by M. A. Hinkle
Felix bit his thumbnail. “You know, you guys are right. I was freaking out there, but I wouldn’t have thought twice about it if he was some random guy and I didn’t like him. Maybe that’s how I should do it.”
“It’s exactly how you should do it,” said Damon.
“Says the man who’s never caught a man,” Cathal said, looking at him askance. “Take it from someone who knows, Felix. You need to be clear about what you want, because if he’s as shy as you say, he won’t pick up on any hints subtler than ‘I want to kiss you. Please let me.’ And if he’s straight, he won’t pick up on it even if you say, ‘I want to kiss you. Please let me.’”
Felix turned red. “I don’t want to kiss him. I want to stare at him until he bursts into flame. Which, I mean, that might actually happen.” He sighed. “Can I have another macaron?”
“No,” said Damon. “Not until you eat some actual food. You too.” That was directed at Cathal. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”
Cathal opened his mouth to object. Then he realized Damon was right. Instead of admitting this, he had another macaron. Because he was an adult.
SOMEHOW, CATHAL HAD gotten sucked into watching a progressive tournament where competitors battled each other for the right to take on their fellow winners in the final episode. It involved chocolate and cake and other things Cathal did not know could be used in food. Instead of questioning this impulse, he came downstairs with the day’s purchase.
Damon eyed the six-pack dubiously. “Fancy beer?”
“Yes.” Cathal flopped back on the couch. “We’re expanding your horizons, aren’t we?”
Damon huffed and picked up one of the bottles. “I guess I can see if it would be good to cook with. Is Felix coming down?”
“I don’t think so. When I went past his room, he was shouting about Theseus’s wedding.” Cathal passed his beer to Damon, since Damon was better at getting the tops off.
Damon nodded, taking a sip of his own beer as he passed Cathal’s back to him. “It’s not bad, I guess.”
“It’s cultured,” said Cathal, relishing it.
“You really are the smuggest man I’ve ever met.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
Damon narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific. I talk a lot.”
“You do, and it’s annoying.” Damon waved away Cathal’s words. “I meant the part where you were talking about how I’ve never—done anything with a man.”
Cathal blinked. He’d forgotten that comment.
Damon studied him. Cathal didn’t react. He wasn’t sure what Damon thought, or why he was looking at Cathal so intently, or why the comment gave Cathal such pause. It was the truth, and the truth set you free. By letting you be really smug.
Damon let out a slow breath. “It’s not that I want to run out and start dating men. But—it’s a part of me that got left by the wayside when I met her. And we did…talk about it. She didn’t want me to be alone.”
That made more sense. “Well, it’s another thing to think about when the time is right. No need to rush.”
Damon closed his eyes, his voice thick. “I think that’s the hardest thing to come to grips with. I do have time. I never—I never thought she’d go first.”
Cathal closed his eyes and took in a slow breath. He’d always thought the same. Damon didn’t have unhealthy habits, but he didn’t take care of himself, either. Era was a stickler for health, like the Oxford comma. “It’s not all bad.”
Actually, without Era, it pretty much was, but he forced himself to put a positive spin on things, since that’s what she would have done. After smacking him. “I mean, who’d ever have thought we’d be sitting here like this? Not clawing each other apart or anything. And I think I’ve only insulted you, like, once.”
Damon looked at him, his expression unreadable. “Who’d have thought.” He said it softly, but turned away before Cathal could figure out his tone of voice.
FELIX WAS HOME late from school again, but that was to be expected. Today was his audition. Damon had made another cake. This one was frosted, not coated in fondant, and shaded from white to blue in a smooth gradient. On top was a single sugar rose.
Cathal squinted at it.
“It’s called ombré, apparently,” said Damon, too casually. “I thought we ought to have something nice, and someone managed to sneak the rest of the other cake when I wasn’t paying attention.”
“You’ve really got to hide your food better,” said Cathal. “Felix knows where to look. And he can climb like a monkey.”
Damon sighed. “It’s not like it’s going to make him crazy. He acts that way even without sugar and caffeine.”
They both looked toward the front door as they heard it open. Felix walked into the kitchen—strutted, actually—and only glanced at the cake before sitting down.
“Don’t be smug, boy,” said Cathal, pulling himself up on the counter next to the cake. He was still surprised Damon had produced anything so nice, and he wanted to admire it some more without looking like he was admiring it. Tricky, but within his skill level. “It’s vulgar.”
Felix tried to shoot him a dirty look, but he was too pleased with himself. “You’re the one who’s always telling me it’s not vanity if you’ve accomplished something.”
“Why is it you can remember my words so well when you’re trying to shut me up and not when I’ve helped you with your homework?” Cathal asked of the ceiling, spreading his hands.
Felix stuck out his tongue.
“Between the two of you, we’re never going to get anywhere ever again. Out with it, mister, how was it?” Despite Damon’s gruff tone, his eyes were excited.
Felix started bouncing in his seat. “I think it went really well, actually. I mean, a bunch of girls tried out for Titania, but the director said she really liked the way I took it.” He paused. “I tried out for Puck, too, for giggles, but I’m pretty sure Alex is gonna get that. He went to town with it.”
“And your violinist?” Cathal asked, arching a brow.
Felix blushed. “Morgan’s not my anything. And he tried out for all the male leads. He was really good at all of them, too. Mom would have loved it.” He paused, making a face like he was sucking on a lemon. “Gareth tried out for all the boys’ parts, too. He wasn’t bad. I hope he gets Theseus or something, so I don’t have to be on stage with him.”
“So when will you find out who’s what?” Damon asked.
“The parts will be posted after school on Monday. Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to give you my school newsletter and junk.” He dug around in his bag and came out with a crumpled sheet of legal-sized paper.
Cathal sighed. “It is truly best that your gifts do not lay in academia, my boy.”
Damon smoothed it out, ignoring Cathal’s comments. “Never mind that now. I’ve made tacos.”
“Tacos!” Felix cried. “This is the best day ever!”
UNLIKE EVERY PARENT in the history of ever, Damon read the newsletter. He was peering at it when Cathal came down to the living room, not even pretending he didn’t want to.
“They’re looking for parent volunteers to help with the show,” Damon said with no preamble.
Cathal looked over his shoulder at the note in question. “I thought they usually have students do all that. To help them learn.”
“There was some kind of mess last year. They want adults to run the lights so they don’t have to worry about the equipment.” Damon set the newsletter on his lap, still frowning as he smoothed out another crease.
Cathal looked from the newsletter to Damon’s face. “Is there a reason you’re bringing this up…?”
“Yes. I’m going to do it. When I was working, I never had time to go to Felix’s recitals. But I’m not going back any time soon, so I might as well make up for that now.” He bit his lip. “Except—I’m shit at this kind of thing. Talking to people.”
Damon closed his eyes with an expression as though he’d stuck his hand in a patch of poison ivy. “Would you. Go with me.”
Cathal opened his mouth to make a snarky reply. Then he stared. “You do realize I am the worst possible person to invite if you want to make friends.”
“You’re the only person I’ve got.” Damon opened his eyes. “And you’re pissy, yeah, but you get on with your coworkers, don’t you? These are more teachers. I’m not good with teachers.”
There was an understatement, but Cathal didn’t want to distract from the issue.
Huh. He didn’t feel like turning Damon down flat, even though he had work of his own. He had the whole day while Felix was in school to do that, and he was making more progress than he’d expected. At this rate, he’d go back to classes with a full draft.
And…well, he couldn’t say he’d rather get his teeth pulled without novocaine than spend time with Damon anymore, since he’d come downstairs to do just that.
“I’ll do it.” Cathal crossed his arms. “But you owe me.”
“I already owe you,” said Damon, and to Cathal’s surprise, he looked sincere.
ON MONDAY, THEY went to give Felix a ride home from school, partly to find out the audition results and partly to put their name up for volunteers. Cathal complained, but he wasn’t upset. It would make for a good change of pace, after all.
Anyway, he wasn’t certain when he’d gone from hating Damon’s guts to tolerating his company, and the only way he knew to solve problems was to go at them head-on. This solution involved a lot less swearing than usual, though.
The lady at the front desk flirted with Damon, but he didn’t notice. He put down his name on the list and passed it to Cathal, who signed it with a flourish to be irritating. Damon rolled his eyes. It was very satisfying.
They found Felix on the front steps of the school, deep in conversation with his bandmates: the triplets minus one, Zach and Alex, who played bass and lead guitar respectively; and Sarah, the drummer. He ran down the steps to Damon and Cathal. Damon put his arm out, and Felix bumped into him affectionately.
“So what’s the word?” Damon asked as they walked back to the car.
Felix bit his lip, grinning.
Cathal flicked his ear. “Don’t draw it out. That’s crass.”
“Okay, okay!” Felix pulled away from Damon’s hold so he could walk backward in front of them. “I got the part!”
Damon clapped him on the shoulder and opened the back door for Felix. “Knew you would.”
Cathal got into the passenger’s side and looked over his shoulder at Felix. “The more important question?”
Felix scowled, tucking his chin into his chest and hunching his shoulders like a cranky turtle. “Jerky McJerkface is Oberon. So I have to pretend to make nice with him every night for, like, a month. Morgan plays Theseus. I don’t even get to be on stage with him.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” said Damon, “but you’ll get to spend time with him.”
“Yeah, I guess. And I don’t have to yell at him, so that’s good.” He started bouncing, always a good sign. “Also, the triplets minus one are going to be Quince and Bottom.”
Cathal rolled his eyes skyward. “That will be a sight.”
“Isn’t Bottom the one who Titania gets forced to fall in love with?” Damon asked.
“Yep. Alex is thrilled; let me tell you. He really wanted to be Puck since Puck is the only one without a romance plot, and he was going to play him ace, and now he’s all grumpy because he’s gonna have to pretend to kiss me. It’s gonna be good, though. Lots of fun.”
Cathal looked sideways at Damon. Now for the best part. “Did you tell him about your brainwave?”
Damon frowned. “I knew I was forgetting something.”
“What did you forget?” Felix asked, leaning forward between the front seats.
“Sit down, Felix. You’ll kill yourself.” Damon waited until Felix obeyed before answering. “Cathal and I volunteered to help out with the play proceedings.”
Felix blanched. “You’re joking, right?”
“Should I be?”
Felix covered his face. “Oh my God, Daddddd.” He peered through his fingers at them. “I’m doing this to try and get somebody to kiss me! You can’t—be there!”
Cathal looked over his shoulder at Felix. “What did your mother always tell you whenever you didn’t want her to be in your presence?”
Felix mumbled something, and Cathal cleared his throat.
Felix repeated himself, louder but still mumbling. “She said she changed my diapers, so she had the right to do whatever she wanted. And, yeah, yeah, yeah, that applies to Dad, too. But why are you doing it?”
Damon’s eyes flicked to Cathal. Cathal did his best to look casual, not like he’d spent an hour scribbling on a legal pad trying to figure out the same thing. “I’m bored. And I’ve come to realize how greatly I enjoy humiliating you. One must take one’s pleasures where one can.”
“Uggghhhhh.” Felix fell dramatically against the backseat.
“I feel like I should have a teenage cliché bingo card right now,” said Cathal to no one in particular, although Damon’s lips twitched. “If you say, ‘My life is over,’ I’ll win the lifetime supply of denture cream.”
“I really hate you guys sometimes,” Felix mumbled.
“Well, there’s another square, but it’s not in sequence with anything else. You are so unhelpful.”
ON FRIDAY, FELIX had his first rehearsal. The teenagers were sitting in the auditorium in small groups, practicing their lines, and the adults were training to use the equipment. Damon had insisted on being early, so they were the first to arrive.
Cathal popped a macaron in his mouth. “I told you these were a good idea. If nothing else, they give us something to do.”
As at any social gathering, Damon looked stiff (and not in the fun way).
Cathal kicked him. “Would you loosen up? You’ll never make any friends this way.”
“I’m starting to think bringing you was a mistake,” said Damon, rubbing his forehead, but before he could elaborate, another parent arrived.
He was black and a little older than Damon, with thinning brown hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, and he was carrying a covered plate. “Oh, good, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thought to bring something to break the ice.” He sat at the desk in front of Damon’s.
Damon looked at the new arrival the way he looked at all new people: like he had dropped some really strong acid and wasn’t sure if he was tripping yet.
The other man didn’t seem to notice. “Are those macarons?”
Cathal’s gaydar pinged. Maybe that was why Damon looked so off-balance. Although Damon always looked off-balance around people he hadn’t known his entire life.
“My name’s George Jennings,” said the man, uncovering his plate. He’d brought sugar cookies iced in the design of butterflies. “I’m not sure I’ve seen either of you around before. I’m Evie’s dad—she’s going to be Lysander.” He looked at them expectantly.
Cathal kicked Damon when he didn’t speak.
“Oh, I’m—Damon Eglamore.” Damon stuck out his hand to shake. Cathal just waved, resting his chin on his other palm. “I’m Felix’s dad. He’s gonna be Queen Titania.”
George smiled at that. “I think it’s refreshing they’re doing it this way, don’t you? Makes it more interesting.” He reached for a pink macaron. When he tasted it, he looked surprised. “Are these homemade?”
Damon didn’t seem inclined to speak, and Cathal thought George might notice if Cathal kicked him again, so Cathal spoke for h
im. “Damon made them. My name’s Cathal, by the way. Cathal Kinnery.” Weirdly, he felt no urge to flirt, even to keep himself in shape.
George looked between the two of them. “And are you—”
“No,” said Damon and Cathal in unison.
George laughed, raising his hands. “All right, all right. I had to check. You’d think I’d know how to recognize my own kind, but I never do. So Felix’s mother is…?”
Neither of them answered, and George said, “Ah. I’m sorry.”
Damon looked out the window. “She just died. And she used to do all this stuff, so now I’m trying it.”
“I’m sorry,” George repeated, and, for a wonder, he sounded like he meant it. “It’s good you’re getting involved, though. When Evie’s other dad dumped me, I threw myself into her school stuff. It helped.”
Cathal decided now would be an apt time to take a sugar cookie, since Damon and George were staring at each other—Damon as though he was in a contest to see who would blink first, and George as though he was wondering what Damon’s butt looked like. Cathal didn’t want to interrupt, but he couldn’t help a surprised sound of pleasure when he tasted the cookie, and that snapped the other two out of their—whatever-it-was.
“These are good.” Cathal tried to look as though he hadn’t noticed the two of them having a moment all over their nice clean classroom.
“I made them myself. I say when I take a day off from work that I’m not going to bake, and then I end up doing it anyway. I own a bakery,” he said in response to Damon’s questioning glance.
“Which one?” Most people asked questions like this politely, the way you asked someone about the weather. Damon asked it like the bad cop in a police procedural.
George’s answer was hesitant. “The Jasmine Unicorn. We mostly do—”
“Wedding cakes. I know. I’ve seen your work online.” From Damon’s tone, you’d never have guessed he only recently started using the internet on a regular basis.
