him. And then--there he was. Mitchell, leaning in the doorway of the changing area like he owned the place. His costume shirt was half-open, exposing a hard chest damp with sweat. His lip curled.

"You always hang back just to watch me change, huh?"

Rodney had frozen, hands still at his collar. "What? No, I--"

"Don't lie." Mitchell stepped closer. "I see you. Always looking."

Rodney's heart had hammered. His mouth went dry. "I--I wasn't--"

Mitchell got right up in his space then, one hand slamming the wall beside Rodney's head. "You're disgusting."

The words had stung. But what burned more was the heat rising in his own chest, the way Mitchell's breath brushed his cheek, the closeness, the threat laced with something else--something electric and wild and unspoken. Maybe he had looked... but was that a crime?

That's when the shove came. Quick and sharp, knocking him against the prop table. Before he could react, Mitchell had lunged at him, and the pair were going at it. Fist collided with chest, legs were kicked out from underneath each other. The turmoil quickly caught the attention of other students and the Drama Club faculty.

This was the second time Rodney had lashed out in anger towards another student. He was suspended for a month immediately after. Rodney became an unintended LGBT martyr for the small country school.

Back in the present, Rodney's breath caught. He hadn't thought about that night in a long time. And now that he did... there was heat again... and a familiar stiffening in his pants. Fuck! He couldn't walk in like that.

It made no sense--and yet, it was there. That complicated, contradictory pull. His body had remembered what his mind had buried.

He swallowed, chest tight with the weight of it.

Maybe it was twisted. Maybe it meant something was wrong with him.

Or maybe... maybe it meant he had more to unpack. Maybe the GSA members inside--might understand. Might not flinch if he said it out loud.

Taking a moment more, he drew his mind towards anything else to take the sudden presence in his straining pants away.

Statistics was the first thing that came to mind.

He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and finally pushed the door open to Room A-213.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Rodney found himself standing in the middle of a room that, frankly, looked more like a budget office than a safe space. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly. Beige walls. Scuffed tile floors. A long faux-wood conference table took up most of the space, surrounded by mismatched rolling chairs. On the whiteboard, in faded marker, someone had written 'GSA: The New Straight Direction'. What did that mean?

He blinked. Where he'd half-expected glittery banners and Pride flags hanging from every wall, there was... this. Sparse. Functional. Not unfriendly, but not exactly festive either. Then again, he reminded himself, it was a shared campus room. The GSA probably had to take what they could get.

A few students milled around the table, chatting in small clusters, five to be exact.

Rodney's eyes drifted toward the far end of the room.

There, lounging with exaggerated ease, were two guys who looked straight out of a locker room. Tall. Built. Cocky posture. One of them threw his head back in a laugh, the sound too loud, too confident. Rodney's stomach tightened. Jocks. Just the sight of them stirred old instincts--guardedness, suspicion... and something murkier. The head of the table was still empty.

Much closer to him and the entry of the door were three men who set early quiet compared to the jocks at the far end of the long table. One of them looked up when he walked in. Grabbing a clipboard, he made his way around the table to where he stood.

Before he could dwell, a cheerful voice broke through his thoughts.

"Hi" The man spoke, "First time?"

Rodney found him strikingly put-together. The young man standing in front of him had a clipboard in hand. Blonde, blue-eyed, wearing a crisp blue polo and a smile that somehow felt both welcoming and evaluative.

"I'm Leon," he said. "The president... or.... well, not currently."

"I'm Rodney." He gave Leon a confused look, but before he could ask any questions, the man continued.

"Pronouns?"

"He/Him." Rodney replied automatically.

"Sexuality?"

"Bisexual."

Leon nodded, jotting everything down with quick, efficient strokes. "Welcome, Rodney. Here's your name tag and a marker. Just fill that out and stick it on."

Rodney took the plastic name tag and uncapped the marker. His handwriting came out a little uneven, but legible.

Leon gestured to the nearest end of the table. "You can have a seat here. This half's the queer zone."

Rodney hesitated. Something about being assigned a seat rubbed him the wrong way--especially when the jocks down the table were clearly holding court at the other end. But he wasn't here to stir things up. He didn't know their code of conduct.

So he nodded, gave Leon a tight smile, and walked toward the indicated spot, pulling out a squeaky chair and settling in.

He placed his hands on the table, palms down, feeling the cold laminate against his skin.

Okay, he told himself. You're here. That's something.

Rodney didn't have long to stew in his thoughts before two of the guys from further down the table slid over to join him.

"Hey," said the one closest, offering a small smile. "I'm Damian. He/him."

Rodney looked up. The name caught him off guard, but Damian's expression was warm--gentle even. He was slim and wiry, with smooth skin and a soft rasp to his voice. His tank top was green again tonight, matching the stacks of colorful beaded bracelets around both wrists. Despite the laid-back vibe, there was something guarded in his eyes--like he was present, but holding back just a little.

"I'm Trevor," said the other, sitting opposite. He gestured with a brief wave. "He/they."

Rodney recognized him vaguely from around campus. Trevor's hair, which he'd expected to be some vivid blue or green, was now a natural deep brown--and buzzed close to the scalp. The change suited him, but it also seemed to mute something. Like a piece of him had been packed away.

"Rodney," he replied. "Nice to meet you guys."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries--year, major, all the usual warm-up questions--but as they spoke, Rodney couldn't help but notice it: a softness in both of them, not just in tone, but in energy. As if they were recovering from something.

It wasn't sadness, exactly. More like... heaviness. A kind of melancholy that lingered in their pauses and glances, even when they smiled.

Rodney leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as he nodded toward the far end of the table. "Hey... who are those guys?"

Damian followed his gaze and gave a little eye roll. "Left one's Ryan. He's the vice president."

"He's also the football team's linebacker," Trevor added, with a tone that sounded somewhere between resigned and bemused.

Rodney blinked. Ryan? Vice president? The guy looked like he could bench-press the entire table. He had a thick beard, short-cropped brown hair, and shoulders so broad they barely fit the back of his chair. His white-and-blue jersey was streaked with dirt, clinging to his chest and arms in a way that made it clear he'd come straight from practice.

"And the one on the right is Artega," Damian said. "Treasurer. Defensive end."

Rodney's eyes flicked to Artega--leaner but no less intimidating. His dark hair was damp, like it had just started to dry from a post-practice rinse, and his brown eyes scanned the room with an unreadable calm. A faint shadow of stubble lined his sharp jaw. Like Ryan, he still wore his jersey, stained and sweat-worn, sleeves bunched up just enough to show off defined arms.

Rodney blinked again, thrown by how hot they both were--grimy, intimidating, and somehow... magnetic. It wasn't just their looks. It was the sheer presence they had. And they were part of the GSA? That wasn't typical... but a good thing! Wasn't the point of a GSA to bring people together?

"How do you know so much about football?" he asked quietly, half-joking.

Trevor gave him a flat look. "We have to. It's part of the GSA's new commitment to heterosexual understanding."

Heterosexual... what? Rodney stared at him for a second, unsure if he was serious. His temperament didn't change.

Rodney sat back slightly, still watching the two jocks joke quietly with each other at the end of the table, their dirty jerseys stretched across broad chests, the low hum of their voices just barely audible over the room's scattered chatter. It was... strange. Not what he expected from a GSA meeting.

But understanding is a two-way street, after all.

"So... who's the president?" Rodney asked.

As if summoned by the words themselves, the door swung open and in strode Kennedy--commanding the room like it was his locker room and not a shared student space. His stride was loose and confident, buzzed brown hair still damp from a shower, white athletic shirt hugging the solid lines of his chest and arms. He looked like he'd just walked off the cover of some college sports catalog--and knew it.

The energy in the room shifted instantly.

Without missing a beat, Leon, Trevor, and Damian all dipped their heads low, hands folded in theatrical reverence.

Rodney blinked, confused.

"Just do it," Damian hissed from the corner of his mouth.

Rodney hesitated for a half-second, then awkwardly followed suit, bowing his head as Kennedy's footsteps drew closer.

Kennedy barely slowed as he passed Leon, holding out a hand. "Clipboard, dick breath."

Rodney almost immediately raised his head at the words but decided not to pry.

Still bowed, Leon offered it without a word.

Kennedy took it, eyes scanning the sign-in sheet. His gaze landed briefly on the new name--Rodney. His eyes flicked up, just for a second, expression unreadable.

Then he continued down the length of the table, flipping the clipboard closed with a satisfied thud as he reached the far end. He bumped fists with Ryan and Artega, cracking a joke that made them both smirk, then finally dropped into his usual seat like he was settling onto a throne.

Only then did the others raise their heads in unison.

Rodney, still unsure what had just happened, followed their cue--sitting up straighter, eyes flicking toward Kennedy, who threw his feet up on the long desk.

Rodney felt a strange, unexpected pull as he watched Kennedy settle into his seat. It wasn't just his posture--leaning back, casually dominating the space--it was the way the entire room seemed to shift in response to him, the unspoken energy that radiated from his presence.

It reminded him of someone. A memory flashed in his mind: Mitchell, standing in front of him that day after rehearsal, towering over him with the same cocky, commanding presence. The way Mitchell had cornered him, chest puffed out, as if daring him to react, daring him to cower.

Kennedy had that same energy. It was subtle, but undeniable. It stirred something in Rodney--not again! Rodney adjusted in his seat as he felt his penis begin to harden.

Kennedy leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs like he had no concern for rules, decorum, or anyone else's comfort.

"Ryan, I have a joke for you." Kennedy turned to his right-hand man.

"'Kay."

"What's the difference between a fridge and a gay guy?" The president asked. Ryan didn't respond, just gave the man a questioning glance, "The fridge doesn't fart when you pull the meat out!"

The jocks burst into laughter--loud, careless, like they owned the space and didn't care who felt uncomfortable in it. Rodney stared in shock. He could take a dark joke any day, but there was a time and place. His stomach tightened. He glanced to Trevor, then Damian, then Leon, expecting--hoping--for a reaction. But none came. They all remained still, quiet, their eyes avoiding Kennedy's, their faces unreadable. Complicit by silence.

Then Kennedy's gaze swept across the room, scanning each person like he was taking inventory of something he owned.

His eyes landed on Rodney.

"Who's this?" he asked, though he clearly already knew--Rodney had watched him glance at the clipboard just minutes ago.

Leon started to answer automatically, "That's--"

Kennedy cut him off with a curt wave of his hand, not even looking at him. "No, queerbait. Let the new guy speak for himself."

Rodney felt the attention settle on him like a spotlight. His throat tightened, but he straightened his back and forced himself to meet Kennedy's eyes.

"Rodney," he said clearly. "He/him. I'm a sophomore as of next month. English major."

Kennedy stared at him a second longer, the edge of a smirk playing at his lips, before giving a lazy nod like he'd just sized Rodney up and filed him away. Rodney sat back, pulse ticking in his ears, unsure whether he'd passed a test or just stepped into something he didn't quite understand yet.

"I take it you're gay?" He stated plainly.

"I'm bisexual." Rodney corrected.

"So, half fag." Kennedy laughed, and the men at either side of him followed.

Rodney's brow furrowed, the tension in his jaw tightening as he looked toward Kennedy. "That wasn't appropriate," he said, his voice even but firm. It wasn't loud, but in the heavy silence that followed the laughter, it carried.

The room fell silent.

Kennedy's smile faded, replaced by a flat, unreadable expression. He didn't say anything at first--just stared at Rodney, cold and quiet, like he was sizing up an unexpected inconvenience.

The air in the room shifted.

Leon, Damian, and Trevor all visibly tensed. Trevor's hand twitched near his water bottle. Damian shifted in his seat. Leon opened his mouth slightly, then closed it.

Kennedy finally turned to them. "You didn't teach the new guy the rules?" His voice was calm but laced with something darker. "Really?"

No one answered.

Kennedy leaned forward. "Leon, maybe I should strip you of your made-up Community Coordinator title if you can't keep the new members in check. I gave you that title out of kindness after you lost your role as president. Don't forget I can take it from you just as easily."

Leon flinched, immediately bowing his head. "I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

He leaned toward Rodney and hissed, "Just calm down. Please."

Rodney blinked, stunned. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't this. The power dynamic felt surreal--like a joke he wasn't in on. The authority Kennedy held over the room, unspoken and unchallenged, made his skin crawl.

He clenched his fists under the table and sat back, biting back any further words.

Despite everything--despite the tension, the threat, the way Kennedy's gaze pinned him in place--Rodney felt a strange heat crawl up his neck. Something about the sheer dominance, the unshakable confidence Kennedy radiated, sparked something deep in him. He tried to shake it off, shifting in his seat as if he could physically move the feeling away.

What the hell is wrong with me? He thought.

He told himself it was just a response to masculinity--he was bi, after all. He liked confidence, power, that kind of presence. But not like this. Not when it came with cruelty. Not when it made others shrink... right?

Kennedy leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, casual as ever. "Look," he said, addressing Rodney but letting his voice carry to the whole room, "I get that our setup might look a little weird to someone new. But everything we do here--everything--is about bridging the gap between the gay and straight communities. You don't build understanding without shaking things up a bit."

From behind his head, the quarterback snapped his fingers. With no hesitation, Trevor jumped from his seat and walked to Kennedy's side of the table. He bent forward and began untying Kennedy's muddy athletic shoes, his face blank. Kennedy didn't look at him--just kept talking, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.