by S. J. Goslee
The lobby isn’t very crowded, and Wallace pulls him along with a hand on his wrist, and Mike hides his mouth with his other hand, because he can’t stop laughing. It’s like he’s high, only really it’s just nerves and excitement and the fact that he’s going to get laid. Hopefully. If they don’t get arrested first.
Wallace has to unlock the car door manually, which is such a pain in the ass. Mike drapes himself along Wallace’s back, though, and hooks his fingers into the waistband of Wallace’s jeans, waiting for him to lever the front seat forward, and then he’s being twisted around and shoved backward into the cramped backseat of the two-door Chevy.
“Do you always put out on the first date?” Wallace asks.
“Hell, yeah,” Mike says, scooting farther into the car as Wallace crawls in, one knee between Mike’s spread legs. He’s a guy. He’s sixteen. Christ, he’s probably not going to last very long.
Wallace grins, the dome light casting a shadow over his eyes, and it’s his wolf grin—one that makes him look like he wants to take Mike apart with his teeth. Mike’s all for that grin right now.
“Shut the door,” Mike says. They’re totally going to get arrested.
When Wallace finally kisses him, he tastes like Runts, like sugar, but Mike is too on edge to savor the sweetness. He sucks in a breath when Wallace gropes for the button on his jeans, skimming warm fingers on his belly. At the sound of his zipper, Mike’s breathing grows louder, ragged, and he suddenly wishes they’d turned the car on, that they had the buzz of the radio to drown them out.
“Okay?” Wallace says.
Mike nods. “Yeah.” And then Wallace’s hand snakes into his boxers. “Fuck, yeah,” his voice breaks.
Wallace chuckles against his cheek, which,—fuck that. His turn. Mike arches his back, grabs hold of Wallace’s shoulders and turns his head, just enough to bite into Wallace’s mouth. When Wallace’s grip on him stutters, Mike worms his hand down the front of Wallace’s jeans, and Wallace makes a gratifying squeaky noise.
Mike gets Wallace’s pants all the way open just about the time Wallace’s breath has fallen back into a rhythm, and the heavy, hot feel of him in Mike’s hand—embarrassingly enough—is what sets him off. The rush up from his toes, through his balls, is almost a surprise, and Mike worries he squeezes too hard in that instant, heart caught in his throat.
But if it bothers Wallace, he doesn’t say, following Mike short seconds later.
“Shit,” Mike breathes. He pushes Wallace’s shoulders back until he’s flat against the seat and Mike is flush against him.
“That was too fast,” Wallace says with a sigh. Mike tenses, but Wallace quickly clarifies. “Like, over too fast.”
Mike totally agrees. He’s still breathing hard, but he already wants to do it again. Maybe not in a car, though. Sex in a car actually kind of sucks balls. Wallace’s legs are all over the place, and Mike doesn’t know where to put his arms. He feels really fucking great anyway. And they’ll have other chances, elsewhere. Lots of them.
Mike’s sweat is cooling quickly without the heat on, and he shivers a little, tucks his head into Wallace’s neck for warmth. Mike’s ass is hanging off the edge of the seat, and Wallace’s hand on his hip and his long leg thrown over Mike’s thigh are pretty much the only things keeping him in place. Doesn’t matter, though—it’s enough.
* * *
It’s pretty awkward, untangling themselves, wiping off with a bunch of McDonald’s napkins from the foot well, and migrating to the front seats. Wallace keeps elbowing him, and Mike accidentally kicks him a couple times in the thigh. Mike’s shirt is more than a little gross, too. He feels weird and sticky, sitting in the passenger seat.
Wallace turns on the car, and there’s a blast of clammy air from the heater before he dials it down a few notches. “So,” he says.
The digital clock on the radio says it’s only eight thirty.
“Yeah,” Mike says with an exhale.
“I was planning on maybe getting ice cream after the movie,” Wallace says.
Mike could go for some ice cream. There’s really never a time Mike couldn’t go for ice cream. He rubs his palms on his thighs and says, “Okay, sure.” Somehow this, right then, is so much more uncomfortable than cuddling in the backseat. It’s like his brain shuts down when they’re touching, and now that he can think again it’s just really strange, knowing that he’s touched Wallace’s dick.
He thinks maybe Wallace is experiencing the same thing.
There’s a Dairy Queen five miles outside of Morrison. They’re quiet on the drive, silence thickening around them until Mike can’t think of anything to say that won’t be unbelievably lame.
The Dairy Queen is crowded. Mike tries not to panic. He just has to take a deep breath and dive in.
Mike recognizes a couple kids from different grades, but none of their friends are there, at least. There isn’t even anyone in their class there. Small mercies.
They wait in line and Mike slouches next to Wallace and Wallace jitters his leg until they both have ice cream—an Oreo Cookies Blizzard for Wallace and a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard for Mike—and then they sit across from each other in a hard plastic red-and-white booth.
Mike bows his head and stabs his Blizzard with his spoon.
Wallace kicks out with a foot, knocking it against Mike’s sneaker, then grins at him when Mike glances up.
“Hey,” Wallace says.
Half of Mike’s mouth quirks up. “What?”
Wallace shakes his head, still grinning. “Nothing.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “You’re secretly a big dork, right?”
“I didn’t think it was a secret,” Wallace says. He nudges his cup toward Mike. “Want some?”
Mike dips his spoon in, at the same time gesturing at his own ice cream, and somehow they end up switching cups and talking about Meckles, and how hilarious he is with Dotty, and then Wallace wrinkles his nose and says, “You and Serge. I didn’t like that.”
“Oh my god, Wallace, I’m his friend,” Mike says. “I saved him from getting beat up by assholes! I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”
“You can call me Rook, you know,” Wallace says.
“Wallace,” Mike says, because Rook just sounds weird, even in his head, “you don’t honestly want me to stop hanging out with your brother, do you?”
Wallace shrugs, but he looks reluctant. “I guess not.”
“You guess—” Mike cuts himself off with an amused snort. Wallace is jealous, and Mike’s trying not to find that completely hysterical. “Serge is a weirdo, but I like him.” And speaking of that. “Actually, your whole family’s strange,” he says. “Doesn’t your mom collect clowns?”
Wallace arches an eyebrow. “I’ve been introduced to Sandwich. And, uh. Box Head?”
Mike nods. His family is weird, too. “I see your point. But Lilith is—”
“Cripplingly shy,” Wallace says.
“Let me guess,” Mike says, grinning. “Teeny takes after you.”
“Teeny wants to be Miss Teen USA.”
“Right,” Mike laughs. “Totally takes after you.”
Wallace’s mouth curves into that smirk again and his eyes are amused. He says, “My dad’s normal.”
“There is no normal, Wallace,” Mike says, thinking of what Lisa said. He taps his spoon on the chipped Formica table. “We’re all fucked up.”
Wallace cocks his head, quizzical. “You really think that?”
“I don’t know. Kind of.” He’s starting to believe, though, that being fucked up has its benefits.
* * *
Wallace doesn’t walk him to his door, but he does lean across the console and kiss him. It seems weird, at first, even though they’ve been kissing all night. He holds his hands up, fingers spread, feeling ridiculous, and then clutches the front of Wallace’s coat and kisses him back.
“Uh. This was fun,” Wallace says when he pulls away, barely.
“Yeah, it—”
Wallace tugs their faces close again, palming Mike’s neck. He nips at Mike’s lower lip and rests his thumb under Mike’s chin, moving back again. “Three weeks. I have tickets to see Evan Dando—”
“Evan Dando?” Mike says. “Lead singer of the Lemonheads Evan Dando?”
“Yeah.” Wallace nods, a smug little knowing smile on his lips that Mike kind of wants to bite off him, except Evan Dando! “He’s playing an acoustic Christmas set in Philadelphia.”
“I know,” Mike says. “That’s three hours away. On Christmas Eve.”
“I know. Look, you don’t have to. I just thought, because you liked them, maybe you’d—” Wallace shrugs.
Mike punches him on the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up, Wallace, of course I want to go.” He just has to weasel out of going to his grandparents’, which should be fun. Nana’ll probably be okay with it if he mentions having a boy. A boy something. Not a boyfriend, obviously, but someone worth being gay with. Nana will approve of that, because she’s a crazy person.
“Good,” Wallace says.
Mike nods. “Yeah.” He gets a little lost, staring at Wallace, and then he remembers they’re still sitting in his driveway and that he should probably get out of the car. “Thanks,” he says. “For the movie.”
Wallace arches his eyebrow, silently mocking. “The best movie.”
There’s an expanding ball of warmth in Mike’s chest. He clears his throat and reaches for the door handle. “See you,” he says.
Wallace nods. “Yeah, bye.”
* * *
Mike doesn’t mean to do it, but he ends up spending half the night lying in bed, staring at his ceiling. He doesn’t feel antsy or anxious, only like he’s riding on some mellow high. It’s a little like how he felt when he first started dating Lisa—back when they actually were dating, not just twistedly saving each other from boredom. Back when it was new and exciting and Mike wasn’t sure where it was going, but it didn’t matter, because right at that moment it was amazing.
It’s a little like that, but not quite.
He still feels nervous as hell, like this could end up being a huge motherfucking disaster. One that could hurt a lot more than just deciding they, him and Wallace, don’t work together, after all.
But, fuck, it’s even more exciting than with Lisa. Mike is a giant tool; it’s nearly three in the morning, and he’s still smiling giddily up at nothing. There’s a tingling in the tips of his fingers and toes and it feels so good that he’s just shy of jerking off again. He squirms a little against his sheets, and then he thinks, fuck it, and slips a hand down his stomach and into his shorts.
seventeen.
“You’re in a good mood,” Omar says. He’s perched on the edge of the pool table in Meckles’ basement, feet resting on the arm of the couch across from it.
Mike bobs his head. “I guess.” He’s in a great mood. He feels like grinning at everybody. He bows his head to his guitar, face hot, and strums an absent chord. Goddamn it, he’s acting like a dumbass, but he can’t help himself.
“What’s up with you?” Meckles asks.
Mike shrugs and says, “So, I’m, uh, sort of dating Wallace. Well, a date. I had a date with Wallace last night.” He didn’t plan this, but his brain obviously thought it was a good time to talk, with all of them hanging out at Meckles’, halfheartedly jamming. He kind of wants to stuff the words back into his mouth as soon as he’s said them. Omar has a deer-in-headlights look on his face and Mike’s heart jumps up into his throat.
“Isn’t Lilith eleven?” Meckles asks, confused.
A second later Cam sits up from his sprawl on the couch and says, “Wait, Rook? Don’t you hate him?”
Mike dips his head. He palms the back of his neck; it’s damp with sweat and nerves. He says, “I don’t hate him.”
He takes in Meckles’ absolutely fucking baffled expression, and goes on. “Apparently”—he takes a deep breath—“I like guys.”
There. It’s done. It’s out there, spelled out and highlighted for all of them now. He feels a little like all the air’s been sucked from the room, but also like a giant weight has lifted off his chest. Throwing up has not been taken completely off the table, though.
Meckles says, “You’re gay?” He looks pale and stricken, and a little horrified. He looks how Mike had felt, at the beginning of this mess, so Mike understands.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt, though.
“Technically,” Mike says, a little shakily, “I’m bi.”
And then Omar—Mike’s fucking rock—whips off his bass and silently stalks from the room.
* * *
Omar doesn’t pick him up for school on Monday.
Mike waits at the front window for fifteen minutes before giving in and waking up his mom for a ride and a late note. She gives him sympathetic, worried glances on the way. When they pull up in front of the school, she puts the car in park and shifts in her seat to look at him fully.
“You know, I let the black eye slide, even though you ended up at the hospital,” she says pointedly.
Mike picks at the strap of his bag. “Yeah.” He really doesn’t want to talk about this.
She sighs. “Just … are you okay?”
“I’m—” He stares out the windshield. Two girls hurry past, books hugged to their chests. One of them waves back at the pickup truck idling at the curb in front of Mom’s car before disappearing inside. “I don’t know,” he says.
“All right,” she says. She reaches over and squeezes his wrist. “If you ever want to talk…”
“That’s okay,” Mike says. His mom is great, he loves her a lot, but he absolutely does not want to talk to her about how much liking dudes is apparently fucking up his friendships.
“I mean it.” She shakes his arm. She looks grimly determined, like she’d take on the world for him if she could, if he’d let her, and Mike’s reminded of all the ways she tells Rosie’s teachers to shove it up their asses whenever they call Rosie special. How she routinely got thrown out of his Little League games for yelling at the umps and coaches, and sometimes the snack stand volunteers when they ran out of hot dogs. How she always let Cam sleep over after his mom died, even if it meant dealing with two hopped up seven-year-olds watching R-rated action movies at eleven on a school night.
Mike doesn’t even want to think about what she’d do to Omar if she knew, but it’s kind of reassuring to remember she has his back, anyhow.
He says, “Thanks, Mom,” and manages a shaky smile.
* * *
The next day, he gets up twenty minutes early and bikes it. He doesn’t mention it to anyone, and other than that, other than the fact that Omar doesn’t want to be in a car alone with him, it’s almost normal. Omar still sits with them at lunch. They’re still lab partners in chemistry. They just don’t talk. It’s like Mike makes Omar uncomfortable, and it’s a really horrible feeling, to be on the receiving side of that.
And Meckles. Who the hell knows what’s going on with Meckles? He isn’t ignoring Mike, but he acts like he thinks Mike could jump him at any moment, and that blows.
Mike doesn’t know what to do without Omar, though. It’s dumb, but Omar’s like the little voice in his head that tells him when he should think about showering or wearing a coat or when it’s a bad idea to listen to Cam. Granted, that’s nearly all the time, and it’s not like Mike ever really takes his advice, but Omar’s always been there to check him. So if Omar’s going radio silent about this, why does it feel so much like condemnation? Mike isn’t doing anything wrong—logically he knows that—but Omar’s making him feel like shit.
And he knows that this is unfair, that it’s not even Wallace’s fault, that this is no one’s actual fault, but if Wallace doesn’t stop looking at him like that, like Mike’s awesome, Mike might just punch him in the face, Leoni be damned.
It’s crazy, because a few days ago Mike had been so naively happy, but he still knew this could happen. He knew it, so why does i
t still seem like such a fucking surprise?
“So, Mike,” Wallace says, leaning a hip against his lab table as they’re packing up at the end of chemistry. “I was thinking we could—”
“Can we not talk about this now?” Mike wants to crawl under the lab desk. Omar is stiff beside him, radiating disapproval, and Mike wants the world to just stop for a few minutes.
“What’s wrong?” Wallace asks him.
“Nothing,” Mike says, clenching his hands into fists. He watches Omar zip up his schoolbag and then silently slip out of the classroom.
Wallace shoves his own hands into his pockets, like he’s suddenly feeling awkward, and right now, Mike just doesn’t have the energy for this. He sighs in exasperation.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Wallace says.
He sounds so genuinely concerned that Mike forces a smile onto his face, lets it grow a little more real when one corner of Wallace’s mouth curves up to match it. “I’m okay, just. There’s some stuff that’s pissing me off.”
Wallace nods. “Okay.”
“Yeah, so—”
“Do you want to get pizza after school tomorrow?” Wallace asks.
Mike tightens his grip on his book bag and starts toward the door. “I have to work till eight.”
Wallace shrugs. “After.”
“Maybe,” Mike says, hedging. Pizza means Carmine’s and probably the field hockey team; those harpies are vicious. He turns around, hooking his bag over his shoulder as he pushes the door open wider. “We’ll see.”
“Hey.” Wallace catches his arm, hand on his elbow. When Mike half turns to look back at him, Wallace smiles, but his smile looks shaky, like he’s unsure. “We’re still on for Christmas Eve, right?”
Mike bobs his head. “Yeah, sure. I mean—probably.”
Wallace forces his lips up further and firmer at the corners, but his eyes don’t follow.
Mike regrets even saying probably. He wants to go. It’s Evan Dando and it’s Wallace. He does want to go, he just feels … he feels like all his limbs are hollow and his heart is pounding and it’s motherfucking stupid, but he’s suddenly terrified that this all means something that he’s not ready for it to mean. “My grandmother might freak out about it, though,” he says, lying. Nana would purse her lips and lecture him about using protection. “We’re, um, supposed to spend the holidays with her and Gramps, over in Bridgeport.” Bridgeport is two hours in the opposite direction of Philly, but it’s still a shitty excuse.
