The Man Who Told the World

by Hanna Dare

  Conor sat on the steps. “So what was that?” he asked when Derek sat back down. “You freaked out.”

  Derek stared off. “Everyone’s gonna know now. Even if I can stop them from talking—it’s like I look at you and it all shines out. Like a fucking arrow pointing at me.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Not for you, maybe. You’re here for what? Another two months, tops. I’m stuck here.”

  “We’re not the only gay people in town, Derek. I mean, it feels like it, but we can’t be. Most people aren’t going to care one way or another.”

  “Yeah.” He still looked away.

  Conor frowned; something flickered in his imagination, like a distant note of music. “What if you weren’t here? I mean, what’s keeping you?”

  Derek tilted his head to look at him. “What d’you mean?”

  Conor took a deep breath. “Come with me.” It was like stepping off a cliff, but once he said it, Conor felt more certain. “To California.”

  Derek stared. “What the hell would I do out there?”

  “Same as here, look for a job. There’s probably more work out there than anywhere around here, I mean, if you aren’t going back to your uncle’s?”

  “I’m not going back out there,” Derek said swiftly.

  “Of course not. So come with me. Live with me. I’ll have to talk to Megan, it’s going to be her apartment, too. And you have to talk to Megan—and be nice, like really nice, because she’s scared of you.”

  “Which one is Megan again? The one with the freckles or the weird one?”

  “Really, really nice.” The idea grew and took shape within him. It felt good, it felt right. “This could work.”

  “You think so? You and me?” Derek was frowning, but there was something else there in his face, small but growing. Hope.

  “Yes,” Conor said, and kissed him. And said it again, and kissed him again, because he could. “Yes.”

  Conor’s aunt had taken Tori shopping and his dad was working late so Conor brought Derek in the house and into his room.

  He’d decided that it wasn’t fair to rely on Derek entirely for condoms and lube, so Conor had made himself actually buy some. He’d driven three towns over, worn sunglasses, and blushed the whole time he was in the store, but he’d done it, and he was determined to get some use out of them.

  They kissed for a long time on the bed, under the watchful eyes of Conor’s music posters. Conor slicked Derek’s fingers and urged him to slide first one finger into him, then two, and finally three, as Conor rocked against him, groaning and panting for more. Conor lay on his back, remembering to relax and breathe as he pulled Derek’s cock inside.

  “This is easier than the last time I tried this with you,” Derek said as he slowly pushed in. “I guess—”

  He didn’t say anything more and he didn’t ask, but Conor shook his head, not wanting to think of Kai right now.

  Derek held himself still, maybe worried about the head shake, waiting for Conor. Conor almost didn’t want him to move, this moment with Derek filling him up completely was perfect, like the sweetest note of a song.

  “You’re my first,” Conor insisted. “You’re going to be my last.” His eyes fluttered closed in pleasure. “You’re my everything.”

  There were a few long, delicious strokes, and then Derek was still again. Conor opened his eyes to see Derek frowning down at him. “Was that—Barry White?”

  Conor’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean to quote lyrics—”

  They both started laughing, which was a weird, though not unpleasant sensation, with Derek still inside him. There was more laughing and kissing, and finally later, when they were quiet and tired but unwilling to leave the tangle of limbs and sheets holding them close together, Derek whispered, “Still pretty fucking romantic.”

  High school graduation was held in the gym, but only after a layer of rubber matting had been laid down to protect the floor from street shoes and folding chairs. The whole place smelled of gym shoes and old basketballs.

  The seniors lined up to get their black rental robes and caps before filing into their seats in the first two rows in front of the stage. The seating was in alphabetical order, but Derek dropped into the chair beside Conor.

  “You’re not supposed to sit there,” Becky Fuller said to him when she came over to find her seat.

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “I failed the alphabet and they’re still letting me graduate. Complain to someone.”

  “Sorry, Becky,” Conor said, with a smile. He would have liked to have taken Derek’s hand, but figured Derek wouldn’t appreciate that. They’d had several conversations—and gone out for pizza one night with Megan, an experience that she described as, “weird but less life-threatening than expected,” which Conor chose to see as promising—and Derek had agreed that when they moved to L.A., he wasn’t going to pretend that that were roommates, or act like they were anything other than what they were, which was boyfriends. It still felt a bit strange to even think it, but it was nice. Until then, while they were still in their hometown, Conor wasn’t going to push Derek to come out or anything like that. He had no idea if Brent and Harris had told anyone, but they weren’t exactly known for their wide social circle. And Derek was still a terrifying figure at the school, so no one had said anything to him. Sitting next to Conor was actually a big, scary step for Derek, and Conor let himself appreciate the gesture, even if Becky Fuller looked outraged.

  Derek did spread his legs wide as he sat and, under the robes, his knee pressed against Conor’s.

  Their high school graduation ceremony was probably as far away from the Singing Sensation finale as something could be and still exist on the same planet. Conor supposed they both did involve stages, though here, the steps up to the stage creaked alarmingly every time someone walked up. The valedictorian had no idea how to speak into the microphone, so her speech was peppered with calls from the audience to “speak up” or shushes from other people straining to listen. Despite the principal’s admonitions to hold applause to the end, calling students up to get their diplomas turned into a popularity contest, with Conor surprisingly tying the quarterback Dylan Johnston for the loudest clapping. Derek’s walk up to the podium was accompanied by Maggie’s whistles, his mother’s cheers, and the polite applause of Conor’s entire family. Derek took the rolled up paper from the frowning principal and saluted the crowd cockily with it. Conor’s happy grin for him lasted through the awarding of Becky Fuller’s diploma and his own walk across the stage, so that the picture of him shaking hands with the principal that appeared in the Tri-County Herald the next day looked incredibly goofy.

  The graduation dance was held away from the school, in a banquet hall across town that was usually used for weddings and sports awards. Conor had borrowed the car for the night—he had to go over earlier to help with the set-up, since Dave, of Dave’s Party Palace, seemed confused by the concept of a sound check. Also, Conor suspected Derek might sneak in some liquor to fortify himself for the dance, so someone needed to be the designated driver.

  He was waved downstairs by Mrs. Folsom when he arrived to pick Derek up. “Don’t you look nice! Can you help him with his tie, Conor? I can’t remember how to do it,” Barb said. “And don’t let him leave without me getting pictures.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “You’d think you got enough pictures at the graduation ceremony.”

  “This is an occasion, isn’t it? Once in a lifetime.”

  “Yeah,” Maggie replied, “Derek in a tie.”

  As Conor walked down the basement steps, Derek stared up at him. “Shit,” he said, sounding stunned.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Conor said. He was wearing the light gray suit the show had tailored for him. Wardrobe had given it to him before he left, along with a few other things, saying that it only fit Conor now, though they’d also said not to tell the producers that he had it. So he felt a little guilty about it, but it was a really nice sui
t. He’d also styled his hair the way they’d shown him on the show, something he hadn’t bothered with before at home. It was gratifying, the way Derek was staring, but Derek was also starting to look a little sickly.

  “What are we doing?” Derek said, sitting on the edge of the old couch and looking lost.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at you. You’re like a fucking movie star.”

  “It’s just a suit, Derek.”

  Derek was wearing a dark suit jacket over some black pants, but the jacket clearly didn’t belong to him; it strained in the shoulders and was too long in the sleeves. It was also a slightly different shade of black than the pants. “You’re outta my league. Like completely.” He yanked a striped tie from his neck and crumpled it in his hand. “What are we doing?” he asked again.

  Conor walked over to him. “We’re going to the dance.” He took off his own silk tie—careful not to undo the narrow knot that had taken a fair amount of effort from his dad to tie—and slipped it over Derek’s head. “We’re probably going to hate it, but we can leave once I do a few songs.”

  He fixed Derek’s collar and then got rid of the jacket altogether. Derek looked good in just the white shirt, and Conor pulled off his own leather belt and put in on him. “Then we’re going to enjoy the next few weeks of summer.”

  He smoothed Derek’s hair down. Conor knew that wouldn’t last long, but it would be nice for Barb’s pictures at least. “We’re going to go to Los Angeles and work hard and have fun and be together. Because I love you and you love me. And that’s how it’s going to be. So deal with it.”

  Derek shook his head, but he had the start of a smile. “Sounds like you got it all figured out, tough guy.”

  Conor lifted his chin. “There’s nothing we can’t do.” He offered Derek his hand. “Come on, they’re all waiting.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Conor got his guitar out of the trunk while Derek ran a nervous hand through his hair, messing it up completely. He looked at the people walking into the banquet hall in their suits and dresses.

  “So we really doing this?” he said to Conor. He seemed uncertain.

  “You don’t have to walk in with me if you don’t want.” Though Conor wanted it very much. “Everyone probably is going to look. There’s no avoiding it, if we go in there together.”

  Derek looked at Conor and then his most dangerous smile curved his lips. “Fuck ’em,” he said, and took Conor’s hand.

  So Conor walked into the graduation dance with his guitar case in one hand and Derek Folsom holding the other.

  Derek kept up a steady stream of curses under his breath the whole time, but he didn’t let go of Conor’s hand. His head was held high. All around them, the people from their class, their dates, and a few weary teachers chaperoning—all those eyes turned towards them. Party Dave already had loud music playing, so it was impossible to hear what was being said, but the buzz of conversation came through the bass. Some bolder girls took their phones out and were getting pictures or video. Derek’s hand twitched.

  “There’s Megan,” Conor said, leaning in. “Do you want to go talk to her?”

  “I wanna punch someone, that’s what I want to do.”

  “Let’s try Megan first.”

  Conor led him over to where Megan was standing. Derek planted his back against the wall, turning his glare outwards to the room, looking like he was expecting the entire senior class to swarm them with torches and pitchforks at any moment—and maybe a little disappointed that they hadn’t.

  “If they wanna fight, then let’s fight,” he muttered.

  “I don’t think anyone wants to fight,” Conor said. “I think they’re happy just to stare.”

  Megan studied her phone. “They’re also messaging, tweeting, and snap-chatting. There’s a whole subterranean layer of gossip going on right now. Mostly shocked emojis and exclamation marks, but for the most part it seems okay. Oh, and they like Conor’s suit.”

  Conor was glad Megan was there, since he didn’t want to leave Derek alone when he went onstage. Stef Anderson came over to join them, but Conor was trying to be a grownup about it. She was Megan’s friend after all, and Derek merely acknowledged her with a slight nod before returning to his attempt to out-stare the room.

  “If they don’t stop looking, I’m going to flash my tits,” Stef said, clearly enjoying the attention. She was wearing a strapless dress so it wouldn’t be hard for her to make good on her threat. “I think there’s one or two people here who haven’t seen ’em yet. It’s like last call.”

  Conor’s smile grew pained, but he thought she meant well. And Megan was making a real effort with Derek—right now, she was taking a sip from the flask he’d snuck in his back pocket. Her face scrunched up horribly. “Bleargh!”

  “Yeah,” Derek agreed, “but the second swig goes down smoother.”

  Conor looked around. The banquet hall was decorated with occasional bouquets of balloons in the school’s colors, but mostly relied on low lighting for any sort of ambiance. This early on, no one was dancing, just standing around, looking awkward in the finery they’d put on for the night. Conor couldn’t say that he knew them—most were people who’d ignored him and he’d avoided—but he had seen them, every day, for years. And after tonight, he likely wouldn’t ever again. It was easier to feel warmth for people he was saying goodbye to. He could forgive everything, he could wish them well, because ahead of them all lay only possibility and hope.

  “I’m going to play,” he said. “Try not to fight anyone until I get back.” Both Derek and Megan gave him a thumbs up.

  As Conor made his way across the hall, one guy detached himself from a group of football types.

  “Yo, Conor. Hold up.”

  It was Dylan Johnston, square of jaw, gold of hair, and taut of ass. He was also someone Conor had been carefully avoiding since he’d been back—not that they’d ever spoken before. Conor didn’t think Dylan really wanted to kick his ass over the rumors Ali had started, as had been suggested—and certainly not here at the graduation dance, with Derek a few feet away—but the ways of jocks were strange to him, so he prepared himself for anything.

  Dylan turned his benevolent golden gaze on Conor. “So you and Folsom, huh? You blew a lotta minds tonight.”

  “I guess so,” Conor said. “Look, Dylan, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about all those rumors, and if they made you uncomfortable. But I definitely wasn’t singing about you.”

  They both glanced back to where Derek actually seemed to be laughing at something Megan was saying.

  “That’s okay,” Dylan said. “I felt bad about it at first, because I didn’t really remember who you were, but then it was pretty cool to think that someone was singing about me on TV.” He shrugged his broad shoulders easily. Conor got the feeling that nothing troubled Dylan’s world for long. “Knowing it’s not me will make my boyfriend feel better at least. He got a little jealous.”

  “Wait, what? Your boyfriend?”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said. “You know, Mike Makowsky.” At Conor’s blank look, he added, “He’s the running back for the county high school team.”

  “Okay.” Conor’s mind was boggling.

  “They went to the state championships this year.” Dylan seemed just as shocked that Conor hadn’t heard of his boyfriend as Conor was to find out he had one.

  “So you’re… gay? What about Stef Anderson?”

  “Stef? She’s just a friend. I mean, sure, sometimes I’d pretend to be her boyfriend, but that was just so her family would get off her case. But everyone else knew it was fake.”

  “You’re actually out? Like, people know?”

  Dylan seemed to think about it. “Well, Coach knows, and the team, and all my friends, so I just figured that was everybody.” Left unsaid was the implication that it was everybody that mattered. That the information had never trickled down to the low social depths where Conor once dwelt was something that had obviou
sly never occurred to Dylan.

  A frown creased Dylan’s handsome face. “You didn’t really think you were the only gay guy in school, did you?”

  “Felt like it sometimes,” Conor said. He wondered if it would have been different if he’d known. He couldn’t imagine ever going to Dylan for advice, but still, it would have been something.

  “Huh.” At a loss, Dylan gave him a hearty sportsmanlike pat to the back. “I guess that must’ve sucked.”

  Conor smiled wryly. “You have no idea.”

  Conor stepped up onto the narrow stage, his guitar in his hands, the microphone before him. Across the banquet hall, faces turned up towards him, eager and excited.

  He could see them all: Derek slouching against the wall, a study in black and white with his dark hair, white shirt, and dark tie. His mouth was in a sneer—perhaps to distract anyone who might be looking from its tender curves—but his pale blue eyes, the ice in them gone away, were fixed on Conor. Those eyes were hopeful; those eyes were hungry for so much.

  Beside Derek, Megan had her arms already raised, ready to cheer before anyone else. For all her goofy poses and sing-song voice, Conor knew that underneath lay a core of steel. Like Conor, she was prepared to gamble everything, to go across the country, to follow her dreams. And if Conor wasn’t going with her, she would still be going anyway, and he was sure she’d succeed.

  In a back corner, he caught a glimpse of curly hair and freckles on a stony face. Conor knew Ali felt left behind, betrayed, but he hoped that they would find each other again, further along whatever paths their lives took. He hoped, too, that she would find what she needed here. Their town wasn’t so bad, really—not if it could produce amazing people like his friends. Not if his father could make a safe place here for his children, one strong enough to weather impossible grief. Not if his mother could travel the world and choose to come back; for love, for music, for hope. This was Conor’s home, no matter where he went. With all his dreams of running away, he’d realized so much of what he’d been running from was himself, not this place, not these people.