Fic - Original
Author: Algernon_mouse
Pairing: Dave/Joe (Sophia)
Rating: O for Original Characters
Word Count: 13, 098
Betas: tarteaucitron & sinsense
Dave has known Joe since they were eleven and a half.
On a July morning, three weeks after the last of their boxes had been unpacked and then dumped in their New Jersey garage, Joe jammed on his brakes. His BMX skidded on the sidewalk in front of Dave's shitty little house leaving behind a long, impressive black streak of tire. "Hey," he'd said and grinned. He had light, summer-red hair that flopped across his forehead and freckles over the bridge of his nose and fingers.
Dave smiled back. "Hey."
They'd spent the rest of the summer swimming down at the public pool. Later, on the way home to nothing Dave wanted to talk about, they would throw rocks at the windows of an old, abandoned warehouse on Holly Avenue. Dave's aim was always best. "Third row down, third one over," Joe said, and then missed. The stone chinked off the aluminum windowpane and dropped with an impotent rattle against the metal awning underneath.
"What the fuck? Are you new?" Dave laughed. He smirked then and when the rock left his hand it found its mark with a satisfying crack; third row, third one over.
"Mrs Perkins is such a bitch," Joe said afterwards. Sometimes his mouth twists up in a way that makes Dave's stomach flip over. It does that now, so Dave bites down on his lip and glares ahead at the television. He's not sure why it happens or what it's supposed to mean, only that he feels guilty and ashamed when it does, like he's been caught stealing.
They are lying on the floor in Joe's room watching The Cosby Show. Onscreen Rudy is lip syncing along to Ray Charles’s ‘Night Time is the Right Time’. Rudy scrunches up her face and wails, 'baaaaby, baaaaby.’ The studio audience laughs and Joe pauses to watch before he finishes, "I had her last year."
Joe failed last year and has to repeat which means they're going to be in the same grade this September. Dave doesn't care if he gets Mrs. Perkins or not because he's pretty much good at everything, but he's hoping they'll be in the same homeroom at least.
Since moving from Santa Monica, Dave doesn't know anyone, outside of Joe.
He and his mother moved to Pitman over the summer because Dave's mom said she didn't want to ruin his school year. Not that it fucking matters anyway! Dave had shouted at her over the boxes in his bedroom, over his racecar comforter balled up at his feet, past the Cubs pennant hanging limp in his hand, You ruined my whole life! You always ruin everything!
Only it's not her fault.
He knows this, but it's hard to take out your anger on someone who isn't there. It's even harder when all you really want is for them to come back. He doesn't talk about it though, not even when his uncle comes over to hang out (just us guys, right buddy?) as though they've always done that kind of thing or something.
"Baaaaby," Rudy mouths. "Baaaaby." The studio audience applauds and Dave gets up. "I gotta go," he says. Joe doesn't look away from the television. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, like it's a sure thing. "Yeah," Dave says, because it is.
At home Dave hangs his jacket on the hook inside their front door and kicks his shoes into the corner. There's a note on the table and the clock on the wall is ticking loudly. It's nine o'clock, and his mother will be home soon. Dave stands in front of the fridge looking around the room. In California their kitchen was big and bright. They had a cat that used to jump on the counters and they took vacations to Chicago every spring to catch the season opener.
Dave hears his mother, late that night after he's gone to bed, whispering over the phone to her brother. He rolls onto his side, pinching his hands between his knees and staring at the chipped paint on his bedroom wall. It's a dingy painter's beige, pock-marked with nail holes and scared with leftover adhesive from somebody else’s old posters. It's nothing like his bedroom back home.
New Jersey sucks, he thinks. He hates it here.
After that he squeezes his eyes shut he tries to block out the sound of his mother’s choked sobs sneaking under the door. He can hear her talking about how she 'just doesn't know what to do' and that 'he's so angry all the time' and how she doesn't 'know how to reach him anymore.' All that does is piss him off even more because, seriously, maybe he just doesn't want to be reached, you know?
Still, he starts crying at Joe's house one afternoon and can't stop.
"I'm such a fucking baby," he sniffs, and Joe shakes his head - almost violent - in that eager way that seems to remind Dave of Labrador puppies. He says, "You are not. You're not a baby."
Joe leans into Dave and puts his arm over his back. It feels heavy and hot on the back of his shoulders and Dave feels his cock twitch in the pocket of his Bart Simpson underwear. Dave jerks away - shocked - then lunges forward just as quickly punching Joe in the face. It's barely a punch, and mostly it just glances off his chin and skids upwards into his lip. It's enough to split the skin.
They both back-pedal away from each other on their butts after that; Joe presses up against the footboard of his bed where they'd been leaning and Dave's back is fighting against the corner edge of Joe's desk. He can feel the wooden pinch of it down the middle of his shoulder blades. There is a Hot Wheels roadster lying overturned at Dave's foot. He stares at it, swiping his forearm across his face. His eyes feel puffy and swollen and raw. He's panting sharply.
"M'sorry," Dave mumbles. He's still not looking at Joe. Instead he picks up the dinky car and rolls it around between his fingers. It's a 1958 Thunderbird, blue with orange flames painted down the side, tail fins like wings.
If Dave had a car like that, if he could fucking drive, he'd be outta here so fast.
"Yeah." Joe says it softly, like maybe it makes him kind of sad and Dave jerks his head up. He's watching Joe poke his tongue out past his bottom lip, licking at the spot of blood Dave put there when it happens; three things:
1) Dave's stomach turning over.
2) Joe mumbling, Dude, the fuck?
and
3) The kiss.
It was barely a kiss, Dave tells himself afterwards. And it was only because Joe looked so - so something; something Dave had never seen before.
*
It turns out that Mrs. Perkins really is a bitch.
Two months into the term she switches up the class seating plan and Dave gets partnered up with a girl named Terry Morris who smells a lot like Elmer's glue and another boy named Simon Hall who smells a lot like pee. The whole fucking universe is against him, he swears to god damned god. They're following the cow path behind the gas station and Joe throws his head back and laughs which makes Dave grin.
Instead of going home - back to Joe's for sandwiches and Atari - they head down to the creek that cuts through the industrial park to get high. It's early November now, and getting cold. Dave walks along with his shoulders hunched up under his ears and his fists balled into his pockets, complaining. "It never gets this cold in California," he mumbles.
Neither of them has mentioned the kiss since it happened three months ago, but Dave is thinking about it right now. Their shoulders keep bumping together while they walk and Dave has to take an extra half step to keep up with Joe. Joe is, like, a million times taller than Dave and his shadow looks long and twisted stretched out over the ground in front of them. Joe's cheeks are red from the cold and his breath is steaming in front of him. He smiles and Dave feels a strange jolt of heat in his stomach and looks away again.
There's a spot under the bridge, right near the mouth, where someone has dumped an old set of tires. That's where they both settle in to squat with their knees pulled up to their chests. Dave presses his back against Joe's shins and tucks his chin down into the collar of his jacket. It's nice because sitting here they're out of the wind and everything feels secret and safe, like maybe Dave's not as bruised and left behind as he feels sometimes.
They can see an old beat up shopping cart lodged in the middle of the creek, wheels up, and the basket is clogged with a whole mess of shit: old wrappers, cups, twisted strings of plastic shopping bags. Dave can't even guess where it came from because the nearest grocery store is at least ten minutes away by car. "How the fuck?" he says, and points. Joe blinks and looks at the cart too. "I don't fucking know," he shrugs and then offers Dave the paper bag they've been sniffing from. Dave waves him off. His eyes are already itching and burning and if he inhales anymore he'll probably throw up. He can never decide if puking is better or worse when you're high.
They were talking about Susan Boyne. She has the biggest tits out of all the girls in their grade. Her older sister, Heidi, came to school last week with hickeys on the side of her neck. Dave tells Joe he's going to ask Susan to the Christmas mixer next month. The fucking SOCK HOP. Dave makes a prancy little motion with his hands out in front of him, like he's a bunny or something, and Joe cracks up. He leans forward against Dave then, giggling, with the top of his head pressing against Dave's temple. Joe's hair smells like Head and Shoulders and something spicier, like maybe his dad's cologne, and his breath fogs a little in the cold air next to Dave's ear. Dave feels that funny little twist again in his stomach and his balls get hot.
"Get the fuck off me, fuckin’ fag."
Joe's face clouds over and he pulls back as though it wasn't Dave who leaned in and kissed him in the first place. If he had any balls, he'd probably point that out. Dave is grateful that he doesn't.
They get up after that and Dave brushes the stray bits of gravel from the seat of his pants. His jeans are cold and slightly damp. His fingers shake slightly and he twists around, stuffing them back into his pockets so Joe can't spot the nervous way they're twitching.
"I don't know what your fucking problem is," Joe says eventually. They've been walking for over fifteen minutes and now they're back on their street; their shitty little street with the busted up streetlights and rusted out cars.
"Maybe you're my fucking problem," Dave spits out.
Joe rolls his eyes, but he's smiling again. "Riiiight. What the fuck ever, man."
A minute later they stop on the sidewalk outside of Joe's house and Joe says, "Well? Are you coming in?"
It's a Friday night and Dave's mom is working late at the IGA, so he does, even if he is still a little angry. Joe's mom has made hamburger helper (which Joe hates and Dave actually loves) and he nods his head when she offers him seconds, the spoon already full and hovering over his plate. He washes down the noodles and meat with a slice of bread and drinks another large glass of milk.
Later he and Joe share a bag of Doritos between them on the basement floor. Joe's dad has rented Wayne’s World from the video store over on Holland. He says that next weekend, if Joe passes his history test, he'll give them each ten bucks and drop them off down at Broadway to catch a show.
Dave is going to make for damn sure that Joe passes that test. He figures this is exactly what Joe's dad is counting on. Beside him, Joe is playing air guitar along with the movie. Dave laughs at him, muffling the sound against the back of his hand. He's pretty sure that Joe doesn't even know he's doing it (this is confirmed when Joe looks up, blank-faced and says, "What?") which makes Dave laugh even harder and then wave his hands around his face helplessly.
After that Joe says - dead serious, as if he actually could - that he'd fuck Tia Carrere if he ever met her in person. Dave snorts cola out his nose. Joe can be such a douchebag sometimes.
"Are you sleepin' over?"
It's late and Joe's parents have gone off to bed. Joe's hovering in front of the VCR with Lethal Weapon 2 in his hand, and Dave shrugs. After Joe shoves the tape in the machine he plods over to the tiny, slanted closet under the basement stairs and pulls out an old camping bag, tossing it at Dave and then crawling back onto the couch.
Dave is sleeping over.
*
Susan Boyne doesn't put out, so either that means the Boink-a-Boyne thing is a total myth or Dave is a failure with the ladies.
They've been going steady for three weeks now - a middle school record, probably even state-wide - and so far the only thing he's been able to hold is her books. Dave is complaining to Joe about this bitterly in his front drive way. It's the first mild day of spring and he's hanging off the basket ball net over Joe's garage door when it happens; a boner the size of Lake Michigan.
Dave fucking hates Michigan.
He lets go of the rim and drops to the ground with a soft thud so he can squat over his shoe pretending to re-tie it. When he looks up Joe is still flipping through his comic books on the porch, completely oblivious.
It figures.
Joe has an entire collection of them in his room, catalogued, in little plastic sleeves and everything. Sometimes on Saturday mornings they take Joe's allowance and go down the shop in the strip mall near where Dave's mother works to check out the latest stock. Afterwards they usually split a bag of gummie worms and pore over the magazines in Joe's room while Dave flips through his baseball cards. Dave, to Joe's horror, is a certified Mets fan now that he’s shunning the Cubs. He can even recite every stat for the entire starting line up.
For a minute Dave fidgets with his laces and watches Joe carefully. He's sitting cross legged, his shoulders hunched over in a way that Dave figures is supposed to make him look smaller. Joe is always trying to do shit like that. He's always trying to disappear, or blend in, or whatever. Dave watches the way he chews on the side of his thumb nail while he reads. Later the skin will be shiny with blood, Joe probably won't even notice.
Joe is easy to wind up and Dave, for fun, coughs into his fist and casually says, "You know, Superman is my favorite super hero, hands down." Joe snaps his head up and Dave grins back at him. The vein in the side of Joe's neck has turned bright blue and it's bulging.
"That's ridiculous!" Joe half shouts at him. "No one likes Superman best!"
Dave arches his eyebrows and feigns innocence. "Superman is the man of steel," Dave says, blithely.
"You can't be serious, man! Superman is a do-gooder pussy. You take it back, Dave. Take it back right now." Joe looks like he'd throw the comic book right at Dave's head if it weren't for the fact that it's his mint Spiderman #359.
Dave laughs and picks up the basketball again. He bounces it a few times listening to the elastic ting it makes against the driveway. "Okay. I'll take it back if you tell Susan I don't want to go out with her anymore."
Three days later Joe tells Maria who tells Susan that Dave's breaking up with her.
*
After junior high Dave's mom gets him a job working part-time at the IGA. She's the manager there now, and Dave gets hired under the table to stock the shelves in the evenings after school. When the store is empty Dave lets Joe in through the back door stamped EMPLOYEES ONLY. Joe sits on the floor eating gummie bears from the bulk candy bins while Dave spins cans of Heinz beans from their boxes into pyramids at the end of the aisles.
Dave says he's a pro, a fucking Frank and Beans guru, and Joe laughs, throwing the yellow gummies at his head while he works. Dave bats them out the air with the palm of his hand. After awhile Joe gets bored and starts arranging them into sticky illustrations of the karma sutra. Dave rolls his eyes and says, "You better clean that shit up, fucker."
Joe looks down and so does Dave. The floor is littered with yellow, gelatin pornography.
When Dave is finished (and Joe has kicked all the gummies under a pallet of Ritz crackers) they go down to the pizzeria on Broadway and blow his paycheck on Super Mario and chilli cheese fries. After that they go back to Joe's.
Joe's parents are out of town this weekend, and in a show of misguided parental trust they've left Joe with the keys to the house. There's a note on the kitchen table about the tuna casserole in the fridge. Dave eats the casserole standing up against the counter and talks with his mouth full while Joe makes himself a peanut butter sandwich.
It's the first time they're drunk; really drunk.
Since seven pm they've been drinking pretty much anything they can find in the liquor cupboard above the fridge and mixing it with raspberry Kool-Aid. It's a little pussy of them, for sure, but they both agreed that the whiskey and coke tasted like shit. On a dare, Dave winces through a shot of tequila and Joe collapses onto the floor, clutching his stomach, as Dave spits into the sink.
Afterwards they crash in the basement, with Joe on the couch and Dave on the floor in front of him. The basement is mostly dark - even though they've left the bathroom light on - and it smells like the back of a closet. Joe hangs his head over the edge of the cushion; he's squinting down at Dave's face. His lips are stained red from the Kool-Aid and they're sort of chapped around the edges from where he's constantly licking at the corner of his mouth. The skin there looks a little rough and for a split second Dave wonders what it would feel like brushing against him.
Dave blinks against the sudden feeling of vertigo.
"Have you ever had a hand job?" Joe says. He's grinning down at Dave and Dave flinches in his sleeping bag. He still feels like he’s trying to get his bearings. Dave kicks his feet, restless in the small space. The sleeping bag is practically too small now that he's bigger and, like, not in elementary school any more. Joe doesn't wait for Dave to answer. He says, "I have."
"The fuck you have," Dave barks sharply.
"No really." Joe's voice cracks slightly and he's peering down at Dave earnestly. "Joanna Paccinni. Last week."
"Where?" Dave demands. He's been with Joe twenty-four seven and there is no fucking way that that douchebag has gotten a hand job Dave doesn't know about. He says as much and Joe laughs, ducking his head against the side of his arm and hiding his face. His shoulders are shaking while he laughs and Dave struggles to sit half-upright on his elbows. Dave jabs at him with his index finger. Joe's shoulder feels solid and warm. "Where?"
"Remember that field trip I went on? For history with Mr. Sharma's class?" Dave doesn't have history with Joe; he's in third period marketing instead. "We went to The Grove. It was actually kinda cool. In, like, the 1800s the whole place was, like, a summer camp for Jesus, dude. And --"
Dave shakes his head like he can't believe what he's hearing and flops down onto the floor, holding his head in horror. Joe's still rambling on about all the fucking really neat Methodist churches as if they even fucking matter. "So how was it?" he interrupts.
"How was what?" Joe sounds confused.
"The handjob, you asshole." Dave rolls his eyes so hard they hurt.
"Oh." Joe flops back down onto the couch and Dave can hear the spring’s creek under his weight. Joe sounds deflated somehow and Dave can almost hear the furrow of his eyebrows coming together over his nose while he thinks. "It was okay, I guess. She just sort of, you know, rubbed it a bit through my jeans."
"Did you come?" It comes out quieter than he means it to and Dave feels a catch in the back of his throat that makes it hard to breathe. Joe is quiet for a long minute and Dave's starting to think maybe he's passed out. He's about to elbow up again and hook his chin over the edge of the couch when Joe finally says, "No."
It sounds soft, like a soap bubble or something.
They're both quiet after that. Joe doesn't say anything when Dave struggles out of the sleeping bag and onto his knees. He hovers there for a second, bent over the couch with his hair hanging in his face, before crawling on top of Joe, forcing his thighs apart with his knees. Joe's breath is warm and wet against Dave's cheek. It smells sweet like the Kool-Aid they were drinking and their cocks are both hard in their pajamas as Dave grinds their hips together. When he feels Joe shudder underneath him, Dave pinches his bicep sharply and comes with a twisted sound in the back of his throat.
Later Joe falls asleep with his hand curled loosely over the edge of the couch. Dave knows he's asleep because he's making that weird whistling sound through his nose. It's not exactly like snoring; it's softer, more high-pitched. Usually it's kind of soothing but right now Dave wants to press his hands over his ears and cry. His cock is still sticky and damp and his pajamas feel crusty against his thigh.
He tries to ignore the fact that he feels like throwing up when reaches down and folds his hand over his crotch. Dave jerks off for a second time after that; eyes squeezed shut, deliberately thinking about Joanna Paccinni and the long, dark drape of her hair.
*
There is a small orchard between their houses and the high school. It's an old strip of farmland that's been eroded away by contractors and cheap track housing. Whenever they pass under the trees Joe reaches up and snags two apples, tossing one to Dave. The apple is tart and it makes the inside of Dave's mouth water when he bites into it. When he's finished Dave takes two short running steps and fires the apple core as far as he can. His shoulder pulls in a familiar way and the core arcs high in the air, lost in the sun.
Dave is taking the AP classes in school this year and Joe's talking about how his parents want him to apply to Kean. He's thinking about marketing or communications. Dave doesn't even know. Part of him thinks he’ll just end up going wherever Joe goes as long as they've got a decent PE program and scholarships he can qualify for.
Lately his dad has been saying that there's UCLA to consider. Truthfully Dave likes the idea of UCLA but he won't go because - well - fuck him. Two years ago Dave's dad finally started flying out once a year to visit. For two days every October he stays at the Radisson and they have awkward conversations about school over dinner at the hotel.
On Dave's birthday they drive a rental car downtown to see the Knicks play. After they park the car his dad keeps shooting him incredulous looks as they walk towards the stadium. He shakes his head like he can't believe Dave's not still eleven, calls him names like ‘tiger’. It gets old fast and Dave feels sullen and shoves his fists into the pockets of his jacket. His dad keeps commenting on the cold and Dave grunts.
He’s used to the cold now. Part of him even likes the grittiness of Jersey. There’s something about growing up here that gives you an instant toughness everywhere else. Later his dad suggests that Dave fly out to California for a visit. He says, "We'll talk to your mom about it, eh, pal?" and slings his arm over Dave’s shoulders.
Dave makes a non-committal sound but that summer he spends a week away from Joe in a place he doesn't recognise anymore. He's got a step-sister now. She's twelve and there's a Cubs pennant hanging in her bedroom on the wall. They have a cat and there are pictures of the three of them on the fridge: his dad, her mom, and her. All of them are blond and smiling around a BBQ. His dad is wearing a lame KISS THE COOK apron and Dave has to tamp down on the urge to put his fist through the guest room wall.
He refuses to go back after that. Joe nods his head while they’re walking and scratches at the back of his neck with his thumb. Neither of them says much about it.
They have second period gym together and Dave tries setting Joe up for the easy passes whenever they're on the basketball court at the same time. Joe fumbles the ball some but mostly looks okay. It's sort of a relief and Dave shoots him a quick smile when he drives in for another lay-up. He knows he looks flashy bent over the ball but he doesn’t really care because he loves how it feels when he hooks the ball through the hoop.
It's like flying, like living in freeze frame. He’d tried telling Joe about it once and only managed to fumble the words all up, sounding stupid. It was embarrassing but Joe only smiled and said, "No, man. I get it. That’s cool."
In the shower, afterwards, Mike Reinhart drops the soap at Joe's feet. When Joe stoops automatically to pick it up he says, in a loud voice that echoes off the tiles, "You wanna suck me off while you're down there Peterson?" There are a few soft snickers and Joe's eyes go rounder than usual; Dave's face goes hot.
Joe just stands there with the bar of soap in his palm looking like a lost point guard and Dave feels a sudden rush of anger. He hates Joe's milk-white skin and the muted blush that starts at his throat and works downwards; he hates the soft angle of Joe's mouth, the trusting way he laughs at everyone's jokes. Mostly he hates the way Joe turns to Dave, expectantly. After that, Dave walks out of the showers to towel off. He can hear them in the shower; the wet slap of skin hitting the tiles and Joe's raspy, muffled grunts. When Mike comes out a few minutes later, with Joe trailing behind, he's smirking. He looks at Dave baldly and Dave turns his shoulder and opens his locker like nothing's happening.
From the corner of his eye he can see that Joe's lip looks bruised and there's a scuff mark high on his cheek. It'll probably bruise too. Joe is stuffing his legs into his jeans roughly when he leans over and growls, "You're such a fucking coward." It's low enough for only Dave to hear but he might as well have shouted it.
Dave forces himself not to flinch.
It takes him two weeks; two weeks of patiently watching and waiting before Mike gets introduced to the business end of Joe's old little league bat.
They're in the park shooting hoops when Dave deliberately throws the ball off the court. It rolls down the grassy slope toward the shrubs and Mike laughs. "Fucking homo shot there, Davey." Dave laughs too, only it's a hollow sound that comes from the middle of his chest, like an echo. Dave tracks his movement and then follows him off the court, veering sharply into the shrubs where he's hidden the bat.
"What the fuck?" Mike's face droops in confusion and his mouth finally pops open when Dave smiles at him. The bat is hanging loosely at his side. It feels ridiculously small in his hands, and light. It makes him think of the summer when they were twelve and how Joe's dad would pitch to them in the back yard, the barbeque smoking on the porch, the smell of hamburger grease heavy on the evening breeze. Dave, for a moment, thinks that if he closes his eyes, he'll be able to hear the melting rattle of ice against glass and Joe's mother's laugh as she sets her iced tea back onto the picnic table.
He lifts the bat then, fingers curled over the grip like he was taught, wrists loose.
It's a practiced swing and when he winds it back he hits Mike square in the belly, a line drive marked for the down the third base line. It’s a beautiful hit, an easy double, and hard enough to knock Mike over. He rolls a little, slipping down onto his shoulders, knees sliding out from under him. Dave pulls himself up short and refuses to let himself imagine what it would feel like to really unwind, how sweet it would feel to open his face with it and turn the grass red with blood.
He steps back when Mike pushes up to his knees. Mike's wheezing, fingers shaking from the shock. Dave smiles at him and arches his eyebrow, pointedly. "You wanna suck me off while you're down there, Reinhart?"
Dave says it softly and Mike makes a thick, disbelieving choking sound.
He returns the bat two days later and Joe doesn’t say anything as Dave pulls open the bedroom closet, dumping the bat back into the mess of sneakers and turned out jeans on the floor. There have been rumors floating around school - stories about how Mike got jumped in the park by five, eight (some guy heard it was ten) guys from Glassboro; it’s the birth of an urban legend.
Dave sits down on the floor next to Joe and they both stare over at the way the closet door is hanging open like a mouth. Dave picks at the knee of his jeans with his fingers and when Joe finally speaks, it’s not what he was expecting.
"That’s not what I meant," Joe says quietly.
*
Dave is seventeen when he loses his virginity in the back seat of his mother’s Plymouth.
It’s early October and they’ve driven the girls out to Alcyon Lake. It’s too cold to be sitting out on the hood of the car but they are anyway. Joe wandered off with Ali, leaving Dave alone with Carrie and a knowing wink. Dave had steadfastly ignored the jealous way his stomach turned over when Joe and Ali'd bent their heads together and then announced that they were going for a walk in the woods.
Now Carrie and Dave are passing a can of beer back and forth between them, talking. Dave is making jokes about how Joe and Ali are probably going to get lost in the woods and eaten by bears. Carrie laughs out loud and Dave feels a shock of pride at the sound. He drains the last of the beer staring out at the lake. It looks black, like an oil slick, under the moonlight. Carrie fidgets next to him. Dave tosses the beer can into the dark, then inches his way across the hood of the car until their fingers are brushing.
Carrie is a pretty girl. She sits ahead of him in biology and has long hair that curls in loose waves over her shoulders. There's a small white scar on the underside of her chin. Dave noticed it when they were in the concession line at the movies earlier and he asks about it. She says it happened when her brother tripped her from behind when she was running up the stairs. She says she was seven or something at the time. She says her brother is an asshole now. "Do you have any brothers?"
Dave shakes his head, and then shrugs. "I have Joe." Carrie nods her head. It's a tiny little movement from under the collar of her jacket. Her fingers tighten their grip on his and Dave squeezes back. He likes her soft, doe-like eyes and the crooked slant of her mouth. He likes that she likes Pearl Jam and Nirvana. He likes the way she smells fresh like baby powder and sweet grass and cotton. She reminds him of summer laundry and how his mom used to dry their sheets outside in the sun when they were happy. Dave's palms feel clammy with sweat and he gives her a sudden, uneven smile.
Carrie is really just Ali's friend, and Dave - more than anything else - wants to want her.
"Can we just?" Dave motions with his head towards the windshield of the car and lets Carrie fills in the blank. She nods. "It's fucking cold out here," Dave says when he slides off the car. He rubs his hands together, a brisk efficient movement, then blows against his fingers to warm them up. It's a pretense, of course; something to say for the sake of saying something.
Carrie slips off the hood and they climb into the backseat of the car. When Dave leans forward, over the seats, he twists the key in the ignition. The car coughs to life and the dashboard lights up, orange and red, glowing in the dark. On the radio Crazy Town is playing. Carrie smiles and says, "I love this song," before Dave leans forward and kisses her. Her mouth opens easily under his and he slips his tongue past her lips.
They make out like that for a while, until Carrie takes his hand and pushes it up under her shirt. The skin there feels softer than anything else Dave's ever felt before. It's warmer too. Dave flexes his hand against her bra and thumbs her nipple. He can feel it stiffen against the palm of his hand and her breath against his mouth goes a little ragged.
Sex feels awkward. Dave blames the confined space of car. He fumbles with the wrapper of the condom, and Carrie twists under him, pulling him down on top of her. Her hands skate up under his shirt and Dave sucks in a startled breath.
"Your fingers are cold," he laughs. Carrie laughs too and then catches her bottom lip between her teeth. He feels a little uncomfortable under her steady, unblinking gaze and clears his throat. The sound comes out louder than he intended and he flinches a little. He can feel himself start to blush. Carrie brushes her fingers over his abdomen and Dave when whispers, "Ready?" she gives him serious look and nods. Her teeth glint and Dave finds himself swallowing past the lump in the back of his throat.
"Can you, um?" He pulls her leg up and feels her shift underneath him again. "Yeah, that's a little better." Dave tongues the corner of his lip and exhales slowly. "I don't really know what I'm doing," he half-whispers. When he glances at her, she smiles. "It's okay," she says quietly. Her hands are braced on either side of Dave's hips and she pets him softly. "You're doing okay." She pulls her knees up on either side of him and tilts her hips.
He tosses his head after that, throwing a strand of hair away from his forehead. The seat squeaks under them and Dave grips the root of his dick in his hand, his thumb pinched tight against the lip of the condom. He strokes at the wet fold between her legs with the head of it. Carrie's hand slips down between them and wraps around his dick. Dave sucks in a sharp breath, and lets her guide him in. "Yeah," Carrie says quietly pulling him forward, "Yeah, just like that."
"Oh," Dave exhales heavily. "Oh."
She's tighter than he imagined. Wetter too. When Dave arches into her he can the feel too-tight pull of his jeans against the back of his thighs. The tail of his jacket brushes over the naked humping motion his ass makes and he can feel it catching against his skin. Under him Carrie is making soft, breathless sounds. Dave figures they're meant to be encouraging and he tongues the shell of her ear in a way he hopes passes as sexy.
He comes quickly and the condom feels gross afterwards. He's pretty sure Carrie didn't come. After he pulls out and ties off the condom he lets her grind her pelvis against him until she goes stiff under him and makes throaty sounds against the side of his neck. They sit in the front seat, afterwards, waiting on Joe and his girlfriend to come back from their walk. The car smells obvious. Carrie flips through the radio stations and he smiles at her, a nervous flicker when she catches his eye.
He wishes they had more beer.
Continue to Part 2/2
Pairing: Dave/Joe (Sophia)
Rating: O for Original Characters
Word Count: 13, 098
Betas: tarteaucitron & sinsense
Dave has known Joe since they were eleven and a half.
On a July morning, three weeks after the last of their boxes had been unpacked and then dumped in their New Jersey garage, Joe jammed on his brakes. His BMX skidded on the sidewalk in front of Dave's shitty little house leaving behind a long, impressive black streak of tire. "Hey," he'd said and grinned. He had light, summer-red hair that flopped across his forehead and freckles over the bridge of his nose and fingers.
Dave smiled back. "Hey."
They'd spent the rest of the summer swimming down at the public pool. Later, on the way home to nothing Dave wanted to talk about, they would throw rocks at the windows of an old, abandoned warehouse on Holly Avenue. Dave's aim was always best. "Third row down, third one over," Joe said, and then missed. The stone chinked off the aluminum windowpane and dropped with an impotent rattle against the metal awning underneath.
"What the fuck? Are you new?" Dave laughed. He smirked then and when the rock left his hand it found its mark with a satisfying crack; third row, third one over.
"Mrs Perkins is such a bitch," Joe said afterwards. Sometimes his mouth twists up in a way that makes Dave's stomach flip over. It does that now, so Dave bites down on his lip and glares ahead at the television. He's not sure why it happens or what it's supposed to mean, only that he feels guilty and ashamed when it does, like he's been caught stealing.
They are lying on the floor in Joe's room watching The Cosby Show. Onscreen Rudy is lip syncing along to Ray Charles’s ‘Night Time is the Right Time’. Rudy scrunches up her face and wails, 'baaaaby, baaaaby.’ The studio audience laughs and Joe pauses to watch before he finishes, "I had her last year."
Joe failed last year and has to repeat which means they're going to be in the same grade this September. Dave doesn't care if he gets Mrs. Perkins or not because he's pretty much good at everything, but he's hoping they'll be in the same homeroom at least.
Since moving from Santa Monica, Dave doesn't know anyone, outside of Joe.
He and his mother moved to Pitman over the summer because Dave's mom said she didn't want to ruin his school year. Not that it fucking matters anyway! Dave had shouted at her over the boxes in his bedroom, over his racecar comforter balled up at his feet, past the Cubs pennant hanging limp in his hand, You ruined my whole life! You always ruin everything!
Only it's not her fault.
He knows this, but it's hard to take out your anger on someone who isn't there. It's even harder when all you really want is for them to come back. He doesn't talk about it though, not even when his uncle comes over to hang out (just us guys, right buddy?) as though they've always done that kind of thing or something.
"Baaaaby," Rudy mouths. "Baaaaby." The studio audience applauds and Dave gets up. "I gotta go," he says. Joe doesn't look away from the television. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, like it's a sure thing. "Yeah," Dave says, because it is.
At home Dave hangs his jacket on the hook inside their front door and kicks his shoes into the corner. There's a note on the table and the clock on the wall is ticking loudly. It's nine o'clock, and his mother will be home soon. Dave stands in front of the fridge looking around the room. In California their kitchen was big and bright. They had a cat that used to jump on the counters and they took vacations to Chicago every spring to catch the season opener.
Dave hears his mother, late that night after he's gone to bed, whispering over the phone to her brother. He rolls onto his side, pinching his hands between his knees and staring at the chipped paint on his bedroom wall. It's a dingy painter's beige, pock-marked with nail holes and scared with leftover adhesive from somebody else’s old posters. It's nothing like his bedroom back home.
New Jersey sucks, he thinks. He hates it here.
After that he squeezes his eyes shut he tries to block out the sound of his mother’s choked sobs sneaking under the door. He can hear her talking about how she 'just doesn't know what to do' and that 'he's so angry all the time' and how she doesn't 'know how to reach him anymore.' All that does is piss him off even more because, seriously, maybe he just doesn't want to be reached, you know?
Still, he starts crying at Joe's house one afternoon and can't stop.
"I'm such a fucking baby," he sniffs, and Joe shakes his head - almost violent - in that eager way that seems to remind Dave of Labrador puppies. He says, "You are not. You're not a baby."
Joe leans into Dave and puts his arm over his back. It feels heavy and hot on the back of his shoulders and Dave feels his cock twitch in the pocket of his Bart Simpson underwear. Dave jerks away - shocked - then lunges forward just as quickly punching Joe in the face. It's barely a punch, and mostly it just glances off his chin and skids upwards into his lip. It's enough to split the skin.
They both back-pedal away from each other on their butts after that; Joe presses up against the footboard of his bed where they'd been leaning and Dave's back is fighting against the corner edge of Joe's desk. He can feel the wooden pinch of it down the middle of his shoulder blades. There is a Hot Wheels roadster lying overturned at Dave's foot. He stares at it, swiping his forearm across his face. His eyes feel puffy and swollen and raw. He's panting sharply.
"M'sorry," Dave mumbles. He's still not looking at Joe. Instead he picks up the dinky car and rolls it around between his fingers. It's a 1958 Thunderbird, blue with orange flames painted down the side, tail fins like wings.
If Dave had a car like that, if he could fucking drive, he'd be outta here so fast.
"Yeah." Joe says it softly, like maybe it makes him kind of sad and Dave jerks his head up. He's watching Joe poke his tongue out past his bottom lip, licking at the spot of blood Dave put there when it happens; three things:
1) Dave's stomach turning over.
2) Joe mumbling, Dude, the fuck?
and
3) The kiss.
It was barely a kiss, Dave tells himself afterwards. And it was only because Joe looked so - so something; something Dave had never seen before.
*
It turns out that Mrs. Perkins really is a bitch.
Two months into the term she switches up the class seating plan and Dave gets partnered up with a girl named Terry Morris who smells a lot like Elmer's glue and another boy named Simon Hall who smells a lot like pee. The whole fucking universe is against him, he swears to god damned god. They're following the cow path behind the gas station and Joe throws his head back and laughs which makes Dave grin.
Instead of going home - back to Joe's for sandwiches and Atari - they head down to the creek that cuts through the industrial park to get high. It's early November now, and getting cold. Dave walks along with his shoulders hunched up under his ears and his fists balled into his pockets, complaining. "It never gets this cold in California," he mumbles.
Neither of them has mentioned the kiss since it happened three months ago, but Dave is thinking about it right now. Their shoulders keep bumping together while they walk and Dave has to take an extra half step to keep up with Joe. Joe is, like, a million times taller than Dave and his shadow looks long and twisted stretched out over the ground in front of them. Joe's cheeks are red from the cold and his breath is steaming in front of him. He smiles and Dave feels a strange jolt of heat in his stomach and looks away again.
There's a spot under the bridge, right near the mouth, where someone has dumped an old set of tires. That's where they both settle in to squat with their knees pulled up to their chests. Dave presses his back against Joe's shins and tucks his chin down into the collar of his jacket. It's nice because sitting here they're out of the wind and everything feels secret and safe, like maybe Dave's not as bruised and left behind as he feels sometimes.
They can see an old beat up shopping cart lodged in the middle of the creek, wheels up, and the basket is clogged with a whole mess of shit: old wrappers, cups, twisted strings of plastic shopping bags. Dave can't even guess where it came from because the nearest grocery store is at least ten minutes away by car. "How the fuck?" he says, and points. Joe blinks and looks at the cart too. "I don't fucking know," he shrugs and then offers Dave the paper bag they've been sniffing from. Dave waves him off. His eyes are already itching and burning and if he inhales anymore he'll probably throw up. He can never decide if puking is better or worse when you're high.
They were talking about Susan Boyne. She has the biggest tits out of all the girls in their grade. Her older sister, Heidi, came to school last week with hickeys on the side of her neck. Dave tells Joe he's going to ask Susan to the Christmas mixer next month. The fucking SOCK HOP. Dave makes a prancy little motion with his hands out in front of him, like he's a bunny or something, and Joe cracks up. He leans forward against Dave then, giggling, with the top of his head pressing against Dave's temple. Joe's hair smells like Head and Shoulders and something spicier, like maybe his dad's cologne, and his breath fogs a little in the cold air next to Dave's ear. Dave feels that funny little twist again in his stomach and his balls get hot.
"Get the fuck off me, fuckin’ fag."
Joe's face clouds over and he pulls back as though it wasn't Dave who leaned in and kissed him in the first place. If he had any balls, he'd probably point that out. Dave is grateful that he doesn't.
They get up after that and Dave brushes the stray bits of gravel from the seat of his pants. His jeans are cold and slightly damp. His fingers shake slightly and he twists around, stuffing them back into his pockets so Joe can't spot the nervous way they're twitching.
"I don't know what your fucking problem is," Joe says eventually. They've been walking for over fifteen minutes and now they're back on their street; their shitty little street with the busted up streetlights and rusted out cars.
"Maybe you're my fucking problem," Dave spits out.
Joe rolls his eyes, but he's smiling again. "Riiiight. What the fuck ever, man."
A minute later they stop on the sidewalk outside of Joe's house and Joe says, "Well? Are you coming in?"
It's a Friday night and Dave's mom is working late at the IGA, so he does, even if he is still a little angry. Joe's mom has made hamburger helper (which Joe hates and Dave actually loves) and he nods his head when she offers him seconds, the spoon already full and hovering over his plate. He washes down the noodles and meat with a slice of bread and drinks another large glass of milk.
Later he and Joe share a bag of Doritos between them on the basement floor. Joe's dad has rented Wayne’s World from the video store over on Holland. He says that next weekend, if Joe passes his history test, he'll give them each ten bucks and drop them off down at Broadway to catch a show.
Dave is going to make for damn sure that Joe passes that test. He figures this is exactly what Joe's dad is counting on. Beside him, Joe is playing air guitar along with the movie. Dave laughs at him, muffling the sound against the back of his hand. He's pretty sure that Joe doesn't even know he's doing it (this is confirmed when Joe looks up, blank-faced and says, "What?") which makes Dave laugh even harder and then wave his hands around his face helplessly.
After that Joe says - dead serious, as if he actually could - that he'd fuck Tia Carrere if he ever met her in person. Dave snorts cola out his nose. Joe can be such a douchebag sometimes.
"Are you sleepin' over?"
It's late and Joe's parents have gone off to bed. Joe's hovering in front of the VCR with Lethal Weapon 2 in his hand, and Dave shrugs. After Joe shoves the tape in the machine he plods over to the tiny, slanted closet under the basement stairs and pulls out an old camping bag, tossing it at Dave and then crawling back onto the couch.
Dave is sleeping over.
*
Susan Boyne doesn't put out, so either that means the Boink-a-Boyne thing is a total myth or Dave is a failure with the ladies.
They've been going steady for three weeks now - a middle school record, probably even state-wide - and so far the only thing he's been able to hold is her books. Dave is complaining to Joe about this bitterly in his front drive way. It's the first mild day of spring and he's hanging off the basket ball net over Joe's garage door when it happens; a boner the size of Lake Michigan.
Dave fucking hates Michigan.
He lets go of the rim and drops to the ground with a soft thud so he can squat over his shoe pretending to re-tie it. When he looks up Joe is still flipping through his comic books on the porch, completely oblivious.
It figures.
Joe has an entire collection of them in his room, catalogued, in little plastic sleeves and everything. Sometimes on Saturday mornings they take Joe's allowance and go down the shop in the strip mall near where Dave's mother works to check out the latest stock. Afterwards they usually split a bag of gummie worms and pore over the magazines in Joe's room while Dave flips through his baseball cards. Dave, to Joe's horror, is a certified Mets fan now that he’s shunning the Cubs. He can even recite every stat for the entire starting line up.
For a minute Dave fidgets with his laces and watches Joe carefully. He's sitting cross legged, his shoulders hunched over in a way that Dave figures is supposed to make him look smaller. Joe is always trying to do shit like that. He's always trying to disappear, or blend in, or whatever. Dave watches the way he chews on the side of his thumb nail while he reads. Later the skin will be shiny with blood, Joe probably won't even notice.
Joe is easy to wind up and Dave, for fun, coughs into his fist and casually says, "You know, Superman is my favorite super hero, hands down." Joe snaps his head up and Dave grins back at him. The vein in the side of Joe's neck has turned bright blue and it's bulging.
"That's ridiculous!" Joe half shouts at him. "No one likes Superman best!"
Dave arches his eyebrows and feigns innocence. "Superman is the man of steel," Dave says, blithely.
"You can't be serious, man! Superman is a do-gooder pussy. You take it back, Dave. Take it back right now." Joe looks like he'd throw the comic book right at Dave's head if it weren't for the fact that it's his mint Spiderman #359.
Dave laughs and picks up the basketball again. He bounces it a few times listening to the elastic ting it makes against the driveway. "Okay. I'll take it back if you tell Susan I don't want to go out with her anymore."
Three days later Joe tells Maria who tells Susan that Dave's breaking up with her.
*
After junior high Dave's mom gets him a job working part-time at the IGA. She's the manager there now, and Dave gets hired under the table to stock the shelves in the evenings after school. When the store is empty Dave lets Joe in through the back door stamped EMPLOYEES ONLY. Joe sits on the floor eating gummie bears from the bulk candy bins while Dave spins cans of Heinz beans from their boxes into pyramids at the end of the aisles.
Dave says he's a pro, a fucking Frank and Beans guru, and Joe laughs, throwing the yellow gummies at his head while he works. Dave bats them out the air with the palm of his hand. After awhile Joe gets bored and starts arranging them into sticky illustrations of the karma sutra. Dave rolls his eyes and says, "You better clean that shit up, fucker."
Joe looks down and so does Dave. The floor is littered with yellow, gelatin pornography.
When Dave is finished (and Joe has kicked all the gummies under a pallet of Ritz crackers) they go down to the pizzeria on Broadway and blow his paycheck on Super Mario and chilli cheese fries. After that they go back to Joe's.
Joe's parents are out of town this weekend, and in a show of misguided parental trust they've left Joe with the keys to the house. There's a note on the kitchen table about the tuna casserole in the fridge. Dave eats the casserole standing up against the counter and talks with his mouth full while Joe makes himself a peanut butter sandwich.
It's the first time they're drunk; really drunk.
Since seven pm they've been drinking pretty much anything they can find in the liquor cupboard above the fridge and mixing it with raspberry Kool-Aid. It's a little pussy of them, for sure, but they both agreed that the whiskey and coke tasted like shit. On a dare, Dave winces through a shot of tequila and Joe collapses onto the floor, clutching his stomach, as Dave spits into the sink.
Afterwards they crash in the basement, with Joe on the couch and Dave on the floor in front of him. The basement is mostly dark - even though they've left the bathroom light on - and it smells like the back of a closet. Joe hangs his head over the edge of the cushion; he's squinting down at Dave's face. His lips are stained red from the Kool-Aid and they're sort of chapped around the edges from where he's constantly licking at the corner of his mouth. The skin there looks a little rough and for a split second Dave wonders what it would feel like brushing against him.
Dave blinks against the sudden feeling of vertigo.
"Have you ever had a hand job?" Joe says. He's grinning down at Dave and Dave flinches in his sleeping bag. He still feels like he’s trying to get his bearings. Dave kicks his feet, restless in the small space. The sleeping bag is practically too small now that he's bigger and, like, not in elementary school any more. Joe doesn't wait for Dave to answer. He says, "I have."
"The fuck you have," Dave barks sharply.
"No really." Joe's voice cracks slightly and he's peering down at Dave earnestly. "Joanna Paccinni. Last week."
"Where?" Dave demands. He's been with Joe twenty-four seven and there is no fucking way that that douchebag has gotten a hand job Dave doesn't know about. He says as much and Joe laughs, ducking his head against the side of his arm and hiding his face. His shoulders are shaking while he laughs and Dave struggles to sit half-upright on his elbows. Dave jabs at him with his index finger. Joe's shoulder feels solid and warm. "Where?"
"Remember that field trip I went on? For history with Mr. Sharma's class?" Dave doesn't have history with Joe; he's in third period marketing instead. "We went to The Grove. It was actually kinda cool. In, like, the 1800s the whole place was, like, a summer camp for Jesus, dude. And --"
Dave shakes his head like he can't believe what he's hearing and flops down onto the floor, holding his head in horror. Joe's still rambling on about all the fucking really neat Methodist churches as if they even fucking matter. "So how was it?" he interrupts.
"How was what?" Joe sounds confused.
"The handjob, you asshole." Dave rolls his eyes so hard they hurt.
"Oh." Joe flops back down onto the couch and Dave can hear the spring’s creek under his weight. Joe sounds deflated somehow and Dave can almost hear the furrow of his eyebrows coming together over his nose while he thinks. "It was okay, I guess. She just sort of, you know, rubbed it a bit through my jeans."
"Did you come?" It comes out quieter than he means it to and Dave feels a catch in the back of his throat that makes it hard to breathe. Joe is quiet for a long minute and Dave's starting to think maybe he's passed out. He's about to elbow up again and hook his chin over the edge of the couch when Joe finally says, "No."
It sounds soft, like a soap bubble or something.
They're both quiet after that. Joe doesn't say anything when Dave struggles out of the sleeping bag and onto his knees. He hovers there for a second, bent over the couch with his hair hanging in his face, before crawling on top of Joe, forcing his thighs apart with his knees. Joe's breath is warm and wet against Dave's cheek. It smells sweet like the Kool-Aid they were drinking and their cocks are both hard in their pajamas as Dave grinds their hips together. When he feels Joe shudder underneath him, Dave pinches his bicep sharply and comes with a twisted sound in the back of his throat.
Later Joe falls asleep with his hand curled loosely over the edge of the couch. Dave knows he's asleep because he's making that weird whistling sound through his nose. It's not exactly like snoring; it's softer, more high-pitched. Usually it's kind of soothing but right now Dave wants to press his hands over his ears and cry. His cock is still sticky and damp and his pajamas feel crusty against his thigh.
He tries to ignore the fact that he feels like throwing up when reaches down and folds his hand over his crotch. Dave jerks off for a second time after that; eyes squeezed shut, deliberately thinking about Joanna Paccinni and the long, dark drape of her hair.
*
There is a small orchard between their houses and the high school. It's an old strip of farmland that's been eroded away by contractors and cheap track housing. Whenever they pass under the trees Joe reaches up and snags two apples, tossing one to Dave. The apple is tart and it makes the inside of Dave's mouth water when he bites into it. When he's finished Dave takes two short running steps and fires the apple core as far as he can. His shoulder pulls in a familiar way and the core arcs high in the air, lost in the sun.
Dave is taking the AP classes in school this year and Joe's talking about how his parents want him to apply to Kean. He's thinking about marketing or communications. Dave doesn't even know. Part of him thinks he’ll just end up going wherever Joe goes as long as they've got a decent PE program and scholarships he can qualify for.
Lately his dad has been saying that there's UCLA to consider. Truthfully Dave likes the idea of UCLA but he won't go because - well - fuck him. Two years ago Dave's dad finally started flying out once a year to visit. For two days every October he stays at the Radisson and they have awkward conversations about school over dinner at the hotel.
On Dave's birthday they drive a rental car downtown to see the Knicks play. After they park the car his dad keeps shooting him incredulous looks as they walk towards the stadium. He shakes his head like he can't believe Dave's not still eleven, calls him names like ‘tiger’. It gets old fast and Dave feels sullen and shoves his fists into the pockets of his jacket. His dad keeps commenting on the cold and Dave grunts.
He’s used to the cold now. Part of him even likes the grittiness of Jersey. There’s something about growing up here that gives you an instant toughness everywhere else. Later his dad suggests that Dave fly out to California for a visit. He says, "We'll talk to your mom about it, eh, pal?" and slings his arm over Dave’s shoulders.
Dave makes a non-committal sound but that summer he spends a week away from Joe in a place he doesn't recognise anymore. He's got a step-sister now. She's twelve and there's a Cubs pennant hanging in her bedroom on the wall. They have a cat and there are pictures of the three of them on the fridge: his dad, her mom, and her. All of them are blond and smiling around a BBQ. His dad is wearing a lame KISS THE COOK apron and Dave has to tamp down on the urge to put his fist through the guest room wall.
He refuses to go back after that. Joe nods his head while they’re walking and scratches at the back of his neck with his thumb. Neither of them says much about it.
They have second period gym together and Dave tries setting Joe up for the easy passes whenever they're on the basketball court at the same time. Joe fumbles the ball some but mostly looks okay. It's sort of a relief and Dave shoots him a quick smile when he drives in for another lay-up. He knows he looks flashy bent over the ball but he doesn’t really care because he loves how it feels when he hooks the ball through the hoop.
It's like flying, like living in freeze frame. He’d tried telling Joe about it once and only managed to fumble the words all up, sounding stupid. It was embarrassing but Joe only smiled and said, "No, man. I get it. That’s cool."
In the shower, afterwards, Mike Reinhart drops the soap at Joe's feet. When Joe stoops automatically to pick it up he says, in a loud voice that echoes off the tiles, "You wanna suck me off while you're down there Peterson?" There are a few soft snickers and Joe's eyes go rounder than usual; Dave's face goes hot.
Joe just stands there with the bar of soap in his palm looking like a lost point guard and Dave feels a sudden rush of anger. He hates Joe's milk-white skin and the muted blush that starts at his throat and works downwards; he hates the soft angle of Joe's mouth, the trusting way he laughs at everyone's jokes. Mostly he hates the way Joe turns to Dave, expectantly. After that, Dave walks out of the showers to towel off. He can hear them in the shower; the wet slap of skin hitting the tiles and Joe's raspy, muffled grunts. When Mike comes out a few minutes later, with Joe trailing behind, he's smirking. He looks at Dave baldly and Dave turns his shoulder and opens his locker like nothing's happening.
From the corner of his eye he can see that Joe's lip looks bruised and there's a scuff mark high on his cheek. It'll probably bruise too. Joe is stuffing his legs into his jeans roughly when he leans over and growls, "You're such a fucking coward." It's low enough for only Dave to hear but he might as well have shouted it.
Dave forces himself not to flinch.
It takes him two weeks; two weeks of patiently watching and waiting before Mike gets introduced to the business end of Joe's old little league bat.
They're in the park shooting hoops when Dave deliberately throws the ball off the court. It rolls down the grassy slope toward the shrubs and Mike laughs. "Fucking homo shot there, Davey." Dave laughs too, only it's a hollow sound that comes from the middle of his chest, like an echo. Dave tracks his movement and then follows him off the court, veering sharply into the shrubs where he's hidden the bat.
"What the fuck?" Mike's face droops in confusion and his mouth finally pops open when Dave smiles at him. The bat is hanging loosely at his side. It feels ridiculously small in his hands, and light. It makes him think of the summer when they were twelve and how Joe's dad would pitch to them in the back yard, the barbeque smoking on the porch, the smell of hamburger grease heavy on the evening breeze. Dave, for a moment, thinks that if he closes his eyes, he'll be able to hear the melting rattle of ice against glass and Joe's mother's laugh as she sets her iced tea back onto the picnic table.
He lifts the bat then, fingers curled over the grip like he was taught, wrists loose.
It's a practiced swing and when he winds it back he hits Mike square in the belly, a line drive marked for the down the third base line. It’s a beautiful hit, an easy double, and hard enough to knock Mike over. He rolls a little, slipping down onto his shoulders, knees sliding out from under him. Dave pulls himself up short and refuses to let himself imagine what it would feel like to really unwind, how sweet it would feel to open his face with it and turn the grass red with blood.
He steps back when Mike pushes up to his knees. Mike's wheezing, fingers shaking from the shock. Dave smiles at him and arches his eyebrow, pointedly. "You wanna suck me off while you're down there, Reinhart?"
Dave says it softly and Mike makes a thick, disbelieving choking sound.
He returns the bat two days later and Joe doesn’t say anything as Dave pulls open the bedroom closet, dumping the bat back into the mess of sneakers and turned out jeans on the floor. There have been rumors floating around school - stories about how Mike got jumped in the park by five, eight (some guy heard it was ten) guys from Glassboro; it’s the birth of an urban legend.
Dave sits down on the floor next to Joe and they both stare over at the way the closet door is hanging open like a mouth. Dave picks at the knee of his jeans with his fingers and when Joe finally speaks, it’s not what he was expecting.
"That’s not what I meant," Joe says quietly.
*
Dave is seventeen when he loses his virginity in the back seat of his mother’s Plymouth.
It’s early October and they’ve driven the girls out to Alcyon Lake. It’s too cold to be sitting out on the hood of the car but they are anyway. Joe wandered off with Ali, leaving Dave alone with Carrie and a knowing wink. Dave had steadfastly ignored the jealous way his stomach turned over when Joe and Ali'd bent their heads together and then announced that they were going for a walk in the woods.
Now Carrie and Dave are passing a can of beer back and forth between them, talking. Dave is making jokes about how Joe and Ali are probably going to get lost in the woods and eaten by bears. Carrie laughs out loud and Dave feels a shock of pride at the sound. He drains the last of the beer staring out at the lake. It looks black, like an oil slick, under the moonlight. Carrie fidgets next to him. Dave tosses the beer can into the dark, then inches his way across the hood of the car until their fingers are brushing.
Carrie is a pretty girl. She sits ahead of him in biology and has long hair that curls in loose waves over her shoulders. There's a small white scar on the underside of her chin. Dave noticed it when they were in the concession line at the movies earlier and he asks about it. She says it happened when her brother tripped her from behind when she was running up the stairs. She says she was seven or something at the time. She says her brother is an asshole now. "Do you have any brothers?"
Dave shakes his head, and then shrugs. "I have Joe." Carrie nods her head. It's a tiny little movement from under the collar of her jacket. Her fingers tighten their grip on his and Dave squeezes back. He likes her soft, doe-like eyes and the crooked slant of her mouth. He likes that she likes Pearl Jam and Nirvana. He likes the way she smells fresh like baby powder and sweet grass and cotton. She reminds him of summer laundry and how his mom used to dry their sheets outside in the sun when they were happy. Dave's palms feel clammy with sweat and he gives her a sudden, uneven smile.
Carrie is really just Ali's friend, and Dave - more than anything else - wants to want her.
"Can we just?" Dave motions with his head towards the windshield of the car and lets Carrie fills in the blank. She nods. "It's fucking cold out here," Dave says when he slides off the car. He rubs his hands together, a brisk efficient movement, then blows against his fingers to warm them up. It's a pretense, of course; something to say for the sake of saying something.
Carrie slips off the hood and they climb into the backseat of the car. When Dave leans forward, over the seats, he twists the key in the ignition. The car coughs to life and the dashboard lights up, orange and red, glowing in the dark. On the radio Crazy Town is playing. Carrie smiles and says, "I love this song," before Dave leans forward and kisses her. Her mouth opens easily under his and he slips his tongue past her lips.
They make out like that for a while, until Carrie takes his hand and pushes it up under her shirt. The skin there feels softer than anything else Dave's ever felt before. It's warmer too. Dave flexes his hand against her bra and thumbs her nipple. He can feel it stiffen against the palm of his hand and her breath against his mouth goes a little ragged.
Sex feels awkward. Dave blames the confined space of car. He fumbles with the wrapper of the condom, and Carrie twists under him, pulling him down on top of her. Her hands skate up under his shirt and Dave sucks in a startled breath.
"Your fingers are cold," he laughs. Carrie laughs too and then catches her bottom lip between her teeth. He feels a little uncomfortable under her steady, unblinking gaze and clears his throat. The sound comes out louder than he intended and he flinches a little. He can feel himself start to blush. Carrie brushes her fingers over his abdomen and Dave when whispers, "Ready?" she gives him serious look and nods. Her teeth glint and Dave finds himself swallowing past the lump in the back of his throat.
"Can you, um?" He pulls her leg up and feels her shift underneath him again. "Yeah, that's a little better." Dave tongues the corner of his lip and exhales slowly. "I don't really know what I'm doing," he half-whispers. When he glances at her, she smiles. "It's okay," she says quietly. Her hands are braced on either side of Dave's hips and she pets him softly. "You're doing okay." She pulls her knees up on either side of him and tilts her hips.
He tosses his head after that, throwing a strand of hair away from his forehead. The seat squeaks under them and Dave grips the root of his dick in his hand, his thumb pinched tight against the lip of the condom. He strokes at the wet fold between her legs with the head of it. Carrie's hand slips down between them and wraps around his dick. Dave sucks in a sharp breath, and lets her guide him in. "Yeah," Carrie says quietly pulling him forward, "Yeah, just like that."
"Oh," Dave exhales heavily. "Oh."
She's tighter than he imagined. Wetter too. When Dave arches into her he can the feel too-tight pull of his jeans against the back of his thighs. The tail of his jacket brushes over the naked humping motion his ass makes and he can feel it catching against his skin. Under him Carrie is making soft, breathless sounds. Dave figures they're meant to be encouraging and he tongues the shell of her ear in a way he hopes passes as sexy.
He comes quickly and the condom feels gross afterwards. He's pretty sure Carrie didn't come. After he pulls out and ties off the condom he lets her grind her pelvis against him until she goes stiff under him and makes throaty sounds against the side of his neck. They sit in the front seat, afterwards, waiting on Joe and his girlfriend to come back from their walk. The car smells obvious. Carrie flips through the radio stations and he smiles at her, a nervous flicker when she catches his eye.
He wishes they had more beer.
Continue to Part 2/2