The Man Who Told the World: Sing Out 3

by Hanna Dare

  Derek gave him a blank look.

  “It’s been on a couple years? It’s about these high school kids who are in a drama club and they randomly break out into show tunes and dance numbers?” Conor looked at Derek. “Yeah, you’ve never seen it. Anyway, it’s not a big part. I’ll be the gay kid who sits at the back and makes occasional snarky comments.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “It’s only for a few episodes right now, but if they like me, it could be for the whole season. It’ll give me time, and money, to get my album done the way I want.”

  “Fuck me,” Derek said as they stood at the top of the riverbank. “That is a lot.”

  “Yeah,” Conor said. They started down, towards the spot by the river that Conor had always liked. “It’s funny, though, being here. It doesn’t seem like any time has gone by. Nothing’s different.”

  Conor rested a hand against the old tree. He used to sit here and play guitar; it felt very far away from the rest of the world. Safe, for the most part.

  “You seem different,” Derek said “You walk different, too. Used to always have your head down.”

  “Self-preservation,” Conor said wryly. “I didn’t exactly want you—or anyone else—to notice me.”

  “I noticed. For years. Used to piss me off, the way I thought about you.” Derek paused, gazing out at the slow-moving river. “But that day last summer, it was different. When I saw you here, singing and playing your guitar…” He rubbed at the back of his neck and finally shrugged helplessly. “It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my whole damn life.”

  Conor stared at him, but then the rest of the memory came back in painful detail. That day had not been a good one for him. Derek and his thug friends had taken his guitar, kicked him, left him in the dirt.

  Derek saw his face change. “Fuck. Harris and Brent were with me. What was I supposed to do? Walk down there and say, ‘I want you so bad it’s killing me’?'”

  Conor met his eyes. “It wasn’t just that day. How many times did you or your goons shove me, or trip me, or call me names? It was years of that, Derek.”

  Derek clenched his fists, no ice left in his blue eyes. “I’d take it all back if I could. You gotta know that.”

  Conor shook his head. “It’s not just me. I know you’ve had things—terrible things—happen to you. That’s not your fault, but you took it out on everyone around you. You made a lot of lives worse because you hated your own.”

  “I’m sorry!” Derek burst out. “Do you want me to say it to everybody in town I was a dick to? ’cause I will. I’ll do that.” He seemed about to burst with panicky energy.

  Conor spoke quietly, “You told me once that sorry’s just a word.”

  Derek went very still. He still looked like he wanted to run, but he faced Conor squarely, lips pressed together, tensing himself for whatever blow might fall.

  Conor took his hand because he couldn’t bear to see him look like that any longer. “Instead of apologies, what I’d like from you is restitution.”

  Some small fraction of Derek relaxed. “What do you mean?” A hopeful look came into his eyes. “Like sex stuff?”

  “No—well, maybe.” He held Derek’s hand and looked at him with great seriousness. “I want you to be a better person. Starting now, and for the rest of your life.”

  Derek tried to pull back and curl his lips for a sneer, but it looked half-hearted. “What, like fighting crime or something?”

  “Nothing like that. You have to figure out what being a good person means for you. But I bet you have ideas.”

  He waited, while Derek bit his lip and looked away. Then Derek nodded once, sharp and hard. He looked back at Conor, a little defiant, but mostly just stripped raw. Conor leaned in and kissed him gently. But Derek didn’t want tenderness or pity, and pushed back into the kiss hard. Conor stood up against it, pushing back on his own, the two of them straining against each other, until the kiss grew and deepened, and the only thing that mattered was the taste of lips and mouths, and the feel of bodies against each other, each of them wanting only more, more, more.

  They kissed for a long while, beneath the tree, with the sounds of the woods and the water around them. They didn’t have a lot of practice kissing each other; it had only happened once before, but after the initial rush of heat subsided, they took their time learning each other. Conor would have been happy to go even further in this secluded spot, but Derek kept looking around as though he expected Brent, Harris, and possibly their entire school to descend down the riverbank.

  “Is there anyone at your house?” Conor finally asked, a little out of breath.

  Derek fished Conor’s phone out of his back pocket and called Maggie. “Where’s Ma?” he asked his sister after the barest of greetings. “Okay, and where are you? Yeah, can you clear out for a while?” He glanced at Conor while he listened, tongue running along his reddened lips as he grinned. “I don’t know,” he said into the phone. “A couple hours. At least.”

  Conor touched his own lips. They tingled. Conor took his fingers and ran them along the knuckles of Derek’s other hand, where it rested on the ground close to Conor.

  Derek’s lusty expression turned into an exasperated glare as he listened to the phone. “You got some mouth on you, you little puke. Just get out of the house.” He hung up and turned the glare on Conor. “What the hell did you tell her about you and me?”

  “I think she probably figured most of it out on her own,” Conor said. Derek rolled his eyes and Conor raised an eyebrow. “You know, you’re not the emotional ninja you seem to think you are. Did she catch you downloading my songs? Maybe tweeting my official hashtag on show nights?” Derek looked away, a slight flush that had nothing to do with kissing starting on his cheeks. Conor leaned in, surprised. “Oh my god. You watched me, didn’t you? You watched Singing Sensation.”

  “My ma had it on a couple times. Maybe I saw a bit.”

  Conor smiled delightedly, and then thought about how some of his songs and their lyrics might have sounded to Derek. “Oh, crap.”

  “Yeah, most of it was. I can’t believe I had to sit through that guy with the teeth and the belt buckle, and what’s-his-name with the hats.” Derek shrugged. “That one guy was hot, though.”

  “Do not say Zane.”

  “Who? No, the older guy, y’know, that judge—”

  “Please stop talking now.”

  It was strange going back to Derek’s bedroom. The upstairs of the house had grown familiar in the last week or so, with Conor sharing kitchen table strategy sessions with Maggie and Barb as they went over communications from the lawyer, but the downstairs, Derek’s room—Conor hadn’t ventured there while Derek was away.

  Following Derek down the stairs was nothing like the only other time Conor been down there. Then, he’d been overwhelmed by the gloom of it: the washer and dryer in one part of the space, the bed on the floor in the corner, the low ceiling, all of it pressing down suffocatingly. Now it felt cozy, like a cave they were retreating to, just the two of them. Of course, Conor thought, it was still a depressing basement, but now he saw it as a depressing basement where he’d had—and was going to have—sex. It really did things for one’s perspective.

  Still, Conor thought they had one more piece of business to attend to, so he held himself back as Derek nuzzled into his neck.

  “Derek, wait, there’s something I want from you—”

  “Yeah?” Derek’s lips tickled his ear. “I got some ideas, too.”

  Conor held him at arms-length. “Seriously. I actually have one more… condition, I guess.”

  Derek looked at him with some exasperation. “What now?”

  Conor lifted his chin. “You said it once before. How you felt. I want you to try saying it again to my face, not over the phone. And with you not drunk. Please, I need to hear it.”

  Derek opened and closed his mouth, eyes gone wide and scared. “Fuck.”

  Conor crossed his arms, preparing
himself to wait Derek out.

  Derek stepped back and ran a hand through his hair until it stood up wildly. He stalked over to the mini-fridge and took out a can of beer, drinking it down while pacing back and forth. He finally faced Conor with determination, took a deep breath, and then abruptly whirled away, hurling the empty can across the room in frustration. It fell to the floor with a hollow clatter.

  Conor raised his eyebrows and waited.

  Derek looked at him desperately. “I just—” He made a sharp cutting off gesture with his hand and turned away again. Conor only felt his confidence begin to slip when Derek went for the stairs.

  Derek stopped on the second step, his hand white-knuckled on the railing. He walked back and stood in front of Conor, his eyes wild and whole body so tense that Conor kept his arms folded, afraid that a sudden movement would send Derek running from the basement for good.

  “Okay,” Derek said. “Okay. I do. I love you. I fucking love you. I love you more than anything in my whole damn life, and you’re killing me right now, but I don’t care, because I love you. Conor fucking Gillis, I love you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Conor couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across his face, but he still said, “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “I hate you so much.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Derek grabbed him and tumbled them onto the bed, both of them laughing. They rolled on the mattress, Conor chanting in a schoolyard singsong, “You love me, you love me.” Until the giggling slowed and the teasing chant became more wondering, with Conor kissing Derek’s face in between his words.

  Finally, Conor stretched out on top of him, looking down as Derek stared up, face wide open and happy, and Conor said, with all the certainty he possessed, “I love you, too.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When Conor pictured his reunion with Derek, he imagined it one of two ways: him slowly taking Derek apart with his new skills, leaving Derek moaning and very much impressed, or Derek pushing him up against a wall, everything fast and dirty and hot. Either was good, both even better. Conor definitely didn’t imagine all this awkwardness—Derek hesitant and Conor fumbling; both of them nervous because now this meant something, it meant everything.

  Finally, they managed to get each other naked and it seemed like things would proceed, except Derek moved his head down just as Conor was reaching up and Conor’s forearm connected with Derek’s nose.

  “Ow,” Derek said, flopping onto his back and rubbing his nose while Conor apologized over and over. “We suck.”

  “Hopefully we will,” Conor said. “In the meantime, how about—”

  He stretched out on his side facing Derek. Derek cautiously rolled over to face him. They were close to the same height so everything lined up. Conor shifted closer and gently touched Derek’s nose, and then traced the heartbreaking prettiness of his lips. He ran a hand down Derek’s arm and then onto his ribs—he was thinner than the last time Conor had seen him naked, but his body was still hard with muscle.

  Conor reached the top edge of Derek’s tattoo along his side; the dark, jagged wings of a bird.

  “Can I?” he asked, and Derek swallowed and nodded. Conor traced the rough edges of the scar that lay beneath the tattoo, following it down to the top of Derek’s hip. He rested his hand there.

  Derek put his hand on Conor’s hip, mirroring him. He pulled Conor closer, close enough so that more of them touched.

  “Oh,” Conor gasped.

  “Yeah,” Derek agreed. He put his hand over Conor’s and lifted it to his mouth. Derek licked the palm, worked his tongue between the fingers. His own hand he pressed to Conor’s lips and Conor copied him, licking and sucking. Then Derek took both their hands and slid them in between their bodies. They took hold of each other’s cocks and pressed them together, fingers interlacing.

  Conor kissed Derek again, tongue driving in as their joined hands began to move up and down, and Derek sunk his other hand into Conor’s hair and surrendered to the kiss.

  Their hands sped up, slicked by spit and pre-come and sweat as their bodies moved against each other. Conor broke the kiss, gasping against Derek’s neck, dizzy with all the sensations. There was the tight squeeze of Derek’s hand on him, the hot, silky steel of Derek’s cock, the writhing tangle of their legs. And Derek’s voice, now in his ear, was whispering about how Conor’s hair was like fire and his skin like snow and his lips made Derek feel drunk. They were whispers that could be poetry, if the poem had every other word a swear. It was so much; it was too much—

  “Derek,” Conor groaned, “I’m going to—to—”

  But then Derek broke his hold, which was what Conor absolutely did not want—not when he was so close—and Conor reached for him— except that Derek moved faster, sliding down to take Conor in his mouth, sucking him in deep and hard so that Conor cried out, hands grabbing at the bed sheets, hips bucking up as he came. Derek took it all, drinking him down rapturously.

  When Conor stopped quivering, Derek lifted his head off of Conor’s spent cock and rested his head on Conor’s stomach. Conor reached down to stroke his dark hair.

  “Hey,” Conor said, a little hoarsely, “what about you?”

  They both looked down. Derek had come in the sheets. Well, Conor supposed, there were advantages to having the washing machine right there.

  “Next time I want you up here with me,” Conor said, tugging him back up. “Or I’ll be down there, or you know.”

  Derek quirked a smile, holding himself above Conor. “Next time,” he agreed, lowering his head for a kiss. “And the time after that. And again. We got time.”

  On Sunday, since Conor felt he now had a good track record of successfully confronting problems head on, he went to the convenience store where Ali worked.

  He’d seen her at school, of course, mostly from a distance, but she’d been surprisingly good at going the other way when she saw Conor coming and avoiding her usual haunts at the school. Though to be fair, they’d always haunted those places together. Then Conor had his mind on other things, and if Ali was nearby, he wouldn’t have noticed; his eyes were always on his phone, checking for emails from lawyers.

  When Conor finally did see Ali behind the counter of the store, his determined walk faltered, and his confidence that he could fix this, he could fix everything, dried up and withered under the dead-eyed weight of Ali’s gaze.

  He’d forgotten how unmoving she could be. What with her wild, curly hair and riotous freckles, Ali’s expressions were the one thing about her appearance that she could control, and she chose to cast them in stone.

  He started to approach the counter, but she tapped the sign that hung above it, the one about loitering. “You have to make a purchase if you stay in the store.”

  Conor walked to the back of the store and poured himself a small slushie. He gagged a little at the chemical sweetness of it, thinking ruefully of the vegan shakes Darleen used to urge on him at the Singing Sensation house. He wished he could laugh about that with Ali; he wished he could think of what to say to her to make it all better.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply, when he went back to the counter and set the slushie down on it. “I’m sorry I wasn’t better at staying in touch.”

  “That’ll be a dollar twenty-nine,” she said in reply.

  He dug out some change. “It must have felt lonely, me being gone and Megan applying for film school.”

  “Can I interest you in anything else?” She gestured at the rack in front of the counter. “We have an exciting selection of gum today.” She blinked hard. “There’s also a wide collection of celebrity magazines. Maybe you can see if you’re in any of them.”

  “It’s okay to be angry, I just hope we can get past it and try—”

  She lifted her entire face towards the ceiling as though beyond simple eye rolling. “Oh my god! Do you hear yourself? Can you actually grasp how you sound? Like some therapy session from TV. Is that how t
hey talk in Hollywood?”

  “Exactly like that,” Conor said. “We hug it out and then get spray tans.” He shrugged. “I’m trying here, Ali, but you’re not giving me much.”

  “No one asked you to try anything. I’m stuck here—” She gestured at the counter. “—but you can move on. It’s what you’re best at.”

  “I wasn’t trying to leave you or Megan,” Conor said. “I just needed to do something. It wasn’t easy, Ali. I was having a really hard time.”

  Her face was stony again and Conor picked up his slushie, preparing himself to go.

  “All our lives were crappy,” Ali burst out, her face crumpling. “That was what we had and it sucked, but we were in it together. Except it turned out it was all fake. We made fun of people like Stef Anderson and the people on TV, but secretly, you two just wanted to be them. I wish someone had given me the update on that, instead, it turns out I’m the big joke because I actually believed you guys.”

  “I wasn’t being fake, neither was Megan. I think it was just that we wanted something different and it took a long time to figure out what that was. Even longer to admit it.”

  “You should have asked me I could have told you: you wanted to leave this buttfuck town and everyone in it. Oh, sorry, you probably liked the buttfuck part.”

  Conor’s voice went cold. “I am sorry I didn’t share more with you, Ali, but you didn’t exactly make that easy. Being friends with you was never easy.” He softened, looking at her familiar face. “But it was usually worth it.”

  Her mouth twisted with something like real sadness. “Were we friends? I think now it was more like we had the same crappy job—being losers at high school. But other than that, we’re nothing alike.”

  “Maybe,” Conor said, “we were like soldiers stuck in the same trenches. People stay friends their whole lives after that because of everything they went through together, and because nobody else will ever know what it was like to be there. We have that.”