Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  “What are you doing?” Wallace asks, voice rough.

  Mike says, “I have no fucking clue,” as he guides Wallace’s face toward his.

  Wallace is taller than him. Mike isn’t thrilled about that, but Wallace ducks his head down and meets him halfway. It’s nothing like before, when Mike had been burning alcohol and Wallace had been, Mike thinks now, full of forceful mock-confidence. There’s a softness to his mouth, now, Wallace’s jaw relaxed under his palms.

  “Mike,” Wallace says, just a tiny, irritating millimeter from Mike. “Mike, are you—”

  “Stop talking,” Mike says.

  Their lips are dry with cold, chapped, catching roughly at the slight tilt, mouth to mouth. Mike hangs there for a moment and breathes hotly in a false kiss. A split second of absolute panic zips down his spine, before freezing cold hands come up to grip the back of his neck, tugging him so he falls along the length of Wallace’s body. Mike’s eyes are closed by the time Wallace takes over and starts kissing him for real.

  Mike makes a small sound into his mouth, hands scrabbling with fabric, then gripping tightly at the collar of Wallace’s sweater. He arches into Wallace, has to go up on his tiptoes, making the slant of mouths aggressive.

  Wallace tastes like toothpaste, like premeditation. Mike would be annoyed by that if Wallace’s teeth didn’t scrape over Mike’s bottom lip, if he didn’t let up just enough to pant and murmur, “Fuck.” Mike can barely stand it.

  Mike moves his hands down to press under Wallace’s sweater, palming the small of his back, and Wallace shivers.

  There’s a broken laugh and Wallace says, “Shit, I should’ve worn a coat,” and Mike grins, moving his lips, damp now, across Wallace’s jaw.

  “You should probably go back inside,” Mike says with a groan.

  “Yeah,” Wallace says, shoving a hand through his hair, disturbing fat, fluffy flakes that haven’t fully dissolved yet. They fall on Mike’s cheeks and he thumps his forehead onto Wallace’s shoulder.

  Everything’s wet with half-melted snow. Mike’s fingers feel raw. He flexes the joints, pressing the pads into Wallace’s bare skin before he finally lets go and takes a small step back.

  The snow has nearly slowed to a stop, but everything’s gray with twilight.

  “Do you want to—” Wallace cuts himself off, tips his head back. “Never mind.”

  “What? Do I want to what?” Mike says, more eager than he intends to.

  Wallace shakes his head, but he smiles a little and says, “Do you want to go see a movie or something? Next week, maybe?”

  Mike wants to say no, just because he’s not used to saying yes. Yes to whatever this is. Instead, for the first time, he says, “Sure,” and hopes it’s not a mistake.

  sixteen.

  By Monday, most of the town has dug themselves out of the eighteen inches of snow that had fallen over the course of Black Friday.

  There’s a nauseating mixture of nervousness and giddy anticipation roiling around Mike’s stomach. He’s having trouble figuring out how he’s supposed to act around Wallace now. Is he supposed to be nice to him? Are they supposed to, like, talk to each other? It’s weird.

  “What’s up with you?” Lisa asks him in math.

  “I’m having a small mental breakdown,” Mike says absently, staring down at his notebook. He’s wondering whether he has to switch seats with Leoni in English and doodling cats in the corners of his vector diagram. He doesn’t want to switch seats. He wants to sit next to Mo and make fun of Beckett—god, they hate Beckett; only pretentious weirdos like Beckett. Mike and Mo agree that existentialism is for pussies.

  Lisa pokes him with her pencil. “About what?”

  Mike looks up and blinks at her. “What?”

  “You’re having a breakdown?” Lisa says.

  “I said that out loud?” Mike rubs a hand over his mouth. He feels like a zombie, like he hasn’t slept in three days. He also feels—he’s not sure, but he thinks he’s actually looking forward to going out with Wallace. He kind of wants to smile stupidly at Lisa and gossip about making out with Wallace in the snow. He obviously has brain damage from the cold.

  “You’re spacey today. Why are you so spacey?” Lisa asks. “You’re not high, are you?”

  Mike frowns. “No.” That would probably solve a lot of his problems, though.

  “Okay,” Lisa says, in a way that implies it’s not okay. She totally doesn’t believe him, but she’s going to let it slide, just this once. It involves narrowed eyes and calculated tapping of her pencil.

  Mike is saved by the teacher, and he pretends to pay attention for once, until the bell rings and he can slip off to English before Lisa can force him into a deeper conversation.

  Of course, he gets to English and remembers why he probably should’ve hidden out in the second floor boys’ bathroom instead.

  Wallace is already in his seat, pulling out Waiting For Godot, and he glances up at Mike with a truly ridiculous-looking grin. Mike stops short at the open door, staring, stomach doing this horrible nervous fluttering thing, until Vin Yoon shoulders him out of the way with a dirty look. Fucking Vin. Mike scowls at him, and when he turns back toward Wallace, Leoni is taking his regular seat next to him. The fluttering doesn’t exactly go away, but something in all his limbs relaxes.

  He makes his way back to Mo and her rant on Endgame, and it’s—thank Christ—like any other crappy day of the week.

  * * *

  For the most part, Mike’s week goes exactly the same as usual. Except with a marked lack of glaring in Wallace’s direction, an occasional nod of hello, and that single, semi-awkward moment Wednesday morning, when Wallace had cornered him at his locker just before homeroom and officially asked him out for Friday night.

  Mike would like to say he hadn’t blushed all over his fair-skinned body, but that would be a huge lie. Wallace had loomed all up in his space, confidence back in spades, and Mike had stammered out a yes like a virginal schoolgirl.

  On Thursday, Dotty says, “You and Rook kiss and make up?” and Mike chokes on spit and nothing and almost coughs up a lung.

  Dotty pats his back so hard Mike nearly stumbles. “Geez,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Mike gasps. And then he has a holy-shit epiphany—Mike realizes he’s going to have to tell people. Not just Lisa or Jay or his crazy grandmother. This probably isn’t going to stay a secret, judging by the extreme lack of discretion Wallace has shown so far.

  The thing is, it may not seem like a big deal—Mike’s been accidentally outed to so many people these past couple months, he should be used to it—but it totally is. Once everyone knows, there’s no going back. There’s no changing his mind, no brushing it off.

  Except Wallace isn’t exactly out and proud to the masses yet, either, so … maybe Wallace wants this to be a secret? Maybe he won’t want anyone knowing that he’s dating Mike at all.

  Mike isn’t sure which scenario is worse and he suddenly feels like throwing up all over Dotty’s shoes. He doesn’t, but it’s a close thing.

  “You look weird,” Dotty says.

  “Thanks,” Mike says dryly, and Dotty grins.

  “Seriously, you’re acting weird, too,” she says.

  Mike shrugs tightly. At some point, he might tell her. Or maybe she’ll just find out, which is way more likely, and it’s going to be weird if and when that happens, but he’s not going to do anything about that now.

  Right now, he’s going to go to his Spanish class and fake his way through Don Quixote.

  * * *

  After school on Friday, Mike fidgets through dinner with Rosie and his mom and then locks himself in his room and panics.

  Mike has no idea what he’s supposed to do on a date with a guy. Logically, he knows it can’t be much different than any other kind of date, but illogically—illogically, Mike is freaking out.

  This is the only possible explanation for why he calls Scalzetti.

  “Michael,” J. J. says when
he picks up. “Hello.”

  “Hey,” Mike says.

  There’s a pointed silence. Then J. J. says, “And you called me, why?”

  Mike takes a deep breath. He says, “I have a date.”

  “Good for you,” J. J. says coolly. “I fail to see how this is relevant to me.”

  “I have a date with a guy,” Mike says.

  “That actually makes it worse, Michael. You can see that, right?”

  “Um.” It’s possible Mike didn’t think this through.

  J. J. sighs noisily. “You’re freaking out.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Mike thinks that’s pretty obvious.

  “I’m not your gay love guru,” J. J. says, only he sounds more resigned than pissy. “What’s the problem?”

  Mike opens and closes his mouth dumbly, presses his lips together. He’s not sure he can explain it. They’ve already kissed; going out should be the easy part, right? “I don’t know,” he finally says.

  “Well,” J. J. says, “who are you going out with?”

  Mike grimaces to himself, but it’s not like it matters if J. J. knows. “Rook Wallace.”

  “Rook? You know,” J. J. says, tone lighter, “I think I can forgive you for passing me over if you had that panting after you. How on earth did you manage to land him?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Mike says.

  J. J. hmmms thoughtfully. He says, “Well, I’m not sure what you want from me, but I’d advise you not to screw this up.”

  “Thanks,” Mike says. Everyone around him is so goddamn helpful, right?

  “I’m serious,” J. J. says. “Rook’s dreamy and tall and way too good for you. You’ll probably have to bathe regularly now. I know it’s a hardship, but you’ll have to at least try to be hygienic. Lord knows why I find you attractive, Michael, when you generally smell like weed and broken hobo dreams, but I’ll give you five gold stars for your kissing technique.”

  Mike chokes on a laugh. “Right.”

  “Your mouth is very important, Michael,” J. J. says, completely serious, and his voice goes a little husky, which definitely should not spark off something in Mike’s belly, but it’s not like he can help it.

  Mike’s mouth is suddenly dry, but he manages a thick “Yeah.”

  J. J. inhales sharply. “Oh, don’t tease me. I know you won’t put out.”

  Mike doesn’t actually know who’s teasing who here, so he figures it’s a good time to hang up. There’s just something about Scalzetti. Mike almost wishes he could stand the guy—they’d probably have some fun together. He says, “I gotta go.”

  “Of course,” J. J. says. He adds, “Just relax and have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  It’s not really the kind of advice Mike had been hoping for. He’s got the feeling that there’s not a whole lot J. J. wouldn’t do. He says, “Thanks,” anyway.

  * * *

  Mike showers, because he does shower, thanks very much, J. J.

  He uses actual shampoo on his hair and jerks off thinking about Wallace’s hands and J. J.’s mouth, because he’s messed up in the head, and then he enters this strange realm of calm as he gets dressed. This is going to go fine, he tells himself. It’s just a movie, and then maybe they’ll make out in the backseat of Wallace’s car.

  He changes twice, because Rosie looks at him weird when he puts on a button-down, and he ends up in a newish T-shirt and jeans. He looks pretty much like he always does and he figures that’s not a bad thing.

  Mom is sitting in the kitchen with an entire apple pie when he wanders in, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. She tries and fails to look like she didn’t just shove an enormous forkful into her mouth and stares him down with an arched eyebrow.

  “What?” he says.

  She waves her fork around. “Nothing,” she says thickly, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

  “Right.” He doesn’t expect anything, it’s not like he told her about the date. As far as she’s concerned, he could be doing anything he regularly does on a Friday. Meeting up with Cam and Meckles. Playing drunken flashlight tag in the woods. Setting some garbage on fire. Hiding from the cops. The usual.

  Still, there’s a particular way she says, “Be safe,” like she’s not talking about tying a scooter to the back of Omar’s van and heading for the highway, but Mike’s not going to call her on it—that’s a conversation he’s going to avoid as long as possible.

  At seven o’clock, he shrugs on his army jacket and meets Wallace at the end of his driveway. He pops open the passenger door and slides in; the heater’s on high, blasting air and noise, and the radio’s on low—some hip-hop station. Mike can feel the bass through his seat.

  Mike slams the door shut, and when the dome light winks out, Wallace leans over and kisses him—shallow and so quick Mike’s a little breathless when Wallace pulls away. And then he follows him, knee wedged into the center console, hands gripping Wallace’s jacket, because that wasn’t nearly enough of a hello—this is what his pants are telling him. After a thorough mapping of Wallace’s mouth, Mike sits back in the seat and says, “Hey.”

  “Christ,” Wallace breathes.

  “You started it,” Mike says. He’s a little smug. He doesn’t know why he was so worried; Mike is actually fantastic at this dating guys thing.

  Wallace chuffs a laugh. “Yeah, um. I pretty much wanted to do that all week.”

  “Cool.” Mike slumps down so his knees are hitting the dash.

  Wallace flashes him a look before putting the car in gear. Mike can’t quite tell what his expression is in the dim light, but he’s betting on surprise. He’s probably been waiting for Mike to freak out. Never mind the fact that Mike actually did freak out—it was hours ago, so it totally doesn’t count.

  When Wallace pulls into the parking lot for the local AMC, Mike feels more relieved than he’d ever admit aloud. The AMC is smaller than the Franklin and closer to their houses, so they’re less likely to run into anyone they know there who’s below the age of forty. It’s not like he would have minded seeing people he knows, two guys going to the movies doesn’t automatically scream date, but considering Mike would tell anyone who’d listen that Wallace was his evil archnemesis, born from the unholy union of Lucifer and a goat, it’d be a little weird seeing them in public together. It would require explanations.

  Mike has a brief, tiny panic attack when they buy tickets—is he supposed to buy? Are they going Dutch?—but it turns out to not be a big deal. Wallace steps up to the booth first, pays without asking Mike, and Mike’s actually okay with that. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and slouches next to Wallace.

  Wallace hands him his ticket and Mike cocks his head toward the snack bar. “Candy?” he says.

  “Sure, but you better be buying,” Wallace says.

  Mike grins, and the rest is surprisingly easy.

  * * *

  Mike loses track of what’s happening on-screen twenty minutes in, when Wallace’s legs spread and their knees touch and Mike goes instantly hard, because apparently his earlier orgasm did nothing to calm his libido. It figures.

  Mike shifts in his seat, sinks farther down and presses his knee back. If it wasn’t a family theater, he’d push up the armrest in between them and try for the whole thigh. He feels Wallace’s eyes on the side of his face, brief and intense. He’s not ignoring him, exactly, just concentrating on the heat spreading out from where their legs are touching. By the time he remembers that there’s a movie playing, he’s totally lost the narrative.

  He doesn’t particularly care, but he also doesn’t feel like sitting through another two hours of this.

  He leans into Wallace, elbow on the rest, leveraging him up so his mouth is close to Wallace’s ear. He says, “You watching this?”

  “I’m—” Wallace turns to look at him, their noses nearly touching. “Yes.”

  Mike narrows his eyes, nods. “Right.”

  Wallace faces the screen again, the corner of his mouth tight. His hands are curled int
o fists on his thighs, and Mike watches him shift and squirm, and thinks, Well, well. Never let it be said that Mike is shy.

  He stays angled toward Wallace, oh-so-casually drapes his arm over the armrest. Wallace tenses when Mike’s fingers slide under his forearm to lay his palm flat against Wallace’s jeans.

  Mike stifles a grin. “Sure?”

  “Yes,” Wallace says, though it’s more a hiss than a word.

  Mike wants to laugh. The tips of his fingers scrape Wallace’s inseam and Wallace jerks away from him and gets to his feet in one continuous motion, grabbing Mike’s arm. For a split second Mike thinks he’s going to yell at him, that Wallace is pissed off, but he only pulls Mike up and pushes him out toward the center aisle instead.

  Mike trips over his feet and an elderly couple at the end of the row, swallowing down a laugh and murmuring, “Sorry.”

  He feels like a little kid, stomping down the stadium stairs and swinging around to the doors, amusement bubbling up his throat. They don’t even make it out of the dark hallway before Wallace pushes Mike up against the wall, curves his palms over Mike’s ass and hauls his hips up to slot into his.

  Mike has to muffle a yelp into Wallace’s shoulder.

  “You’re such a jerk,” Wallace says, a raspy whisper.

  “Shhhh,” Mike says, shaking a little with suppressed laughter. He can’t believe they’re doing this. He can feel Wallace hard against the crease of his hip, and Mike’s mind’s eye briefly flashes back to gay porn and scary dicks, but instead of fear and disgust, he just wants to get closer, maybe, definitely with more bare skin involved. It turns out he just needed a little context.

  Mike’s so fucking turned on, and he thinks any more friction and he’ll come in his pants, right there.

  He presses his open mouth into Wallace’s throat, hooks an ankle around Wallace’s calf, the other foot straining on its tiptoes.

  Wallace says, “This is a bad idea.”

  He’s right. The ushers are probably going to find them any second now. Mike tugs on the back of Wallace’s shirt. “Car,” Mike says. He’d even settle for the bathroom. He’s not picky.