Paco

Anywhere can be fun when Paco and EJ are together, but they never imagined the phenomenal time they’re having at UoM–Briarwood. They were ecstatic when they both got admitted, imagining college to be worlds apart from the fast-paced life of Chicago. What brought them here was the legacy of the place, for UoM–Briarwood holds iconic status in the LGBTQ+ history of the United States. As an all-male private institution till the mid-1970s, Briarwood College, with its neo-gothic arches and velvety lawns nestled upon a brambly hill, had been a sanctuary for innumerable young gay men who went on to become the luminaries of this nation—scientists, statesmen, industrialists, athletes, activists, writers, actors, musicians—in an alumni list that rivals the Ivy Leagues. Besides, didn’t their buddy Troy graduate from this very place three years ago with both a first class in economics and a first-class Italian husband?

Within the first week Paco had nominated his future husband: a blond-haired, blue-eyed computer science major named Jesus Ocampo.

“What kinda Puerto Rican looks like that,” EJ had commented.

“Guess my ancestors weren’t into mixing things up,” Jesus had laughed. “I am 100% colonizer.”

That’s the thing—despite the godlike body—Jesus Ocampo is friendly, hilarious, human. Occasionally they study in a group. EJ imagines that’d make it easier to ask him out, but Paco remains petrified. Beautiful girls swarm around Jesus 24/7. Who knows if he’s even into dudes? Specifically, skinny, acne-faced Filipino dudes from Chicago?

UoM–Briarwood still bears the ravages of the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s and 1990s. A solemn memorial fountain, inscribed with 96 names, adorns the quad. Condoms are given out by every student association and at every wild party. HIV tests are frequent and encouraged. Counseling, care, community, and advocacy are available with ease. Those brutal decades cost the college its independence, but UoM–Briarwood has emerged as a beacon of fortitude, the preeminent center for LGBTQ+ studies, immigrant studies, and radical activism in the Midwest.

But UoM–Briarwood also parties hard. The college has been coeducational for half a century, but young gay men like themselves still enroll in reverential numbers. For incoming freshmen every day of the week has a party, mixer, rave, or art show, on or off campus. Back in Chicago, the most exciting thing they’d ever done was attend an Olivia Rodrigo concert with EJ’s older sister. Kid stuff compared to the Campfire Vampires spring-break party they’re attending tonight.

That absurd vampire theme is all over UoM–Briarwood, another throwback to its traumatic past. Everyone knows what that euphemism means. Paco had cackled when EJ acquired a Dracula toy stuffie wearing school colors from the campus bookstore, but it irks him when people take the joke too far. A disconcertingly large number of Briarwood residents believe vampires are real, including Troy’s husband, Manuel, whose family owns a nearly 100-year-old local diner.

Though Paco wouldn’t mind if Jesus Ocampo was a vampire.

Especially not when they spot him shirtless by the campfire, eating barbecue with a bunch of guys, at this backyard party in Hellebore Park. Paco and EJ remained on campus to catch up on schoolwork they’d missed all semester, but why isn’t Jesus spending spring break at his grandparents’ seaside villa in San Juan?

Jesus looks up, as if he can hear their thoughts. The chill evening campfire crackles in those ice-blue eyes, and suddenly Paco finds all thinking irrelevant.

Jesus shoulders his way to them. “This party’s insane, man! Who knew y’all were having all the fun this whole time?”

Y’all, Paco grimaces. He doesn’t know half the people at the party, but straight guys don’t exactly flock to parties called Campfire Vampires. Besides, he sees a glint of fangs, so the man went all in.

Jesus draws a little silver pouch from his pocket. “This shit’s insane—you guys got the best dealers in town for sure!”

Paco has never done psychedelics, but he doesn’t think Jesus wants to hear that, so he accepts the compliment on the behalf of his gay brethren. “Hell yeah.” EJ has helpfully made himself scarce.

Upon a fingertip pink like a magnolia petal, Jesus offers him a tiny paper square . . . and time becomes a liquid thing. They’re nowhere near the ocean, but Paco is off the deep end, gazing at the cloudless sky, Jesus’s golden curls swirling and beckoning like sands on the distant beach. Galaxies explode on the tips of those off-season Halloween fangs. Oh, sweet Jesus—that uttering never rang so true inside any cathedral he’s ever known.

And then—

—EJ is straddled across his hips, shaking him hard. “What the fuck, dude! You were supposed to stay sober! It’s past 2 a.m.—who’ll drive us home now?”

“Ah ughhh. Jesus . . . Jesus gave me—”

Surely EJ would understand.

Instead, EJ grumbles a reality check. “We got Prof. Sanju’s final-final deadline tomorrow, remember?” It’ll be truly spectacular to fail the class of the one professor who doesn’t believe in grades, but for that easy A you have to turn in the papers at least. “Ugh, dude, I’ve had seven beers. Driving’s gonna be a bitch.”

“Jesus . . . ?”

“Is doing just fine,” EJ rolls his eyes. “Dudes back there can’t get enough of him. Thought I walked into a damn Easter communion.”

Clearly Jesus isn’t yet ready to walk the aisle with Paco, but tonight has put him on the radar. Right? EJ stuffs him into the passenger seat of his dusty blue Subaru and hands him a water bottle. “Hey, did you guys . . . ?!”

Paco sips water in silence as the secondhand SUV groans onto Old Mill Road, for nothing he remembers of the last few hours makes sense in cold sobriety. Impossible notions still waft up the edges of his vision if he stares too long into the darkness outside.

The blue Subaru swerves and screeches to a halt, ramming Paco’s head against the window. The impossible notions squeal and flee, giggling.

“The fuck, EJ—”

Right in the middle of Old Mill Road, illuminated by the headlights, lies a naked man curled up like a bean. Long, blond hair hides his face, but his limbs are smooth and gleaming.

An agonized scream escapes from Paco. “Oh my god, no . . .  Jesus!”

“You crazy, bro?” EJ opens the car door. “We’re a half hour away from Hellebore Park. Jesus was still partying when we left. Whoever this guy is—”

“Jesus,” Paco whimpers, limping out the other door.

Eighty percent of Briarwood’s population is away for spring break, imparting a compelling ghost-town vibe—they hadn’t passed a single car on their way so far—but it’s still a stretch for someone to go to sleep upon the town’s busiest thoroughfare.

“Don’t touch him!” EJ leaps in front of him. “Don’t get any closer! We’ve no idea what happened to this guy. Is he dead? Was it a hit-and-run? Shouldn’t there be a lotta blood?”

“Jesus,” Paco sobs into EJ’s shoulder. EJ doesn’t understand. EJ, who’s shared every thought and secret of Paco’s 18 whole years, will never know Jesus the way he has.

“Dude probably overdosed,” EJ keeps talking, irrelevantly. “We better call 9-1-1. Make sure he doesn’t get plowed by the next car.”

“Call 9-1-1,” Paco repeats.

“And then get the hell outta here,” declares EJ. “If the cops find us I’m getting a DUI, or worse, some crazy charge for hitting that guy.”

Blearily he registers EJ talking into the phone. “Hello, 9-1-1 . . . there’s a guy lying on Old Mill Road near the Sotheby Street intersection . . . dead? No . . . I don’t know . . . no blood . . . don’t know his name . . . I was just driving by . . . unfortunately I can’t wait.” The golden-haired man lies utterly still upon the yellow line, radiating an inconceivable kind of peace. Tiny dewdrops have started condensing on his skin, glittering in the headlights like diamond dust.  

Paco finds himself rent with grief. Everyone else is horny for Jesus Ocampo’s body but Paco craves only his heart: utterly still, encased in ice like this early spring night, cloying like a pomegranate ripe for the bite. Paco wants forever to taste like that.

EJ punches him in the arm. “I’m running out of gas, man—you coming or not? Cops will be here any minute.”

Yeah—not tonight. Painfully, Paco tears his gaze away from the almost inhuman figure on the cold concrete. Tonight is just too soon to get used to never sharing his brain again with his childhood friend. Paco feels too adult, too alone, preparing to head down a road that allows for no plus one. But tonight, standing in the Subaru’s headlights with EJ under the enormous sky, he wishes for nothing more than to cling to that life-affirming bond for all the precious moments that it’ll last.

Jesus can come find him in his own time.