The Simplest Terms, The Most Convenient Definitions (1/3)
Title: The Simplest Terms, The Most Convenient Definitions
Author: eleanor_lavish
Pairings: Bert/Quinn, Dan/Brendon, some Branden/Jepha, Bob/Frank
Rating/Wordcount: NC-17/~27,500
Disclaimer: It takes place before they were all born, so we're gonna go with "fiction".
Summary: Bert and Brendon have always had each other's backs. It's senior year for Orem High's Class of 1960 and the arrival of the new kid forces them to learn a little about themselves, and about the people they thought they knew.
Notes: For evocatory as part of the Used Multimedia Exchange. She asked for Bert/Quinn in High School, Brendon/Bert gen, OR domestic!Jepha. I...may have gone a little overboard. Many thanks to schuyler for being my cheering squad and beta, and to o4fuxache who always tells it like it is. Love to zillahseye, sinsense and beatpropx, without whom my Used existence would be measurably less awesome. (Coop- the epilogue is for you.) Warnings for general disregard of most Mormon customs, Wiki-only knowledge of 1960, ridiculous sappiness, and being a blatant rip-off of The Breakfast Club.
The first time Bert sees Quinn Allman is from the choir loft at Temple, a week after the new year. He's lanky, and he's sitting down but Bert thinks he's probably pretty tall (though tall is relative to a guy as short as Bert). Bert only notices him because he's fidgeting, opening his Bible to random pages, pushing his too-long hair out of his eyes. Elder Brooks glares at him from the pulpit and Quinn catches the look and just slouches back in his chair with a smug grin. Bert can finally see his whole face and his breath catches loud enough that Brendon elbows him lightly in the side. Quinn looks like an angel with a sneer, and something in Bert's stomach contracts and turns to butterflies.
*
The next time he sees Quinn is in his Monday morning English class, wandering in with his shirt partly untucked and his blazer mostly hidden under a worn leather jacket. Mrs. Frances frowns at him. "Everyone, this is Quinn Allman. He'll be finishing up the year with us," she tells the class. "I know you're new, Mr. Allman, but jackets should be left in your locker."
"Don't have one yet," Quinn shrugs, she just sighs and points to an empty seat at the far side of the room, one seat over and down from Bert. Bert tries his best not to stare, but when Quinn sits down, he can see the top of a box of cigarettes sticking out of his back pocket. Mrs. Frances has a habit of walking around the room during her lectures, and if she sees it, Quinn will be in serious trouble. He coughs a little, then a little louder and when Quinn turns around Bert looks from his eyes to the cigarette box and back. Quinn frowns for a second and then slowly grins, raising his eyebrows, and Bert realizes that he's basically been eyeing Quinn's butt. He blushes to his toes. "No," he hisses, and when Mrs. Frances doesn't look over, he lifts his fingers to his mouth and mimes taking a drag. Quinn's eyes open a little wider at that, and he reaches back quickly and tucks the pack farther into his pocket. He doesn't say thanks or anything, but the next time he catches Bert looking at him (and okay, maybe Bert is looking at him a little more than he should, but Quinn is even prettier up close, with his pale skin and long fingers), Quinn winks. Bert's stomach flips in the weirdest way, and he turns his eyes to the front of the room. He knows Quinn can see him blushing, and it just makes him blush even harder.
*
"He seems okay," he says to Brendon during lunch. "He's just. Different, I guess." They're sitting on the benches outside-- a luxury for seniors only, which should make them cool, but really just makes them, well... un-cool seniors. "He was carrying a box of cigarettes in his pocket. On school grounds."
Brendon wrinkles his nose. "I hear he got kicked out of school in Salt Lake, and so that's why he's living with his aunt out here," he replies with barely subdued excitement. Brendon is one of the biggest gossips Bert knows. He's also been Bert's best friend since the fifth grade, when they were both runt-sized playground targets of big Danny Whitesides, and pinky swore (it would have been a blood oath, but Brendon's a little squeamish) that they would always have each others' backs. Dan's a linebacker on the Orem High football team now, and he mostly leaves Brendon and Bert alone, but they've still got each others' backs. They've applied to colleges together too-- Brendon for music, Bert for... something else-- since Bert can't imagine a life without Brendon being weirdly spazzy at him every day. Brendon's already talking about their Mission in a few years, confident that he and Bert can get assigned together "somewhere amazing, Bert, like Sri Lanka, or Australia. As far from here as we can get."
Bert wants to hear more about Quinn and Salt Lake, but the five minute bell rings and Brendon washes down the last of his ham sandwich with his orange juice and tugs on Bert's hand. "We're going to be late for choir!"
No one but Brendon ever cares if they are late for choir, including Mrs. Thorenson, but Bert just rolls his eyes and lets himself be led.
*
Nothing really exciting happens for the rest of the day until seventh period, when Quinn walks into Bert's chemistry class. They're working on labs for the day, and Bert tries taking a few quick glances at the front of the room, dividing his attention between his Bunsen burner and where Mr. Abbott is handing Quinn a textbook and pointing at the back of the room, next to Bert. Bert hasn't had a lab partner all year, since the class is oddly numbered and Bert isn't exactly the most popular kid. He keeps his head down most of the time, and sometimes doesn't bother to shower in the morning, and he's self-aware enough to know that he's a little weird. "Mr. McCracken, seems you're in luck!" Mr Abbott smiles at him. "Meet your new lab partner, Quinn."
"Oh, we've met," Quinn says brightly. Bert blinks for a second, and thinks oh crap as Quinn walks toward him with a grin spreading across his face. "You like the view from the front as much as the one from the back?" he murmurs as he sits down, and Bert is pretty sure he's never going to stop blushing. "So," he says a little louder, settling on a stool. "What are we learning today, Mr. McCracken?"
"Bert," he says stupidly, and then even more stupidly holds out his hand. Quinn smiles wider, and Bert can't tell if its mocking or not.
"Quinn," he replies and shakes Bert's hand.
Bert motions to the jars of liquid on the table. "We're supposed to add them together slowly," he paraphrases from the workbook, "and stir the solution until it turns blue."
Quinn leans his elbows on the table and pokes at a scab on the back of his wrist. "I prefer my drinks shaken, not stirred," he says in a weird accent and Bert blinks at him.
"Um, I wouldn't drink it," he says, with a note of caution in his voice. Quinn just looks at him for a long second before laughing. "No, seriously," Bert says. "I know from personal experience. The last time I drank a chem solution, I threw up in the nurse's office twice." Quinn just laughs harder.
It doesn't sound mocking, but Bert shuts his mouth anyway and focuses on making sure his measurements are right. He wishes Brendon was in his class, because chemistry is way too much about precision for Bert to be very good at it, and Brendon would make sure he passed. He's a lot better in English, where he can work his way around to ideas. He feels Quinn's eyes on him and blushes again, and seriously, why? When he looks back, Quinn says "You're an odd duck," bemused, but not unkind. Bert just shrugs, because its not like Quinn's wrong. Bert's the weirdo, Brendon's the nerd, Dan's the jock. That's how the world sees them. Quinn's probably the rebel, Bert thinks. Quinn's the guy who shakes things up.
His blush stays firmly in place until the bell rings. Quinn shrugs into his leather jacket and reaches past Bert to stack his workbook on top of the others as they leave. His chest presses firmly against Bert's back and he leans down to say "Same time tomorrow?" low and teasing in Bert's ear.
At that point all the blood in Bert's cheeks rushes to just south of his belt. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and by the time he opens them, Quinn is pushing the door open and striding toward the parking lot. Bert sits on the floor outside his locker until his legs feel less like jelly, with his blazer folded in his lap. It's one thing to have these thoughts about Steve McQueen, he thinks frantically, but he's never had his body react like that to a guy he actually knows, and it's terrifying. He sits there until Brendon comes to find him for practice, and can't quite meet Brendon's eyes as he stands.
No one knows about these feelings Bert gets sometimes, not even Brendon, but with Quinn in his personal space every day for the next four months, Bert wonders how long he's going to last before everything goes to hell.
*
"We're not doing any more Pat Boone," Patrick says through clenched teeth, and Brendon sighs. He's had a long day and it just seems to be getting longer. Patrick's latest contribution to the barbershop repertoire is something by Dinah Washington and Brendon is pretty sure four boys singing a girls song would not go over well with the principal. As the senior group, they run themselves pretty autonomously, and Brendon would like to keep it that way, thank you.
"We can't do a girl song!" he says for the fifteenth time and Patrick narrows his eyes.
"It's 1960, Urie. Stop being so damned square," Patrick frowns at him. "I changed the pronouns, okay? I bet you wouldn't care so much if it was Connie Francis," he grumbles. "Back me up, Mikes."
That was the other thing. These arguments always took way longer than they should because Mikey always sided with Patrick, and Bert always sided with Brendon. This was after a full hour of both of them actively not caring one way or the other.
"Look, whatever," Brendon snaps. Bert was late to rehearsal by ten minutes today, and he's staring out the window at where the guys in auto shop are assembling a car of some sort. Brendon has no idea what it is, but its garishly blue. "Earth to Bert," he prods and Bert looks back almost guiltily. Brendon cuts his eyes back out the window for a second, and he can see Dan wiping off his hands, laughing at something the new kids is saying. They look cold, poking at the car in the January sun, but like they're having way more fun than Brendon is currently. "We're running through the Music Man stuff, and then we're done, I think."
Patrick tugs his hat a little lower and glowers, but he doesn't argue. They make it through the last ten minutes unscathed, and Mikey even smiles a few times when Patrick fancies up his part.
"So," Brendon asks as they're packing up their stuff. "Where were you?"
Bert looks at his toes, scratches his elbow and lies to Brendon's face when he says "Had to use the upstairs lav, since the one down here was full of smokers." Brendon knows it's a lie because he used that bathroom with two minutes to spare. He doesn't even know what to do about it, since Bert's never really lied to him before. He keeps his head down and when he looks back up, Bert eyes are cutting out the window again.
"Whitesides finally grow that extra head?" Brendon says with bitter edge to his voice. He thinks it might be aimed at Bert, which scares him a lot, but Bert just shrugs.
"It just. Looks interesting." Bert pushes his hands through his shaggy hair until its sticking out at all angles. Brendon wants to smooth it all back into place, but Bert would just do it again. "Don't you ever wonder what life would be like if we'd dropped choir and taken shop?"
"Well, we'll never know," Brendon says dryly. And no, really, Brendon hasn't ever thought that. He's thought about getting out of town, of going to a conservatory and living and breathing music every day with Bert half a town away at college. He's thought about exotic locations and places free of prying eyes, and freedom. He's not sure shop would get him where he wants to go. "Maybe in my valedictorian speech, I'll make a note about how knowing about fast cars gets you nowhere fast. Bet Whitesides'll love that."
Bert rolls his eyes and Brendon feels stung. "You realize that was all in the fifth grade?" he asks.
'That' was a year of getting teased and tormented enough that Brendon lost faith in a lot of things-- teachers, his parents, human decency-- but learned how to claw his way up the social order to get to a place where he was mostly untouchable. He'd dragged Bert along every step of the way, too, and now Bert was talking about taking shop. Shop with Dan Whitesides.
"Seriously, when is the last time you actually talked to Dan?" Bert asks and Brendon crosses his arms.
"Well, I don't poke bears either," he snipes.
Bert just laughs. "Sometimes bears can be cuddly, and enjoy a nice pic-a-nic basket," he teases and squeezes Brendon around the waist and picks him up. Brendon flails his legs, but he's grinning.
"Fine," he says, "but we have four months left of school and we're done forever. Can we just keep our heads down and not go poking things?"
*
Things Bert learns about Quinn over the next month:
1) Quinn is really into cars. His favorite class is auto shop, and he always has a smudge of oil under his fingernails. He rebuilt his Chevy from basically parts, and he loves it more than his sisters. ("No, seriously," he says when Bert laughs.) He couldn't bring it to Orem, but when Bert asks why, Quinn's eyes get stormy and he drops the subject.
2) Quinn's eyes change color depending on his mood. Deep brown means he's pissed, and hazel means he's happy. He's caught them going green a few times but he always looks away from Bert too fast for him to figure that one out.
3) He wants to live in California someday, and maybe learn to surf.
4) The only thing Quinn loves more than cars is music. He can play a song on piano after hearing it once on the radio, or so he says. (Bert decides to keep his mouth shut about his role in the senior barbershop quartet, but he still thinks Quinn should meet Patrick.) Quinn loves real rock and roll, like Elvis and Buddy Holly-- all the artists that Patrick would love to arrange for them but who were banned by the Administration. Bert's heart beats hard enough for him to feel it in his fingers whenever Quinn hums "Peggy Sue" under his breath.
5) He doesn't believe in God.
Things he doesn't learn:
1) Why Quinn is in Orem, and what happened in Salt Lake; but he thinks the God thing might have something to do with it.
2) How to stop the blushing, the stomach butterflies and the jelly knees he seems to get whenever Quinn is within ten feet of him. (When Quinn is close enough that their knees bump under the lab table, things get even dicier.)
3) Why Quinn still wants to talk to him, even after it becomes clear that Bert is kind of a social pariah, and Quinn starts hanging out with Dan and Bob and the rest of the guys in auto shop.
Not that he's complaining.
*
"Hey, so," Quinn whispers to Bert over their various saline solutions. "There's a party up on the hill on Friday. You going?"
Bert blinks at him. There have been parties on the hill-- held in run down houses and drenched in beer-- since Bert was old enough to understand the word 'party'. And no, he has never been to one.
Quinn grins at him. "You should come," he says, like it's that easy.
Bert's tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, pull it in between his teeth. Quinn's eyes follow the movement, and Bert ducks his head.
"I'll try?"
"Cool," Quinn says a second later, and he looks from Bert's mouth to their lab assignment. "So this thing is supposed to float in one of these?"
"It probably won't," Bert sighs, and they get to work.
*
"Hey, so," Bert says. "You want to come with me to this party on the hill on Friday?" Brendon almost snorts his milk and spends a few seconds coughing. Bert barrels on. "Quinn invited me," he says, seeing the question on Brendon's face. "If you don't want to come, I'll just go by myself, it's no big--"
"Sure," Brendon says, "Why not." Bert beams at him.
*
Two days later, Brendon has no idea how this happened.
"Do you even know whose house this is?" Brendon hisses in Bert's ear as they push past the kids hanging out in the front yard. The house is old but not too beat up, and Brendon's pretty surprised there aren't more kids running around yelling. It seems pretty laid back, compared to stories he's heard. There are a few kids he recognizes from school, but most of them are strangers, or old enough that Brendon only has vague memories of sharing hallways with them as a freshman. When he gets inside, the pungent, sweet smell of smoke is everywhere. He's never actually smelled it in person before, but he's pretty sure... "Bert!" he hisses again, and grabs his elbow.
Bert looks back at him, eyes pleading. "Just. Half an hour? If you still hate it we can go, I promise." Bert rarely asks for anything, and Brendon can feel his resolve crumbling under the weight of Bert's wide eyes.
"Fine," he mutters and Bert grins at him and cranes his neck around.
"You lost?" a voice asks from Brendon's left and he startles enough that there's a warm hand, steadying on his lower back. "I'll take that as a yes." They turn to see a guy in his twenties with black framed glasses, dark hair slicked back. He's wearing jeans and a black button up that's a size too small, the arms ripped off at the seams to show off a patchwork of tattoos. There aren't a lot of tattoos in Orem, not that you'd see; he catches Bert staring and lightly kicks his shin.
"Sorry," Brendon says, and the guy's smile is surprisingly warm.
"No problem, everyone's lost at some point. I'm Jepha," he says, "and this is my house. Over there is my roommate, Branden," he points to a guy in a checkered shirt with bleached out hair shuffling cards at a small dining table, "that way lies the kitchen, the bathroom and the keg is on the patio."
"I'm Bert," Bert says with a shy grin and Jepha looks him over.
"Of course you are," he says cryptically, and laughs when Bert shakes his hand. Brendon wants to defend Bert a little, say that he was only trying to be polite, but Jepha's swinging an arm around Bert's shoulder like they're old friends. "And this is?" he asks, gesturing to Brendon.
"Brendon. He's with me," Bert smiles and Jepha nods. Brendon suddenly feels really out of place.
"Hey, Quinn's out back," Jepha says to Bert and Brendon can't help but notice the way Bert's eyes go directly to the sliding door out the patio. Brendon can see a few guys clustered around the keg. They shouldn't be here, Brendon thinks. They could get in so much trouble... Bert ducks out from under Jepha's arm and heads outside with an apologetic wave. "Can I get you a beer?" Jepha asks Brendon.
"I don't drink," Brendon says, squaring his shoulders back.
"Cool," Jepha replies and nods to the table. "You play cards?"
Brendon can feel the heat on his cheeks. He promised Patrick he'd work on an arrangement this weekend, and instead he's here and everything is totally strange. "Not really?" he says, but Jepha tugs on his sleeve.
"C'mon, Brand can teach you."
Branden stands up to shake Brendon's hand and he's sober and smiling. "There comes a time in a young man's life when he needs to learn how to play poker," Branden says with mock seriousness, and Brendon almost thinks it's an okay idea. "You can play with me this round."
"Hey, that is not fucking fair," comes a voice from the kitchen and Brendon can feel his heart speeding up. He knows that voice. Dan appears at Brendon's elbow, looming next to Brendon's small frame, and sits down hard in a backwards chair. He takes a sip of beer from a mug labeled 'World's Best Dad'. "You can't team up with the genius."
"Genius, huh?" Branden says and peers at him.
"I'm n-not," Brendon stutters, because he's stuttered around Dan Whitesides since he was twelve, and why should today be any damn different.
"You've caught yourself a valedictorian," Dan says with a grin and a little salute with his mug that... isn't really as mean as Brendon remembers. Brendon blushes for some reason-- he's usually really proud to be tops in his class, but somehow he knows that grades aren't really what these guys care about.
"It's not. I mean, they haven't figured it out yet," Brendon says, but Jepha just laughs and points at Branden.
"You've got a ringer, man. Make sure you use him for good and not evil." Branden just steers Brendon to a seat at the table and starts shuffling and dealing.
"We'll start with five card stud, no fancy stuff," he starts, and Brendon tries to pay attention to the rules and not the way Dan keeps glancing at them over his cards.
*
It takes Bert a minute to find Quinn in the zoo of the backyard. He's sitting with a small circle of people, a worn guitar in his lap, and he's picking out a Roy Orbison tune nice and slow. Bert's chest constricts a little and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do with them. When Quinn looks up and sees him, he falters for a second, and Bert worries that maybe Quinn forgot he was coming, maybe he didn't really mean it, maybe-- but then Quinn is smiling and standing up, handing the guitar to the kid next to him.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, Allman?" the kid yells after him as Quinn walks toward where Bert is standing, trying to be inconspicuous in the shadows.
"I don't give a flying fuck, Bryar," Quinn yells back, eyes still fixed on Bert, and Bert laughs. Quinn's weaving a little as he walks, and Bert thinks it's kind of adorable. "You came."
"Yeah," Bert says and shrugs. He rocks up on his toes a few times. "Hi."
Quinn leans in close enough that Bert can feel how warm he is, even in the chill of the evening air. He smells warm too-- like leather and earth and beer. "Hi," Quinn whispers, and then giggles, and Bert is so gone on this kid. The thought makes him shiver and Quinn takes a step closer. "You cold?"
Bert shakes his head. He is definitely not cold. He does wish Quinn would give him some personal space, though, before he does something that might get him beat up by every kid here.
"Come on," Quinn says brightly, "I'll give you the tour." He actually takes Bert's hand, or more like wraps his hand around Bert's wrist to pull him back inside, but his thumb slides along Bert's palm in a way that doesn't seem accidental. Even though it probably is. Bert is a hopeless romantic (or so said Gerard before he graduated, back when Bert thought he was gone on Gerard and tried to impress him with pretty awful poetry. Looking back, the Gerard thing doesn't even come close to the Quinn thing), and he's been trying hard to be realistic. Wanting Quinn to touch him isn't something he can help. Actively seeking it out is something he can, and should, avoid. He pulls his wrist gently from Quinn's hand and stuffs his hands back in his pockets. Quinn looks away for a second before crossing his arms and nodding to the back hall. "That's where Jepha and Brand keep all their music stuff, off the garage. Jeph's a bartender at a place up near Lindon. Brand works at the steel plant. But they play a little bit. I've been jamming with them."
"I didn't know you played guitar too," Bert says, and he wonders why Quinn never mentioned it.
"Jeph's been teaching me," he shrugs. "I think he was just happy to meet someone else in this town who listens to Woody Guthrie." Quinn nods toward another small, dark hallway and Bert follows him. "Back here are the bedrooms," Quinn says as he's opening a door, and Bert looks in long enough to see a breast and a flash of dark hair before he shuts his eyes fast.
"Get out," someone yells, and Quinn is laughing hard enough that he's doubled over by the time he gets the door closed. Bert peeks his eyes open, and yells "Sorry!" through the door. Quinn leans against the door to catch his breath.
"Fuck, people need to learn to lock fucking doors," he says. He looks at Bert and his grin slides into a look Bert hasn't ever seen before. "Man, McCracken, you blush more than any boy I've ever met."
"They were naked!" Bert squeaks, and he can feel the heat on his cheeks.
Quinn leans in close again. "They were fucking," he whispers and Bert takes a step back, flustered. I mean, it was pretty obvious, but Quinn doesn't have to say-- "You've probably never even said the word 'fuck', have you," Quinn drawls and Bert huffs in embarrassment.
"Sure I have," he lies and Quinn pushes off the door and into Bert's space again.
"Liar," he grins, and Bert takes a step back. "Say it," Quinn prods, pressing in closer until the wall is at Bert's back.
"N-no," Bert says, but he's not sure what he's saying no to anymore.
Quinn is pressed almost flush against his chest and he's close enough that his hair brushes Bert's cheek when he leans in to whisper "I won't tell anyone, come on, just say it."
Bert's practically panting now, and he has to dig his nails into his palms so he won't put them somewhere stupid, like on Quinn's hips, or in his hair. Quinn's breathing funny too, or at least his voice is quavery in Bert's ear when he says "Come on," low in Bert's ear. "Bert." His lips brush the shell of Bert's ear and Bert's hips come off the wall like he was stung.
"F-fuck," Bert grates out, and then he's pushing Quinn away as hard as he can and tearing back into the main room. Brendon is playing cards with a few guys Bert doesn't know, and Dan Whitesides, but he doesn't look at any of them. He can't even look at Brendon. "Hey," he says, as calmly as he can. "We should get out of here."
Brendon looks like he's almost about to object, but then he looks up and sees Bert's face, and nods. "Thanks for the lesson," he tells Branden, and Bert is out the front door before Brendon even has his jacket on. "You going to tell me what happened?" he asks as Bert drives them back down into town.
"Nothing," Bert replies and Brendon sighs and looks out the window.
*
Quinn isn't at Temple that Sunday and Bert doesn't know if he's upset or grateful. He spent most of Saturday with his dad and his sisters, pulling down the old wallpaper in the den and scrubbing the walls clean, his hair covered in plaster dust. He spent a bit of time on homework, and washed the car, and was generally the Best Son he could be. It was guilt, he knows that, and sitting in Temple with Brendon's knee pressed against his, he knows why. He isn't listening to a sermon; he's thinking about Quinn, Quinn's hair on his cheek, his lips on Bert's skin. It hadn't felt like an accident. In fact, in the quick second that Bert's hips were pressed to Quinn's, he'd felt the heat, the hardness under his jeans, and he thinks maybe he should have stayed. Wonders what would have happened if he had.
He's going to Hell, he's pretty sure. The thought itself is kind of freeing, like if Bert can just accept it and move on, all will be well. Quinn isn't worried about his soul-- Quinn probably doesn't even think he has one. But Bert's not ready to make quite that leap yet. He feels like he has a soul, like it's burning and twisting up inside him whenever Quinn is around, like it wants to be out, be free. It's... amazing, actually, and Bert hides his smile behind his hymnal.
Quinn's in school Monday, but they have a quiz in English and Bert doesn't see him again until chemistry. "Hey," he says when Quinn takes his seat. Quinn's eyes are tired, and he hunches his shoulders and focuses on the lab report in front of him. He doesn't say anything beyond "pass me that thing?" all class, and by the end, Bert's hands are shaking a little. Whatever delusions he'd managed to come up with over the weekend-- of Quinn pulling him into a dark hall again, of pressing up against him and not running away this time-- are crumbling fast into a cold, uncomfortable silence. Bert has to go to the lav toward the end of class just to get away from it. He splashes some water on his face and takes a few deep breaths. He's not going to cry, not until he's far from this building, locked in the solitude of his own room, but he can feel the tightness in his throat where he's holding back tears.
He gets back to class just a few seconds before the bell rings, and Quinn is halfway out the door before Bert even has his books shut. He almost misses the scrap of paper sticking out of the chapter on properties of water: ripped hastily from a notebook, it just says "I'm sorry." Bert has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound, and he feels an upwelling of hope in his chest. He stuffs the scrap of paper in his pocket and races out to the parking lot. His dad let him bring the car even though he doesn't have to pick any of his siblings up from ballet or 4-F today. It's going to rain soon-- the kind of cold early spring rain that would always make Bert sick as a kid-- and he can see Quinn walking down a side street, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"Get in," he says as he pulls up alongside Quinn. Quinn just looks at him, shakes his head.
"Not a good idea."
"Quinn, get in the car," Bert says, surprised by the own forcefulness in his voice. But they have to talk; Quinn has to talk to him. "It's gonna rain, come on," he tries, and Quinn pauses, takes a deep breath before opening the door and sliding in. He sits as far from Bert as he can, shoulder pressed to the window, and mutters "Thanks."
"Where to?" Bert says after a second, because he doesn't actually know where Quinn's aunt lives. Quinn shrugs.
"I was just gonna walk. Aunt Susan's got piano students until five on Mondays, so." Big, heavy raindrops start to hit the windshield and Bert flips the wipers on and grins at him.
"Good thing you found me," he says and Quinn shifts down in his seat, but Bert can see the start of a smile there.
They end up grabbing hot dogs and fries at Caroline's Diner, Quinn sitting in the car while it idles outside. Bert runs as fast as he can, but he's still pretty soaked when he gets back. He pulls the paper sack from under his shirt and Quinn laughs. "Sorry, it was the dogs or me," Bert apologizes. He pushes his hair out of his face and he probably looks like a mess, and almost wishes Brendon were there to fix it.
"Well, we wouldn't want a hot dog casualty," Quinn nods and stuffs a few fries in his mouth.
They drive in silence all the way out to Canyon Road, and Bert parks them in one of his favorite spots at the base of Little Baldy, where he starts his hikes when the weather is warmer. Today, the lot is empty, water rushing down the hill to form swirling pools before they're swept further down to the town. Bert pushes the seat back, kicks off his shoes and puts his feet up on the steering wheel, socked toes curling around the wood veneer.
"So," Quinn says as Bert's unwrapping his food, "is this your car?"
Bert snorts. It's a big, blue, '56 four door Chevy, a little banged up from years of a big family using it, but still way more than Bert would be able to afford on his own. "My dad got the family a station wagon, so I get to use this one." His dad likes walking the mile or so from their house to the furniture store he runs with his business partner, so Bert gets the car more than most kids his age. He knows to be grateful, but he's not sure some days if his dad is just looking for an excuse to get Bert out of the house when he hands him the keys. ("You should have more friends," his mom used to say over dinner once a week, then once a month. Now, he hardly ever hears it, and he's not sure why, but it hurts more when she doesn't say it.)
"It's roomy," Quinn notes, running his hands along the upholstery, and it's small talk, but it's talking, and Bert is glad for it.
"Roomier than yours?" Bert asks, because he knows Quinn well enough that talking about his car makes his face light up. Bert lets him ramble about transmissions and engine bocks for while, even when he has no idea what Quinn is talking about. When he runs out of things to say, Quinn turns on the radio, nice and low, and up in the hills they can only get one station. Bert starts humming along.
"Oh, man, Frankie Avalon? You like this crap?" he asks, and Bert rolls his eyes.
"It's what there is out here; I try not to think about it," he shrugs, and he thinks it was the wrong thing to say when Quinn goes quiet and says "Yeah, I guess."
Bert eats a few more fries and frowns at his knees. "I should get back," Quinn says out the window and Bert turns the car on, the hottight feeling back in his throat.
"Are you," he starts, and then shakes his head. "Why are you mad at me?" he asks, and he wants to kick himself because now he sounds like a little kid. They just had a perfectly nice afternoon and Bert is going to screw it up again.
Quinn opens his mouth and then closes it, taps his fingers restlessly on his thigh. "'m not mad at you," he mumbles, and Bert huffs. "I'm not!" he says again and Bert glances over at him. "I'm sorry for being a jerk on Friday," Quinn says, and he sounds a little miserable.
"Okay." He pauses. "'m sorry for leaving," Bert says back and Quinn nods. Okay, good.
They get to Quinn's aunt's just as the rain is letting up. Bert throws the car in park as Quinn roots around under his seat for his books. He looks up through his hair as he reaches for the door and Bert is caught staring, but he doesn't look away. "Thanks," Quinn says. His eyes are that green that Bert can't ever put his finger on. "You've got..." Quinn starts, and he reaches out one hand and swipes the pad of his thumb over the corner of Bert's mouth.
"Wha--" Bert says softly. His heart is beating like a dragonfly in his chest.
"Ketchup," Quinn smiles at him, and rubs a smear of red onto his jeans before he slides out of the car.
*
Brendon isn't actually on the student council, but he ends up on the Prom committee anyway. He figures it's a good thing, that they won't end up with a terrible theme song if Brendon can keep a watchful eye, but he still hates the meetings. He has friends in school who aren't Bert, of course-- Patrick and Mikey, Spencer and Ryan from debate club. Greta is in choir with him, and they got pretty close when they did Guys and Dolls last year.
(They're actually going to prom together, even though Brendon's pretty sure she's sweet on Patrick, who is too clueless to be real. He asked her mostly because she's a nice girl and Patrick wasn't ever going to get with the program, but also because Audrey had been making cow eyes at him in history class. Their parents had set them up on a date earlier in the year, and they'd gone out a few times ("she's from such a nice family," Brendon's mom had sighed when he left to pick her up), but she wasn't as nice as everyone thought. She'd climbed in his lap at the drive-in, and Brendon had tried to get into it, he really had, but she tasted like licorice and gum, and he'd had to push back a panic attack when she slid her hands under his shirt. After that, he didn't really call her anymore. She's pretty, but if that is what she wanted to get up to at the movies, God knows what she'd want to do after prom. Brendon's glad to go with Greta-- a night of hand-holding and watching Patrick blush in confusion sounds way better than fighting off Audrey's advances. Bert's going too, even though he still hasn't asked Molly Reynolds. Brendon makes a note to poke him about it later.)
But despite having friends who aren't Bert, Brendon's not the social butterfly that Victoria Asher is, or William Beckett. They rule the part of school that actually means something, and Brendon knows he's just there to be the eyes and ears of the administration, and make sure there aren't secret plans to spike the punch, or TP Mr. Franklin's car. What's more, the rest of the committee knows it too.
It kind of sucks.
When they decide on colors and decorations, Brendon just keeps his head down. When they debate the merits of a beach theme ("seriously, Gabe, they aren't going to let your uncle truck in two tons of sand"), he just nods along. When Bobby Morris makes a joke about having separate rooms for "spliffs and stiffs", seven pairs of eyes cut immediately to Brendon, and he slides lower in his chair.
"You gonna have a problem with that, Urie?" Cash asks with an overly-sweet smile.
"Hey, the kid knows how to keep his mouth shut, which is more than I can say for some people, Colligan," comes a retort from behind him, and Brendon blinks as Dan leans on the doorjam. "You guys ready yet?"
Vicky and Gabe grab their coats and the meeting disintegrates into gossip and goodbyes. Brendon gets up as quietly as he can. He's halfway out the door when Dan says, really low, "You have a shitty poker face."
Brendon flushes pink. "Yeah, well, at least it's pretty," he spits out before he can think, and his stomach rolls, waiting for the punch. But Dan just gives a surprised laugh, and shakes his head.
"Lucky," he grins, and Brendon ducks his head and gets the hell out of there, but he's grinning too.
*
It rains Tuesday and Wednesday too, and Bert gives Quinn a ride home both days even though they can't drive around because he has to pick his sisters up right after. The drive is only ten minutes, but they talk about stuff-- school and the football team and Bert's crazy cat. It's nice. Thursday is sunny and clear, the first nice day they've had all year. The temperature is up near sixty, and Bert has nothing to do after school. He thinks it might be good driving weather, just open the windows and head out toward the lake. "Hey, so," he asks in chem, his stomach twisting up in knots. "You want to go for a drive after school?" It's like a date, Bert thinks, even though Quinn probably doesn't see it that way. But Bert's never asked anyone on a date ever, and he's sweating a little at his temples for the whole period before he asks.
"Sure," Quinn says with an easy smile, and Bert bites his lip to keep from grinning like a moron and focuses on his schoolwork.
"Cool."
They pick up snacks from a gas station on Route 89-- Bert is gassing up the car and Quinn is in charge of food, so they end up with candy buttons and necco wafers, popcorn and bottles of pop. Bert's only had pop, like, three times in his whole life, and Quinn rolls his eyes when he says so. "You have got to get out of this town, man," he groans. Bert blushes (he hardly notices when he does it anymore, it's so normal around Quinn), and swings them out past the steel plant and west. They drive for half an hour, down a few winding roads that Bert hasn't ever taken before, and end up on a dirt road that edges the lake. "Hey, pull over," Quinn says, and Bert tucks the car behind a tree.
Quinn hops out and tugs off his jacket, tossing it on the front seat. When he stretches, there's a thin line of skin exposed, a sharp cut of Quinn's hipbone where his jeans ride low, and Bert closes his eyes and thinks about his grandma, about algebra, about anything that isn't Quinn's bare skin. "You comin'?" Quinn asks and Bert opens his eyes to Quinn grinning at him through the windshield before he climbs up on the hood and leans back, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "Bring the snacks," he says as Bert climbs out of the car.
The hood is warm from the drive and Bert sighs a little as the heat seeps into his skin. "Here," Quinn says, popping the top off a drink with his swiss army knife and handing it to Bert. They lay there on the hood watching some boaters far off in the lake, close enough that Bert can feel the heat of Quinn's body next to him, but not so close they're touching. He can feel this thrumming under his skin, like an itch he can't scratch, but it's okay. It's nice, once he gets used it. Sort of a low, smoldering flame instead of the white heat from the party. "This is the good life," Quinn says, and Bert sighs.
"Yeah."
They don't talk, but they don't really have to. Bert's almost drifting off when Quinn rolls off the hood, his boots squashing in the still-wet ground. "Hey, what--" Bert asks, peeking his eyes open, and Quinn looks back over his shoulder and grins.
"Gotta piss, be right back." He ducks around a tree and Bert closes his eyes as he hears the clank of Quinn's belt buckle and turns up his thoughts of dead birds, Aunt Doreen, sine plus cosine. Quinn shakes a smoke out of his ratty pack of Marlboros when he comes back and lights it with ease. He leans on the bumper as he takes a drag. Bert watches his mouth as he exhales, his eyes fluttering like the smoke is so much better than fresh air. Bert tips his shoe and pokes Quinn in the side with his foot.
"Hey, can I try one?" he asks, and Quinn raises his eyebrows.
"You ever smoke before?" he asks. Bert sits up and slides so his feet are resting on the bumper.
"Nope," he says. "But since I'm doomed to Hell anyway..." He holds up his empty bottle of pop and waves it dramatically. Quinn grins at him.
"You might not like it," he warns. "You're gonna cough." Bert shrugs. Quinn shakes his head, tsks in fake disappointment. "Here, try mine," he says, holding out his lit cigarette. Bert scoots to the edge of the hood, takes it carefully and puts it to his lips (This was in Quinn's mouth, his brain squeaks at him, and he frantically tramps it down.) and tries to pull a long drag. He gets about two seconds in before he's coughing so hard he's bent over double. Quinn laughs, but he pats Bert's back a few times until he can sit up. There are tears in Bert's eyes.
"Fuck," Bert croaks with a grin. It's a fun word to say, and it's worth it to hear Quinn's surprised laugh. Bert leans his elbows on his knees and looks down at the cigarette between his fingers. Quinn's laugh turns into a giggle and his eyes flash with something Bert can't name.
"Hey, let's try it this way," he says, and moves to stand between Bert's knees, his thighs pressed to the hood of the car. Bert blinks up at him as Quinn takes the cigarette from his fingers and pulls a long drag. He leans in a little, holding the smoke in his lungs, and it takes Bert a second to figure out what's happening. When he does, his heart almost stops, but he tilts his face up and opens his mouth a little, and Quinn is right there, his eyes half-closed as their noses brush. Quinn exhales and Bert tries to inhale the smoke, but he can't really breathe at all; all he manages is a quiet gasp as Quinn closes the gap and brushes his lips across Bert's. It's insane, this feeling in his chest like he's being suffocated, like he's about to explode, and the whole world falls away as he closes his eyes and leaves him with just Quinn, just Quinn's mouth, sweet and smoky and hot. Bert presses into it without even meaning too, and Quinn makes a noise that sounds like a whimper, and they're kissing, real honest-to-God kissing on the hood of Bert's dad's car. Bert's never kissed anyone before, and he's not sure now how anyone can ever stop, not when Quinn's tongue darts against his lower lip, not when Quinn's hand cups the back of his head and Bert's fingers twist in the front of Quinn's shirt, not until Bert actually can't breathe anymore and he pulls away with a gasp. Quinn is panting, his eyes this bright, vibrant green, and Bert finally thinks oh, that's what that means, and smiles. He wants to lean in again, but there's the scrape of tires on gravel and Quinn takes two fast steps back as a truck rolls by on the road behind them, two older guys with a cab full of fishing rods. Bert wants to reach out and pull Quinn back in, but the spell is broken, and he just bites his lip and looks at the ground.
"You want to head back?" Quinn asks quietly, and Bert shrugs.
"Sure. Make sure we stop on the way to ditch the bottles though, or my mom will kill me," he adds, and Quinn says "Man, you're a boy scout" and somehow everything is almost normal. Almost.
*
Part 2
Author: eleanor_lavish
Pairings: Bert/Quinn, Dan/Brendon, some Branden/Jepha, Bob/Frank
Rating/Wordcount: NC-17/~27,500
Disclaimer: It takes place before they were all born, so we're gonna go with "fiction".
Summary: Bert and Brendon have always had each other's backs. It's senior year for Orem High's Class of 1960 and the arrival of the new kid forces them to learn a little about themselves, and about the people they thought they knew.
Notes: For evocatory as part of the Used Multimedia Exchange. She asked for Bert/Quinn in High School, Brendon/Bert gen, OR domestic!Jepha. I...may have gone a little overboard. Many thanks to schuyler for being my cheering squad and beta, and to o4fuxache who always tells it like it is. Love to zillahseye, sinsense and beatpropx, without whom my Used existence would be measurably less awesome. (Coop- the epilogue is for you.) Warnings for general disregard of most Mormon customs, Wiki-only knowledge of 1960, ridiculous sappiness, and being a blatant rip-off of The Breakfast Club.
The first time Bert sees Quinn Allman is from the choir loft at Temple, a week after the new year. He's lanky, and he's sitting down but Bert thinks he's probably pretty tall (though tall is relative to a guy as short as Bert). Bert only notices him because he's fidgeting, opening his Bible to random pages, pushing his too-long hair out of his eyes. Elder Brooks glares at him from the pulpit and Quinn catches the look and just slouches back in his chair with a smug grin. Bert can finally see his whole face and his breath catches loud enough that Brendon elbows him lightly in the side. Quinn looks like an angel with a sneer, and something in Bert's stomach contracts and turns to butterflies.
*
The next time he sees Quinn is in his Monday morning English class, wandering in with his shirt partly untucked and his blazer mostly hidden under a worn leather jacket. Mrs. Frances frowns at him. "Everyone, this is Quinn Allman. He'll be finishing up the year with us," she tells the class. "I know you're new, Mr. Allman, but jackets should be left in your locker."
"Don't have one yet," Quinn shrugs, she just sighs and points to an empty seat at the far side of the room, one seat over and down from Bert. Bert tries his best not to stare, but when Quinn sits down, he can see the top of a box of cigarettes sticking out of his back pocket. Mrs. Frances has a habit of walking around the room during her lectures, and if she sees it, Quinn will be in serious trouble. He coughs a little, then a little louder and when Quinn turns around Bert looks from his eyes to the cigarette box and back. Quinn frowns for a second and then slowly grins, raising his eyebrows, and Bert realizes that he's basically been eyeing Quinn's butt. He blushes to his toes. "No," he hisses, and when Mrs. Frances doesn't look over, he lifts his fingers to his mouth and mimes taking a drag. Quinn's eyes open a little wider at that, and he reaches back quickly and tucks the pack farther into his pocket. He doesn't say thanks or anything, but the next time he catches Bert looking at him (and okay, maybe Bert is looking at him a little more than he should, but Quinn is even prettier up close, with his pale skin and long fingers), Quinn winks. Bert's stomach flips in the weirdest way, and he turns his eyes to the front of the room. He knows Quinn can see him blushing, and it just makes him blush even harder.
*
"He seems okay," he says to Brendon during lunch. "He's just. Different, I guess." They're sitting on the benches outside-- a luxury for seniors only, which should make them cool, but really just makes them, well... un-cool seniors. "He was carrying a box of cigarettes in his pocket. On school grounds."
Brendon wrinkles his nose. "I hear he got kicked out of school in Salt Lake, and so that's why he's living with his aunt out here," he replies with barely subdued excitement. Brendon is one of the biggest gossips Bert knows. He's also been Bert's best friend since the fifth grade, when they were both runt-sized playground targets of big Danny Whitesides, and pinky swore (it would have been a blood oath, but Brendon's a little squeamish) that they would always have each others' backs. Dan's a linebacker on the Orem High football team now, and he mostly leaves Brendon and Bert alone, but they've still got each others' backs. They've applied to colleges together too-- Brendon for music, Bert for... something else-- since Bert can't imagine a life without Brendon being weirdly spazzy at him every day. Brendon's already talking about their Mission in a few years, confident that he and Bert can get assigned together "somewhere amazing, Bert, like Sri Lanka, or Australia. As far from here as we can get."
Bert wants to hear more about Quinn and Salt Lake, but the five minute bell rings and Brendon washes down the last of his ham sandwich with his orange juice and tugs on Bert's hand. "We're going to be late for choir!"
No one but Brendon ever cares if they are late for choir, including Mrs. Thorenson, but Bert just rolls his eyes and lets himself be led.
*
Nothing really exciting happens for the rest of the day until seventh period, when Quinn walks into Bert's chemistry class. They're working on labs for the day, and Bert tries taking a few quick glances at the front of the room, dividing his attention between his Bunsen burner and where Mr. Abbott is handing Quinn a textbook and pointing at the back of the room, next to Bert. Bert hasn't had a lab partner all year, since the class is oddly numbered and Bert isn't exactly the most popular kid. He keeps his head down most of the time, and sometimes doesn't bother to shower in the morning, and he's self-aware enough to know that he's a little weird. "Mr. McCracken, seems you're in luck!" Mr Abbott smiles at him. "Meet your new lab partner, Quinn."
"Oh, we've met," Quinn says brightly. Bert blinks for a second, and thinks oh crap as Quinn walks toward him with a grin spreading across his face. "You like the view from the front as much as the one from the back?" he murmurs as he sits down, and Bert is pretty sure he's never going to stop blushing. "So," he says a little louder, settling on a stool. "What are we learning today, Mr. McCracken?"
"Bert," he says stupidly, and then even more stupidly holds out his hand. Quinn smiles wider, and Bert can't tell if its mocking or not.
"Quinn," he replies and shakes Bert's hand.
Bert motions to the jars of liquid on the table. "We're supposed to add them together slowly," he paraphrases from the workbook, "and stir the solution until it turns blue."
Quinn leans his elbows on the table and pokes at a scab on the back of his wrist. "I prefer my drinks shaken, not stirred," he says in a weird accent and Bert blinks at him.
"Um, I wouldn't drink it," he says, with a note of caution in his voice. Quinn just looks at him for a long second before laughing. "No, seriously," Bert says. "I know from personal experience. The last time I drank a chem solution, I threw up in the nurse's office twice." Quinn just laughs harder.
It doesn't sound mocking, but Bert shuts his mouth anyway and focuses on making sure his measurements are right. He wishes Brendon was in his class, because chemistry is way too much about precision for Bert to be very good at it, and Brendon would make sure he passed. He's a lot better in English, where he can work his way around to ideas. He feels Quinn's eyes on him and blushes again, and seriously, why? When he looks back, Quinn says "You're an odd duck," bemused, but not unkind. Bert just shrugs, because its not like Quinn's wrong. Bert's the weirdo, Brendon's the nerd, Dan's the jock. That's how the world sees them. Quinn's probably the rebel, Bert thinks. Quinn's the guy who shakes things up.
His blush stays firmly in place until the bell rings. Quinn shrugs into his leather jacket and reaches past Bert to stack his workbook on top of the others as they leave. His chest presses firmly against Bert's back and he leans down to say "Same time tomorrow?" low and teasing in Bert's ear.
At that point all the blood in Bert's cheeks rushes to just south of his belt. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and by the time he opens them, Quinn is pushing the door open and striding toward the parking lot. Bert sits on the floor outside his locker until his legs feel less like jelly, with his blazer folded in his lap. It's one thing to have these thoughts about Steve McQueen, he thinks frantically, but he's never had his body react like that to a guy he actually knows, and it's terrifying. He sits there until Brendon comes to find him for practice, and can't quite meet Brendon's eyes as he stands.
No one knows about these feelings Bert gets sometimes, not even Brendon, but with Quinn in his personal space every day for the next four months, Bert wonders how long he's going to last before everything goes to hell.
*
"We're not doing any more Pat Boone," Patrick says through clenched teeth, and Brendon sighs. He's had a long day and it just seems to be getting longer. Patrick's latest contribution to the barbershop repertoire is something by Dinah Washington and Brendon is pretty sure four boys singing a girls song would not go over well with the principal. As the senior group, they run themselves pretty autonomously, and Brendon would like to keep it that way, thank you.
"We can't do a girl song!" he says for the fifteenth time and Patrick narrows his eyes.
"It's 1960, Urie. Stop being so damned square," Patrick frowns at him. "I changed the pronouns, okay? I bet you wouldn't care so much if it was Connie Francis," he grumbles. "Back me up, Mikes."
That was the other thing. These arguments always took way longer than they should because Mikey always sided with Patrick, and Bert always sided with Brendon. This was after a full hour of both of them actively not caring one way or the other.
"Look, whatever," Brendon snaps. Bert was late to rehearsal by ten minutes today, and he's staring out the window at where the guys in auto shop are assembling a car of some sort. Brendon has no idea what it is, but its garishly blue. "Earth to Bert," he prods and Bert looks back almost guiltily. Brendon cuts his eyes back out the window for a second, and he can see Dan wiping off his hands, laughing at something the new kids is saying. They look cold, poking at the car in the January sun, but like they're having way more fun than Brendon is currently. "We're running through the Music Man stuff, and then we're done, I think."
Patrick tugs his hat a little lower and glowers, but he doesn't argue. They make it through the last ten minutes unscathed, and Mikey even smiles a few times when Patrick fancies up his part.
"So," Brendon asks as they're packing up their stuff. "Where were you?"
Bert looks at his toes, scratches his elbow and lies to Brendon's face when he says "Had to use the upstairs lav, since the one down here was full of smokers." Brendon knows it's a lie because he used that bathroom with two minutes to spare. He doesn't even know what to do about it, since Bert's never really lied to him before. He keeps his head down and when he looks back up, Bert eyes are cutting out the window again.
"Whitesides finally grow that extra head?" Brendon says with bitter edge to his voice. He thinks it might be aimed at Bert, which scares him a lot, but Bert just shrugs.
"It just. Looks interesting." Bert pushes his hands through his shaggy hair until its sticking out at all angles. Brendon wants to smooth it all back into place, but Bert would just do it again. "Don't you ever wonder what life would be like if we'd dropped choir and taken shop?"
"Well, we'll never know," Brendon says dryly. And no, really, Brendon hasn't ever thought that. He's thought about getting out of town, of going to a conservatory and living and breathing music every day with Bert half a town away at college. He's thought about exotic locations and places free of prying eyes, and freedom. He's not sure shop would get him where he wants to go. "Maybe in my valedictorian speech, I'll make a note about how knowing about fast cars gets you nowhere fast. Bet Whitesides'll love that."
Bert rolls his eyes and Brendon feels stung. "You realize that was all in the fifth grade?" he asks.
'That' was a year of getting teased and tormented enough that Brendon lost faith in a lot of things-- teachers, his parents, human decency-- but learned how to claw his way up the social order to get to a place where he was mostly untouchable. He'd dragged Bert along every step of the way, too, and now Bert was talking about taking shop. Shop with Dan Whitesides.
"Seriously, when is the last time you actually talked to Dan?" Bert asks and Brendon crosses his arms.
"Well, I don't poke bears either," he snipes.
Bert just laughs. "Sometimes bears can be cuddly, and enjoy a nice pic-a-nic basket," he teases and squeezes Brendon around the waist and picks him up. Brendon flails his legs, but he's grinning.
"Fine," he says, "but we have four months left of school and we're done forever. Can we just keep our heads down and not go poking things?"
*
Things Bert learns about Quinn over the next month:
1) Quinn is really into cars. His favorite class is auto shop, and he always has a smudge of oil under his fingernails. He rebuilt his Chevy from basically parts, and he loves it more than his sisters. ("No, seriously," he says when Bert laughs.) He couldn't bring it to Orem, but when Bert asks why, Quinn's eyes get stormy and he drops the subject.
2) Quinn's eyes change color depending on his mood. Deep brown means he's pissed, and hazel means he's happy. He's caught them going green a few times but he always looks away from Bert too fast for him to figure that one out.
3) He wants to live in California someday, and maybe learn to surf.
4) The only thing Quinn loves more than cars is music. He can play a song on piano after hearing it once on the radio, or so he says. (Bert decides to keep his mouth shut about his role in the senior barbershop quartet, but he still thinks Quinn should meet Patrick.) Quinn loves real rock and roll, like Elvis and Buddy Holly-- all the artists that Patrick would love to arrange for them but who were banned by the Administration. Bert's heart beats hard enough for him to feel it in his fingers whenever Quinn hums "Peggy Sue" under his breath.
5) He doesn't believe in God.
Things he doesn't learn:
1) Why Quinn is in Orem, and what happened in Salt Lake; but he thinks the God thing might have something to do with it.
2) How to stop the blushing, the stomach butterflies and the jelly knees he seems to get whenever Quinn is within ten feet of him. (When Quinn is close enough that their knees bump under the lab table, things get even dicier.)
3) Why Quinn still wants to talk to him, even after it becomes clear that Bert is kind of a social pariah, and Quinn starts hanging out with Dan and Bob and the rest of the guys in auto shop.
Not that he's complaining.
*
"Hey, so," Quinn whispers to Bert over their various saline solutions. "There's a party up on the hill on Friday. You going?"
Bert blinks at him. There have been parties on the hill-- held in run down houses and drenched in beer-- since Bert was old enough to understand the word 'party'. And no, he has never been to one.
Quinn grins at him. "You should come," he says, like it's that easy.
Bert's tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, pull it in between his teeth. Quinn's eyes follow the movement, and Bert ducks his head.
"I'll try?"
"Cool," Quinn says a second later, and he looks from Bert's mouth to their lab assignment. "So this thing is supposed to float in one of these?"
"It probably won't," Bert sighs, and they get to work.
*
"Hey, so," Bert says. "You want to come with me to this party on the hill on Friday?" Brendon almost snorts his milk and spends a few seconds coughing. Bert barrels on. "Quinn invited me," he says, seeing the question on Brendon's face. "If you don't want to come, I'll just go by myself, it's no big--"
"Sure," Brendon says, "Why not." Bert beams at him.
*
Two days later, Brendon has no idea how this happened.
"Do you even know whose house this is?" Brendon hisses in Bert's ear as they push past the kids hanging out in the front yard. The house is old but not too beat up, and Brendon's pretty surprised there aren't more kids running around yelling. It seems pretty laid back, compared to stories he's heard. There are a few kids he recognizes from school, but most of them are strangers, or old enough that Brendon only has vague memories of sharing hallways with them as a freshman. When he gets inside, the pungent, sweet smell of smoke is everywhere. He's never actually smelled it in person before, but he's pretty sure... "Bert!" he hisses again, and grabs his elbow.
Bert looks back at him, eyes pleading. "Just. Half an hour? If you still hate it we can go, I promise." Bert rarely asks for anything, and Brendon can feel his resolve crumbling under the weight of Bert's wide eyes.
"Fine," he mutters and Bert grins at him and cranes his neck around.
"You lost?" a voice asks from Brendon's left and he startles enough that there's a warm hand, steadying on his lower back. "I'll take that as a yes." They turn to see a guy in his twenties with black framed glasses, dark hair slicked back. He's wearing jeans and a black button up that's a size too small, the arms ripped off at the seams to show off a patchwork of tattoos. There aren't a lot of tattoos in Orem, not that you'd see; he catches Bert staring and lightly kicks his shin.
"Sorry," Brendon says, and the guy's smile is surprisingly warm.
"No problem, everyone's lost at some point. I'm Jepha," he says, "and this is my house. Over there is my roommate, Branden," he points to a guy in a checkered shirt with bleached out hair shuffling cards at a small dining table, "that way lies the kitchen, the bathroom and the keg is on the patio."
"I'm Bert," Bert says with a shy grin and Jepha looks him over.
"Of course you are," he says cryptically, and laughs when Bert shakes his hand. Brendon wants to defend Bert a little, say that he was only trying to be polite, but Jepha's swinging an arm around Bert's shoulder like they're old friends. "And this is?" he asks, gesturing to Brendon.
"Brendon. He's with me," Bert smiles and Jepha nods. Brendon suddenly feels really out of place.
"Hey, Quinn's out back," Jepha says to Bert and Brendon can't help but notice the way Bert's eyes go directly to the sliding door out the patio. Brendon can see a few guys clustered around the keg. They shouldn't be here, Brendon thinks. They could get in so much trouble... Bert ducks out from under Jepha's arm and heads outside with an apologetic wave. "Can I get you a beer?" Jepha asks Brendon.
"I don't drink," Brendon says, squaring his shoulders back.
"Cool," Jepha replies and nods to the table. "You play cards?"
Brendon can feel the heat on his cheeks. He promised Patrick he'd work on an arrangement this weekend, and instead he's here and everything is totally strange. "Not really?" he says, but Jepha tugs on his sleeve.
"C'mon, Brand can teach you."
Branden stands up to shake Brendon's hand and he's sober and smiling. "There comes a time in a young man's life when he needs to learn how to play poker," Branden says with mock seriousness, and Brendon almost thinks it's an okay idea. "You can play with me this round."
"Hey, that is not fucking fair," comes a voice from the kitchen and Brendon can feel his heart speeding up. He knows that voice. Dan appears at Brendon's elbow, looming next to Brendon's small frame, and sits down hard in a backwards chair. He takes a sip of beer from a mug labeled 'World's Best Dad'. "You can't team up with the genius."
"Genius, huh?" Branden says and peers at him.
"I'm n-not," Brendon stutters, because he's stuttered around Dan Whitesides since he was twelve, and why should today be any damn different.
"You've caught yourself a valedictorian," Dan says with a grin and a little salute with his mug that... isn't really as mean as Brendon remembers. Brendon blushes for some reason-- he's usually really proud to be tops in his class, but somehow he knows that grades aren't really what these guys care about.
"It's not. I mean, they haven't figured it out yet," Brendon says, but Jepha just laughs and points at Branden.
"You've got a ringer, man. Make sure you use him for good and not evil." Branden just steers Brendon to a seat at the table and starts shuffling and dealing.
"We'll start with five card stud, no fancy stuff," he starts, and Brendon tries to pay attention to the rules and not the way Dan keeps glancing at them over his cards.
*
It takes Bert a minute to find Quinn in the zoo of the backyard. He's sitting with a small circle of people, a worn guitar in his lap, and he's picking out a Roy Orbison tune nice and slow. Bert's chest constricts a little and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do with them. When Quinn looks up and sees him, he falters for a second, and Bert worries that maybe Quinn forgot he was coming, maybe he didn't really mean it, maybe-- but then Quinn is smiling and standing up, handing the guitar to the kid next to him.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, Allman?" the kid yells after him as Quinn walks toward where Bert is standing, trying to be inconspicuous in the shadows.
"I don't give a flying fuck, Bryar," Quinn yells back, eyes still fixed on Bert, and Bert laughs. Quinn's weaving a little as he walks, and Bert thinks it's kind of adorable. "You came."
"Yeah," Bert says and shrugs. He rocks up on his toes a few times. "Hi."
Quinn leans in close enough that Bert can feel how warm he is, even in the chill of the evening air. He smells warm too-- like leather and earth and beer. "Hi," Quinn whispers, and then giggles, and Bert is so gone on this kid. The thought makes him shiver and Quinn takes a step closer. "You cold?"
Bert shakes his head. He is definitely not cold. He does wish Quinn would give him some personal space, though, before he does something that might get him beat up by every kid here.
"Come on," Quinn says brightly, "I'll give you the tour." He actually takes Bert's hand, or more like wraps his hand around Bert's wrist to pull him back inside, but his thumb slides along Bert's palm in a way that doesn't seem accidental. Even though it probably is. Bert is a hopeless romantic (or so said Gerard before he graduated, back when Bert thought he was gone on Gerard and tried to impress him with pretty awful poetry. Looking back, the Gerard thing doesn't even come close to the Quinn thing), and he's been trying hard to be realistic. Wanting Quinn to touch him isn't something he can help. Actively seeking it out is something he can, and should, avoid. He pulls his wrist gently from Quinn's hand and stuffs his hands back in his pockets. Quinn looks away for a second before crossing his arms and nodding to the back hall. "That's where Jepha and Brand keep all their music stuff, off the garage. Jeph's a bartender at a place up near Lindon. Brand works at the steel plant. But they play a little bit. I've been jamming with them."
"I didn't know you played guitar too," Bert says, and he wonders why Quinn never mentioned it.
"Jeph's been teaching me," he shrugs. "I think he was just happy to meet someone else in this town who listens to Woody Guthrie." Quinn nods toward another small, dark hallway and Bert follows him. "Back here are the bedrooms," Quinn says as he's opening a door, and Bert looks in long enough to see a breast and a flash of dark hair before he shuts his eyes fast.
"Get out," someone yells, and Quinn is laughing hard enough that he's doubled over by the time he gets the door closed. Bert peeks his eyes open, and yells "Sorry!" through the door. Quinn leans against the door to catch his breath.
"Fuck, people need to learn to lock fucking doors," he says. He looks at Bert and his grin slides into a look Bert hasn't ever seen before. "Man, McCracken, you blush more than any boy I've ever met."
"They were naked!" Bert squeaks, and he can feel the heat on his cheeks.
Quinn leans in close again. "They were fucking," he whispers and Bert takes a step back, flustered. I mean, it was pretty obvious, but Quinn doesn't have to say-- "You've probably never even said the word 'fuck', have you," Quinn drawls and Bert huffs in embarrassment.
"Sure I have," he lies and Quinn pushes off the door and into Bert's space again.
"Liar," he grins, and Bert takes a step back. "Say it," Quinn prods, pressing in closer until the wall is at Bert's back.
"N-no," Bert says, but he's not sure what he's saying no to anymore.
Quinn is pressed almost flush against his chest and he's close enough that his hair brushes Bert's cheek when he leans in to whisper "I won't tell anyone, come on, just say it."
Bert's practically panting now, and he has to dig his nails into his palms so he won't put them somewhere stupid, like on Quinn's hips, or in his hair. Quinn's breathing funny too, or at least his voice is quavery in Bert's ear when he says "Come on," low in Bert's ear. "Bert." His lips brush the shell of Bert's ear and Bert's hips come off the wall like he was stung.
"F-fuck," Bert grates out, and then he's pushing Quinn away as hard as he can and tearing back into the main room. Brendon is playing cards with a few guys Bert doesn't know, and Dan Whitesides, but he doesn't look at any of them. He can't even look at Brendon. "Hey," he says, as calmly as he can. "We should get out of here."
Brendon looks like he's almost about to object, but then he looks up and sees Bert's face, and nods. "Thanks for the lesson," he tells Branden, and Bert is out the front door before Brendon even has his jacket on. "You going to tell me what happened?" he asks as Bert drives them back down into town.
"Nothing," Bert replies and Brendon sighs and looks out the window.
*
Quinn isn't at Temple that Sunday and Bert doesn't know if he's upset or grateful. He spent most of Saturday with his dad and his sisters, pulling down the old wallpaper in the den and scrubbing the walls clean, his hair covered in plaster dust. He spent a bit of time on homework, and washed the car, and was generally the Best Son he could be. It was guilt, he knows that, and sitting in Temple with Brendon's knee pressed against his, he knows why. He isn't listening to a sermon; he's thinking about Quinn, Quinn's hair on his cheek, his lips on Bert's skin. It hadn't felt like an accident. In fact, in the quick second that Bert's hips were pressed to Quinn's, he'd felt the heat, the hardness under his jeans, and he thinks maybe he should have stayed. Wonders what would have happened if he had.
He's going to Hell, he's pretty sure. The thought itself is kind of freeing, like if Bert can just accept it and move on, all will be well. Quinn isn't worried about his soul-- Quinn probably doesn't even think he has one. But Bert's not ready to make quite that leap yet. He feels like he has a soul, like it's burning and twisting up inside him whenever Quinn is around, like it wants to be out, be free. It's... amazing, actually, and Bert hides his smile behind his hymnal.
Quinn's in school Monday, but they have a quiz in English and Bert doesn't see him again until chemistry. "Hey," he says when Quinn takes his seat. Quinn's eyes are tired, and he hunches his shoulders and focuses on the lab report in front of him. He doesn't say anything beyond "pass me that thing?" all class, and by the end, Bert's hands are shaking a little. Whatever delusions he'd managed to come up with over the weekend-- of Quinn pulling him into a dark hall again, of pressing up against him and not running away this time-- are crumbling fast into a cold, uncomfortable silence. Bert has to go to the lav toward the end of class just to get away from it. He splashes some water on his face and takes a few deep breaths. He's not going to cry, not until he's far from this building, locked in the solitude of his own room, but he can feel the tightness in his throat where he's holding back tears.
He gets back to class just a few seconds before the bell rings, and Quinn is halfway out the door before Bert even has his books shut. He almost misses the scrap of paper sticking out of the chapter on properties of water: ripped hastily from a notebook, it just says "I'm sorry." Bert has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound, and he feels an upwelling of hope in his chest. He stuffs the scrap of paper in his pocket and races out to the parking lot. His dad let him bring the car even though he doesn't have to pick any of his siblings up from ballet or 4-F today. It's going to rain soon-- the kind of cold early spring rain that would always make Bert sick as a kid-- and he can see Quinn walking down a side street, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"Get in," he says as he pulls up alongside Quinn. Quinn just looks at him, shakes his head.
"Not a good idea."
"Quinn, get in the car," Bert says, surprised by the own forcefulness in his voice. But they have to talk; Quinn has to talk to him. "It's gonna rain, come on," he tries, and Quinn pauses, takes a deep breath before opening the door and sliding in. He sits as far from Bert as he can, shoulder pressed to the window, and mutters "Thanks."
"Where to?" Bert says after a second, because he doesn't actually know where Quinn's aunt lives. Quinn shrugs.
"I was just gonna walk. Aunt Susan's got piano students until five on Mondays, so." Big, heavy raindrops start to hit the windshield and Bert flips the wipers on and grins at him.
"Good thing you found me," he says and Quinn shifts down in his seat, but Bert can see the start of a smile there.
They end up grabbing hot dogs and fries at Caroline's Diner, Quinn sitting in the car while it idles outside. Bert runs as fast as he can, but he's still pretty soaked when he gets back. He pulls the paper sack from under his shirt and Quinn laughs. "Sorry, it was the dogs or me," Bert apologizes. He pushes his hair out of his face and he probably looks like a mess, and almost wishes Brendon were there to fix it.
"Well, we wouldn't want a hot dog casualty," Quinn nods and stuffs a few fries in his mouth.
They drive in silence all the way out to Canyon Road, and Bert parks them in one of his favorite spots at the base of Little Baldy, where he starts his hikes when the weather is warmer. Today, the lot is empty, water rushing down the hill to form swirling pools before they're swept further down to the town. Bert pushes the seat back, kicks off his shoes and puts his feet up on the steering wheel, socked toes curling around the wood veneer.
"So," Quinn says as Bert's unwrapping his food, "is this your car?"
Bert snorts. It's a big, blue, '56 four door Chevy, a little banged up from years of a big family using it, but still way more than Bert would be able to afford on his own. "My dad got the family a station wagon, so I get to use this one." His dad likes walking the mile or so from their house to the furniture store he runs with his business partner, so Bert gets the car more than most kids his age. He knows to be grateful, but he's not sure some days if his dad is just looking for an excuse to get Bert out of the house when he hands him the keys. ("You should have more friends," his mom used to say over dinner once a week, then once a month. Now, he hardly ever hears it, and he's not sure why, but it hurts more when she doesn't say it.)
"It's roomy," Quinn notes, running his hands along the upholstery, and it's small talk, but it's talking, and Bert is glad for it.
"Roomier than yours?" Bert asks, because he knows Quinn well enough that talking about his car makes his face light up. Bert lets him ramble about transmissions and engine bocks for while, even when he has no idea what Quinn is talking about. When he runs out of things to say, Quinn turns on the radio, nice and low, and up in the hills they can only get one station. Bert starts humming along.
"Oh, man, Frankie Avalon? You like this crap?" he asks, and Bert rolls his eyes.
"It's what there is out here; I try not to think about it," he shrugs, and he thinks it was the wrong thing to say when Quinn goes quiet and says "Yeah, I guess."
Bert eats a few more fries and frowns at his knees. "I should get back," Quinn says out the window and Bert turns the car on, the hottight feeling back in his throat.
"Are you," he starts, and then shakes his head. "Why are you mad at me?" he asks, and he wants to kick himself because now he sounds like a little kid. They just had a perfectly nice afternoon and Bert is going to screw it up again.
Quinn opens his mouth and then closes it, taps his fingers restlessly on his thigh. "'m not mad at you," he mumbles, and Bert huffs. "I'm not!" he says again and Bert glances over at him. "I'm sorry for being a jerk on Friday," Quinn says, and he sounds a little miserable.
"Okay." He pauses. "'m sorry for leaving," Bert says back and Quinn nods. Okay, good.
They get to Quinn's aunt's just as the rain is letting up. Bert throws the car in park as Quinn roots around under his seat for his books. He looks up through his hair as he reaches for the door and Bert is caught staring, but he doesn't look away. "Thanks," Quinn says. His eyes are that green that Bert can't ever put his finger on. "You've got..." Quinn starts, and he reaches out one hand and swipes the pad of his thumb over the corner of Bert's mouth.
"Wha--" Bert says softly. His heart is beating like a dragonfly in his chest.
"Ketchup," Quinn smiles at him, and rubs a smear of red onto his jeans before he slides out of the car.
*
Brendon isn't actually on the student council, but he ends up on the Prom committee anyway. He figures it's a good thing, that they won't end up with a terrible theme song if Brendon can keep a watchful eye, but he still hates the meetings. He has friends in school who aren't Bert, of course-- Patrick and Mikey, Spencer and Ryan from debate club. Greta is in choir with him, and they got pretty close when they did Guys and Dolls last year.
(They're actually going to prom together, even though Brendon's pretty sure she's sweet on Patrick, who is too clueless to be real. He asked her mostly because she's a nice girl and Patrick wasn't ever going to get with the program, but also because Audrey had been making cow eyes at him in history class. Their parents had set them up on a date earlier in the year, and they'd gone out a few times ("she's from such a nice family," Brendon's mom had sighed when he left to pick her up), but she wasn't as nice as everyone thought. She'd climbed in his lap at the drive-in, and Brendon had tried to get into it, he really had, but she tasted like licorice and gum, and he'd had to push back a panic attack when she slid her hands under his shirt. After that, he didn't really call her anymore. She's pretty, but if that is what she wanted to get up to at the movies, God knows what she'd want to do after prom. Brendon's glad to go with Greta-- a night of hand-holding and watching Patrick blush in confusion sounds way better than fighting off Audrey's advances. Bert's going too, even though he still hasn't asked Molly Reynolds. Brendon makes a note to poke him about it later.)
But despite having friends who aren't Bert, Brendon's not the social butterfly that Victoria Asher is, or William Beckett. They rule the part of school that actually means something, and Brendon knows he's just there to be the eyes and ears of the administration, and make sure there aren't secret plans to spike the punch, or TP Mr. Franklin's car. What's more, the rest of the committee knows it too.
It kind of sucks.
When they decide on colors and decorations, Brendon just keeps his head down. When they debate the merits of a beach theme ("seriously, Gabe, they aren't going to let your uncle truck in two tons of sand"), he just nods along. When Bobby Morris makes a joke about having separate rooms for "spliffs and stiffs", seven pairs of eyes cut immediately to Brendon, and he slides lower in his chair.
"You gonna have a problem with that, Urie?" Cash asks with an overly-sweet smile.
"Hey, the kid knows how to keep his mouth shut, which is more than I can say for some people, Colligan," comes a retort from behind him, and Brendon blinks as Dan leans on the doorjam. "You guys ready yet?"
Vicky and Gabe grab their coats and the meeting disintegrates into gossip and goodbyes. Brendon gets up as quietly as he can. He's halfway out the door when Dan says, really low, "You have a shitty poker face."
Brendon flushes pink. "Yeah, well, at least it's pretty," he spits out before he can think, and his stomach rolls, waiting for the punch. But Dan just gives a surprised laugh, and shakes his head.
"Lucky," he grins, and Brendon ducks his head and gets the hell out of there, but he's grinning too.
*
It rains Tuesday and Wednesday too, and Bert gives Quinn a ride home both days even though they can't drive around because he has to pick his sisters up right after. The drive is only ten minutes, but they talk about stuff-- school and the football team and Bert's crazy cat. It's nice. Thursday is sunny and clear, the first nice day they've had all year. The temperature is up near sixty, and Bert has nothing to do after school. He thinks it might be good driving weather, just open the windows and head out toward the lake. "Hey, so," he asks in chem, his stomach twisting up in knots. "You want to go for a drive after school?" It's like a date, Bert thinks, even though Quinn probably doesn't see it that way. But Bert's never asked anyone on a date ever, and he's sweating a little at his temples for the whole period before he asks.
"Sure," Quinn says with an easy smile, and Bert bites his lip to keep from grinning like a moron and focuses on his schoolwork.
"Cool."
They pick up snacks from a gas station on Route 89-- Bert is gassing up the car and Quinn is in charge of food, so they end up with candy buttons and necco wafers, popcorn and bottles of pop. Bert's only had pop, like, three times in his whole life, and Quinn rolls his eyes when he says so. "You have got to get out of this town, man," he groans. Bert blushes (he hardly notices when he does it anymore, it's so normal around Quinn), and swings them out past the steel plant and west. They drive for half an hour, down a few winding roads that Bert hasn't ever taken before, and end up on a dirt road that edges the lake. "Hey, pull over," Quinn says, and Bert tucks the car behind a tree.
Quinn hops out and tugs off his jacket, tossing it on the front seat. When he stretches, there's a thin line of skin exposed, a sharp cut of Quinn's hipbone where his jeans ride low, and Bert closes his eyes and thinks about his grandma, about algebra, about anything that isn't Quinn's bare skin. "You comin'?" Quinn asks and Bert opens his eyes to Quinn grinning at him through the windshield before he climbs up on the hood and leans back, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "Bring the snacks," he says as Bert climbs out of the car.
The hood is warm from the drive and Bert sighs a little as the heat seeps into his skin. "Here," Quinn says, popping the top off a drink with his swiss army knife and handing it to Bert. They lay there on the hood watching some boaters far off in the lake, close enough that Bert can feel the heat of Quinn's body next to him, but not so close they're touching. He can feel this thrumming under his skin, like an itch he can't scratch, but it's okay. It's nice, once he gets used it. Sort of a low, smoldering flame instead of the white heat from the party. "This is the good life," Quinn says, and Bert sighs.
"Yeah."
They don't talk, but they don't really have to. Bert's almost drifting off when Quinn rolls off the hood, his boots squashing in the still-wet ground. "Hey, what--" Bert asks, peeking his eyes open, and Quinn looks back over his shoulder and grins.
"Gotta piss, be right back." He ducks around a tree and Bert closes his eyes as he hears the clank of Quinn's belt buckle and turns up his thoughts of dead birds, Aunt Doreen, sine plus cosine. Quinn shakes a smoke out of his ratty pack of Marlboros when he comes back and lights it with ease. He leans on the bumper as he takes a drag. Bert watches his mouth as he exhales, his eyes fluttering like the smoke is so much better than fresh air. Bert tips his shoe and pokes Quinn in the side with his foot.
"Hey, can I try one?" he asks, and Quinn raises his eyebrows.
"You ever smoke before?" he asks. Bert sits up and slides so his feet are resting on the bumper.
"Nope," he says. "But since I'm doomed to Hell anyway..." He holds up his empty bottle of pop and waves it dramatically. Quinn grins at him.
"You might not like it," he warns. "You're gonna cough." Bert shrugs. Quinn shakes his head, tsks in fake disappointment. "Here, try mine," he says, holding out his lit cigarette. Bert scoots to the edge of the hood, takes it carefully and puts it to his lips (This was in Quinn's mouth, his brain squeaks at him, and he frantically tramps it down.) and tries to pull a long drag. He gets about two seconds in before he's coughing so hard he's bent over double. Quinn laughs, but he pats Bert's back a few times until he can sit up. There are tears in Bert's eyes.
"Fuck," Bert croaks with a grin. It's a fun word to say, and it's worth it to hear Quinn's surprised laugh. Bert leans his elbows on his knees and looks down at the cigarette between his fingers. Quinn's laugh turns into a giggle and his eyes flash with something Bert can't name.
"Hey, let's try it this way," he says, and moves to stand between Bert's knees, his thighs pressed to the hood of the car. Bert blinks up at him as Quinn takes the cigarette from his fingers and pulls a long drag. He leans in a little, holding the smoke in his lungs, and it takes Bert a second to figure out what's happening. When he does, his heart almost stops, but he tilts his face up and opens his mouth a little, and Quinn is right there, his eyes half-closed as their noses brush. Quinn exhales and Bert tries to inhale the smoke, but he can't really breathe at all; all he manages is a quiet gasp as Quinn closes the gap and brushes his lips across Bert's. It's insane, this feeling in his chest like he's being suffocated, like he's about to explode, and the whole world falls away as he closes his eyes and leaves him with just Quinn, just Quinn's mouth, sweet and smoky and hot. Bert presses into it without even meaning too, and Quinn makes a noise that sounds like a whimper, and they're kissing, real honest-to-God kissing on the hood of Bert's dad's car. Bert's never kissed anyone before, and he's not sure now how anyone can ever stop, not when Quinn's tongue darts against his lower lip, not when Quinn's hand cups the back of his head and Bert's fingers twist in the front of Quinn's shirt, not until Bert actually can't breathe anymore and he pulls away with a gasp. Quinn is panting, his eyes this bright, vibrant green, and Bert finally thinks oh, that's what that means, and smiles. He wants to lean in again, but there's the scrape of tires on gravel and Quinn takes two fast steps back as a truck rolls by on the road behind them, two older guys with a cab full of fishing rods. Bert wants to reach out and pull Quinn back in, but the spell is broken, and he just bites his lip and looks at the ground.
"You want to head back?" Quinn asks quietly, and Bert shrugs.
"Sure. Make sure we stop on the way to ditch the bottles though, or my mom will kill me," he adds, and Quinn says "Man, you're a boy scout" and somehow everything is almost normal. Almost.
*
Part 2