Fic: Go Ask Alice (The Used, Bert/Quinn, PG-13, 3900 words)
Let me hitch you up to the bandwagon:
Go Ask Alice
The Used, Bert/Quinn.
PG-13, 3900 words, high school AU.
Thanks to just_katarin for reading it over. Any remaining mistakes and dreadful writing is on me.
---
Every step squelched. Quinn couldn't hear the noise over the rain, but he could feel it. Every footfall sent muddy water rushing in through his sneaker. On the second lap of the field, he'd been running around his own water-filled footprints; by the fifteenth lap, the path he ran was just a muddy mess, and there was no avoiding the puddles.
There were only five laps left to do, though.
Quinn wiped his hair out of his eyes and put his hand back into position on the shaft of his lacrosse stick. He curled his wrists and cradled the ball, feeling it reassuring and solid in the pocket. The rain fell in his eyes, but he just put his head down, letting it run over his forehead and drip off of his nose.
With his head down, all he could see was the mud and the toes of his sneakers. He didn't even get a glimpse of what he ran into it until he'd already fallen down over it. Something jabbed his eye as he went down. Quinn slapped a hand over his wounded eye before he sat up. "The fuck?" he said.
"Fuck you," said the thing. The boy. He was holding an umbrella, and awkwardly trying to lever himself up off of the ground. Quinn pushed himself to his feet first, and held out his hand for the kid to take, but the boy just said, "Fuck your face and your fucking ugly mother that gave it to you," and got up by himself.
"No really, what the fuck," Quinn said.
"It's fucking thundering, you fucking-- you donkeyfucking jock," the boy spat out.
Quinn tilted his head back, still holding one hand over his eye. Rain pounded on his face. He tipped his head back down. "Yeah, that happens when it rains," he said.
"Fucking--" the kid sputtered. He reached out and yanked Quinn's lacrosse stick out of his hand, before Quinn could realize what he was doing. "If you want this back, you have to come inside," he said, and then stomped off of the field. His ass was covered in mud.
Quinn closed his mouth and took his hand away from his eye, blinking slowly. After a beat, he shrugged and followed. The boy stomped towards the big building by the lacrosse field. The theater, Quinn remembered dimly. It was a big white building, with one enormous multi-paned window facing the field.
The kid folded up the umbrella before he got to the building, fumbling it shut with one hand. He kicked out a rock that was holding the door open, caught the edge of the door with the pocket of Quinn's lacrosse stick, and slid into the building. Quinn ran for it, but the door slipped away from his fingers and closed with a bang. He tried the door handle, but it didn't budge.
"Dude," Quinn said. Rain was dripping into his ears. Quinn sighed and banged on the door with the side of his fist. After a beat, the door creaked open a bit, and the boy peered out.
"Are you even old enough to be on school property?" Quinn said.
"Fuck you, I'm a junior," the boy snarled, yanked his head back in, and shut the door.
"What the actual fuck," Quinn said, and banged on the door again. The door creaked open. "Fine, you're a junior," Quinn said. "Give me back my stick."
"Ugg take stick. Ugg like stick. Stick belong to Ugg," he said. He contorted his face and made a long farting noise with his lower lip.
Quinn snorted. "Fuck off, asshole. Give me my stick."
"No. It's good for picking my nose with."
"Your nose is tiny," Quinn said. "C'mon, dude, I need my stick."
"My whole body is one giant nostril, dude," he shot back. He didn't close the door, though. They stared at each other for a long moment, and the guy finally said, "Either you come in or you go run your laps without your stick."
Quinn looked back at the field. He was fucking freezing, now that he'd stopped. The mud track he'd run around the field looked like a death drag. "Give me a second to get my bag," he said finally.
"Twenty seconds," he said, propping the door open with his hip. Quinn hurried to get his bag, half-believing that he was going to be put through the routine again; when he rounded the corner of the building, though, the other kid was still waiting in the doorway. Quinn pushed past him into the building. The door fell shut with another bang.
The room past the door was bigger than Quinn expected. There was room enough for a dumpy yellow-green sofa and a big blue rug, a stairway up to what Quinn assumed was the theater, and piles of clothes heaped everywhere besides. One corner had a chalkboard on wheels, with BERT RAPED YOUR pet goat wiggles HAHAHA scrawled in the lower left corner. Quinn's stick was sitting under the chalkboard, and he went over to it, snatching it up off of the floor. His shoes squelched and squeaked when he moved.
From behind him, the guy said, "Do you want to get changed?"
"Uh, I guess," Quinn said. He watched the guy dig through a pile of clothes, his stick clutched to his wet chest.
"I think there's some farmer's clothes that would fit you," the guy muttered.
"Okay," Quinn said slowly. "Who the fuck are you, by the way?"
"Bert," the guy said. Quinn glanced over his shoulder at the blackboard. He was hanging out with a goat-raper. Great. "Here," Bert added. Quinn looked back to see Bert holding out a pair of the ugliest pants Quinn had ever seen.
"Those are ugly," Quinn said.
"Yup," Bert said, and waggled the pants at him. "They'll probably fit you."
Quinn took the pants. "These look like a clown threw up on them," he said.
"They look like your mom queefed on them after a clown threw up in her vag," Bert corrected. "Put them on."
Quinn considered the pants, and then looked over at the windows. There was no one out there, of course, but it was still kind of weird. "Is there someplace where I can change?"
"Do you need the little girl's room?" Bert asked, but he didn't wait for an answer, just headed back in the direction of the door where he let Quinn in. There was another staircase there, this one heading down. Quinn leaned his stick against the blackboard carefully, and followed Bert.
The doorway at the end of the stairs was tiny, and Quinn had to duck to get in. The room past the doorway was small and white-washed, with white-painted wooden chairs, tables, and mirrors lining the walls. It was messily abandoned; there were hairpins scattered across one of the nearest tables. There was a doorway nearby, leading into an eerily similar room. It was quieter down here, the drumming of the rain muted by the walls.
"I feel kind of like Alice," Quinn commented.
"Should I go ask you?" Bert tossed back over his shoulder. He kept walking, and led Quinn around the corner, into another small white room with the same tables, chairs, and mirrors on the wall.
Quinn said, "Not druggie Alice. Or-- other druggie Alice."
"I'm the Cheshire Cat," Bert said.
"You're the Mad Hatter," Quinn returned.
Bert's shoes squeaked when he turned to look at Quinn. "Who's the March Hare?" he asked.
"You are a weird motherfucker," Quinn said. Bert shrugged. "I guess I'm the March Hare," Quinn added, after a beat.
"You'll do," Bert said. "Do you want some tea?"
Quinn laughed, awkwardly, unsure if he should be embarrassed or confused. Bert just looked at him, then leaned against the table, like he was waiting for Quinn to do something. Quinn put the pants down on the table, and then lifted the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head with a grimace. "Gross," he said.
He'd expected Bert to turn away, but instead Bert held out his hand. Quinn hesitated. "There's a heater in this room," Bert explained. "It'll dry if we put it on there." Quinn handed it over, and Bert turned to spread it on the metal pipe that was running along the bottom of the wall.
Quinn pulled off his shorts awkwardly, made clumsy by his embarrassment. His shoes squeaked and squished against the cement floor as he fumbled the wet material off of his legs. Bert took the shorts, and spread them next to Quinn's shirt over the pipe. Quinn picked up the pants Bert had given him, but just the idea of putting the scratchy, dusty fabric on over his wet legs made his balls crawl up inside his body.
"Do you want to wait until your underwear dries?" Bert asked.
"Kind of, yeah," Quinn said. He leaned his butt gingerly against the table and toed off his sneakers, getting them off after a couple of abortive attempts. He peeled one sock off, then the other. "God, I'm disgusting right now."
"Well, what did you expect?" Bert asked.
Quinn squinted at him. Bert was digging in his pockets, though, so he didn't respond. "From what?" Quinn asked.
Bert pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Hah. Well, from running in the fucking rain, you moron."
"Right," Quinn said.
Bert dug a pack of matches out of the cigarette box. He tried lighting a match, but it flared and went out. Quinn leaned over and cupped his hands around the end of the cigarette, the way his dad always did. Bert squinted at him. "No wind, genius," Bert commented.
"Right," Quinn said again, feeling his face flush. "Here, let me try," he said, when the next match fizzled.
"They're wet," Bert warned, but he handed over the pack of matches easily enough. Quinn felt the matches, found the least wet one, and pressed it between his fingers. He ripped it out of the book and shuffled over to the heater, getting down on one knee and pressing the match against the surface of the pipe. The cement floor was cold on the front of his shin, and Quinn shivered. His nipples were hard, the skin prickling, and he worried that Bert would notice. He hunched forward, staring at the match on the pipe.
Bert asked, "Doesn't that hurt?"
Quinn looked back down at his finger holding down the match. "Not really," he admitted. "I burned it pretty bad once, so I can't feel much with it now."
"How'd you burn it?" Bert asked. He crouched down next to Quinn, folding his legs in close to his body.
"My brothers and I were lighting stuff on fire," Quinn said. He ducked his head when Bert giggled. "My mom came out and yelled at us, and I started trying to clean up."
"You picked something up out of the fire, didn't you?" Bert asked.
"Yeah," Quinn said. "A metal pot."
Bert just giggled, or-- it started as a giggle, but it took a left turn into a big ha-ha laugh in the middle, then fell back into weird hoots. Quinn watched Bert laughing. He looked demented, and pretty, like an evil witch in a film.
"You look creepy when you laugh," Quinn said, and picked up the match. "And I think your match is dry."
"Sweet," Bert said, his hoots abruptly breaking off. He twisted the match out of Quinn's fingers. Quinn straightened up; he rubbed the side of one hand over his nipples with the same motion, trying to make it look casual. Bert didn't seem to notice. The flame held, and he lit his cigarette, took a long drag, and sighed out the smoke. He frowned at Quinn, and Quinn stopped rubbing at his chest, dropping his arm awkwardly to his side again. Bert didn't say anything about that, though; he asked, "Does the smoke, like, offend your jock lungs?"
"It's cool," Quinn said. He gingerly braced his butt on the edge of the table again.
"Cool," Bert said, slowly. He took another drag and asked, "So why were you running in the rain?"
"Why do you care?" Quinn asked. He tugged down on the legs of his underwear, trying to get them to un-cling from his balls.
"Because that's some fucked-up abused-kid shit to do," Bert said. He took a dramatic drag off of his cigarette. "And I like a good sob story," he said on the exhale.
"Shut up, I'm not abused," Quinn said. "I just-- I want to get better, and Coach said that running laps and practicing would help."
"In the rain," Bert said. He tucked one hand under his armpit. He looked like a fag, Quinn thought uncharitably. When he looked at Bert, Bert cocked one eyebrow and took another drag, flicking his hair back from his face. It was almost like Bert was trying to be faggy.
Quinn looked away. "Every day," he said stubbornly.
"Getting hit by lightning doesn't actually give you superpowers," Bert said, like he was trying to be helpful. "You know that, right?"
"Shut up," Quinn muttered. He shifted further back, until he was completely sitting on the table. "Anyway, you're still here."
"I'm learning my lines inside," Bert said snidely.
"Are you here because you're an abused kid?" Quinn asked.
Bert laughed again, high and brittle this time. "No sob story here, sweetheart," he said.
Quinn shrugged and looked down at his bare legs. He swung them back and forth slightly a couple of times. His underwear was still riding up on him, cold and wet. He glanced at his watch where it pressed into the side of his thigh. His mom wouldn't be there to pick him up until four. He had another twenty minutes to wait. He blew out a breath.
"I'm--" Bert started. Quinn looked up at him. Bert took another drag and exhaled faster than he had before. "I'm going to be the lead in the play this spring," he said.
"Yeah?" Quinn said.
"Yeah," Bert said. He looked unsure of himself. Quinn didn't know what had changed. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bert beat him to it. "You could bring your jock buddies to the show, beat me up after," he said, like a dare.
"I wouldn't do that," Quinn said.
"What, come see the show?" Bert muttered. He finished his cigarette and reached under the table to grind it out.
"I don't beat people up," Quinn said, "Not even if they're being total fuckholes." Bert grinned at him for that, weirdly enough, looking down and tucking his hair behind his ear. Quinn leaned on one hand, feeling awkward. He said, "So when's your show?"
"Another month, end of April," Bert said.
Quinn should have thought about his schedule, about his plan to move from crease position to point position, about whether or not he had a game that day. He didn't. "I'll come to it," he promised.
"Yeah?" Bert asked.
"Fuck you, I already said I would," Quinn said.
Bert grinned at him again. He really was pretty, even if he was weird-looking. Pretty weird, Quinn thought, and had to look away so he wouldn't laugh nervously. Looking away meant he missed Bert's expression when Bert said, "Have you ever done theater?"
Quinn looked back, quickly, but Bert was just staring at him, his face serious. Quinn squinted at him, trying to find the joke in his features, but he couldn't. "No," Quinn said slowly. "No, I've never done theater."
"I'm shocked," Bert said. He leaned his side against the table, a foot away from Quinn's naked knee, and drummed his ragged fingernails on the wood. "You ever wear makeup?" he said, less a question than a challenge.
"Yeah, all the time," Quinn said sarcastically. Bert snorted, and Quinn laughed and said, "If you already know the answer, I don't know why you're asking."
"Maybe I want to see you in makeup," Bert said.
Quinn huffed a short breath through his nose, almost like a laugh. Bert didn't laugh, though, didn't even grin this time. He was staring at Quinn again. "You want to see me in makeup, you're going to have to put it on me yourself," Quinn said. He heard his voice quaking at the end, like it was about to crack, but Bert still didn't laugh.
Bert leaned forward, reached past him, and for no reason that Quinn could understand the gesture made his armpits and his sides and his dick - fuck, his dick - tighten and tense. He flinched away from Bert's arm, pressed his knees together. "Calm down," Bert said. "You need a cigarette?"
"No," Quinn said. He wanted one, but he knew from the movies that the nerd always choked on the smoke from his first cigarette. He didn't want to choke in front of this guy. "What are you doing?" he asked, craning his neck around.
"Makeup," Bert said. He glanced at Quinn from under his eyelashes, and finally, fucking finally pulled away.
"You're serious," Quinn said, even though he could see the tubes in Bert's hand.
"Yup," Bert said. He uncapped one of the tubes and twisted it, pushing up a red stick. He gestured for Quinn to lean forward.
"Don't-- are you making fun of me?" Quinn asked. His voice wobbled again.
"No," Bert said. "I don't make fun, I steal it." He smiled, though, and gestured again; this time Quinn leaned forward.
Bert held the lipstick just over Quinn's lips and murmured, "Hold still," before he tucked it into the corner of Quinn's mouth and slid it across his upper lip. It was cold and slick; it passed too quickly over Quinn's lips for him to register the sensation as more than that. "Press your lips together," Bert said, and "Now close your eyes." Quinn obeyed.
The wood was warming up under Quinn's thighs, but his calves were still cold, the thin hair on his shins standing up from his skin. Bert's ashy-smelling breath was warm, too, but it made Quinn shiver, made his nipples tighten again. Quinn startled at the pressure of the eyeliner when it came, and Bert repeated, "Hold still."
"Sorry," Quinn muttered, and held still. Bert dragged it over his eyelid, hesitant marks in the corners and then a long streak along his eyelashes. Quinn could feel the eyelashes jarred by the eyeliner. Bert did the other lid, surer this time, and then took his hand away.
"Open," Bert said. Quinn opened his eyes. He looked for a reaction, but Bert just pushed at his cheek until Quinn looked over his shoulder, into the mirror.
Quinn didn't think he looked like a girl, even though the guys always teased him for being too smooth and girl-skinny. He thought he looked like himself, just with color on his face. He watched Bert looking at him in the mirror; their eyes slid toward one another. "Strange," Quinn said, and tried a smile. His reflection's red lips curled at the corners.
"Yeah," Bert said. Quinn turned back to face him. "Yeah, it's strange," Bert said. He leaned in like he was looking closer; he put his hand on Quinn's leg, resting hesitantly above his knee. "Do you feel like a character now?" he asked.
"Sort of," Quinn said. "It might just be you, though. I'm not an actor." He thought Bert was closer, or maybe it was just him. He couldn't tell. He didn't want to shift any closer, but it felt like they were talking into one another's mouths already. Quinn wet his lips. They tasted like wax. "Do you--" Quinn said, before Bert leaned forward and pressed their lips together.
Quinn tightened his hands on the edge of the table, surprised, but he didn't jerk away. He stayed, pressing into it, and opened his mouth when Bert did. It wasn't like he expected. He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't this. Bert mouth felt like it didn't fit with Quinn's, like Quinn's mouth was too small. He opened his mouth wider, but it didn't seem to help. Bert touched Quinn's shoulder, just a quick press of fingers, but it made Quinn gasp. He took one hand off of the table and clutched at Bert's hip, widened his mouth even more. Their mouths finally fit together, matching up lip to lip.
They stayed like that, kissing slowly. Quinn was breathing hard through his nose. His feet were trembling, he could feel them. He wanted something, he didn't know what, but it felt like when he'd picked up that metal pot from the fire, like his skin was touching something so hot that it felt cold.
Quinn's watch beeped the hour, and Quinn startled and jerked back. Bert let him. His mouth was red from Quinn's lipstick, smeared around the edges of his lips. He looked like he'd been eating berries.
"I have to go," Quinn said stupidly.
"Don't," Bert said. Quinn laughed, but Bert ducked his head, like he'd meant it.
"My mom's picking me up," Quinn said. Bert just shrugged, but he let Quinn slide off of the table and go over to the heating pipe. Quinn slid his sort-of-dry shorts and t-shirt back on. He felt like his dick, hard under his wet underwear and shorts, was embarrassing, obvious. He thought that Bert would crack a joke, but Bert didn't say anything; he just leaned against the edge of the table and watched him dress.
When he'd put his wet socks and damp shoes back on, Quinn straightened up. Bert looked at him, quick, and then tucked his hair behind his ear. "You should come by tomorrow," he said.
"What, after practice?" Quinn asked. Bert nodded, looked up at him. "Okay," Quinn said recklessly, and picked up his bag.
He hesitated, said, "So," pulling his backpack straps tighter around his shoulders.
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow," Bert said, turning back to the table.
"Sure," Quinn said.
"If you feel like it," Bert said, shrugging his shoulder.
"Okay." Quinn hesitated, but Bert was apparently interested in cleaning up the crap on the tables in the room instead of looking at him. "Okay, cool," he said, and left.
When he went outside, his mom's car was pulled up next to the lacrosse field, lights on and the engine idling. She waved at him when he walked up to the car, and Quinn waved back before he opened the back to sling his backpack into the footwell. "Was practice good?" she asked, when he opened the passenger door.
"It was good," he said, absent-mindedly.
She put the car in reverse, put her arm over the back of his seat, and carefully edged them out of the parking spot. "What's with the war paint?" she asked, turned back and put the car in drive.
"What?" Quinn asked.
"The warpaint," she said, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of her face.
Quinn startled, touching his fingers to his lips. It took him a few breaths to say, "A theater kid let me stay out of the rain in the theater building, and he showed me the makeup stuff they have to do," but he hardly blushed at all.
"That was nice of him," his mom said, turning onto the main road by the school.
"Yeah," Quinn said, and touched his lips again. "Something like that."
---
Feedback of any stripe (critical, excited, blasé) is appreciated and encouraged. Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental.
- valerie-z wrote The Master of Fractions (Bert/Quinn, Bert/Quinn/Jepha).
- foxinmyhands wrote Enough Ain't the Test (Dan/Jepha, D/s & makeup).
- swear_jar and apiphile wrote Texts From Last Night, This Morning, and Now (text message style, filthy language).
Go Ask Alice
The Used, Bert/Quinn.
PG-13, 3900 words, high school AU.
Thanks to just_katarin for reading it over. Any remaining mistakes and dreadful writing is on me.
---
Every step squelched. Quinn couldn't hear the noise over the rain, but he could feel it. Every footfall sent muddy water rushing in through his sneaker. On the second lap of the field, he'd been running around his own water-filled footprints; by the fifteenth lap, the path he ran was just a muddy mess, and there was no avoiding the puddles.
There were only five laps left to do, though.
Quinn wiped his hair out of his eyes and put his hand back into position on the shaft of his lacrosse stick. He curled his wrists and cradled the ball, feeling it reassuring and solid in the pocket. The rain fell in his eyes, but he just put his head down, letting it run over his forehead and drip off of his nose.
With his head down, all he could see was the mud and the toes of his sneakers. He didn't even get a glimpse of what he ran into it until he'd already fallen down over it. Something jabbed his eye as he went down. Quinn slapped a hand over his wounded eye before he sat up. "The fuck?" he said.
"Fuck you," said the thing. The boy. He was holding an umbrella, and awkwardly trying to lever himself up off of the ground. Quinn pushed himself to his feet first, and held out his hand for the kid to take, but the boy just said, "Fuck your face and your fucking ugly mother that gave it to you," and got up by himself.
"No really, what the fuck," Quinn said.
"It's fucking thundering, you fucking-- you donkeyfucking jock," the boy spat out.
Quinn tilted his head back, still holding one hand over his eye. Rain pounded on his face. He tipped his head back down. "Yeah, that happens when it rains," he said.
"Fucking--" the kid sputtered. He reached out and yanked Quinn's lacrosse stick out of his hand, before Quinn could realize what he was doing. "If you want this back, you have to come inside," he said, and then stomped off of the field. His ass was covered in mud.
Quinn closed his mouth and took his hand away from his eye, blinking slowly. After a beat, he shrugged and followed. The boy stomped towards the big building by the lacrosse field. The theater, Quinn remembered dimly. It was a big white building, with one enormous multi-paned window facing the field.
The kid folded up the umbrella before he got to the building, fumbling it shut with one hand. He kicked out a rock that was holding the door open, caught the edge of the door with the pocket of Quinn's lacrosse stick, and slid into the building. Quinn ran for it, but the door slipped away from his fingers and closed with a bang. He tried the door handle, but it didn't budge.
"Dude," Quinn said. Rain was dripping into his ears. Quinn sighed and banged on the door with the side of his fist. After a beat, the door creaked open a bit, and the boy peered out.
"Are you even old enough to be on school property?" Quinn said.
"Fuck you, I'm a junior," the boy snarled, yanked his head back in, and shut the door.
"What the actual fuck," Quinn said, and banged on the door again. The door creaked open. "Fine, you're a junior," Quinn said. "Give me back my stick."
"Ugg take stick. Ugg like stick. Stick belong to Ugg," he said. He contorted his face and made a long farting noise with his lower lip.
Quinn snorted. "Fuck off, asshole. Give me my stick."
"No. It's good for picking my nose with."
"Your nose is tiny," Quinn said. "C'mon, dude, I need my stick."
"My whole body is one giant nostril, dude," he shot back. He didn't close the door, though. They stared at each other for a long moment, and the guy finally said, "Either you come in or you go run your laps without your stick."
Quinn looked back at the field. He was fucking freezing, now that he'd stopped. The mud track he'd run around the field looked like a death drag. "Give me a second to get my bag," he said finally.
"Twenty seconds," he said, propping the door open with his hip. Quinn hurried to get his bag, half-believing that he was going to be put through the routine again; when he rounded the corner of the building, though, the other kid was still waiting in the doorway. Quinn pushed past him into the building. The door fell shut with another bang.
The room past the door was bigger than Quinn expected. There was room enough for a dumpy yellow-green sofa and a big blue rug, a stairway up to what Quinn assumed was the theater, and piles of clothes heaped everywhere besides. One corner had a chalkboard on wheels, with BERT RAPED YOUR pet goat wiggles HAHAHA scrawled in the lower left corner. Quinn's stick was sitting under the chalkboard, and he went over to it, snatching it up off of the floor. His shoes squelched and squeaked when he moved.
From behind him, the guy said, "Do you want to get changed?"
"Uh, I guess," Quinn said. He watched the guy dig through a pile of clothes, his stick clutched to his wet chest.
"I think there's some farmer's clothes that would fit you," the guy muttered.
"Okay," Quinn said slowly. "Who the fuck are you, by the way?"
"Bert," the guy said. Quinn glanced over his shoulder at the blackboard. He was hanging out with a goat-raper. Great. "Here," Bert added. Quinn looked back to see Bert holding out a pair of the ugliest pants Quinn had ever seen.
"Those are ugly," Quinn said.
"Yup," Bert said, and waggled the pants at him. "They'll probably fit you."
Quinn took the pants. "These look like a clown threw up on them," he said.
"They look like your mom queefed on them after a clown threw up in her vag," Bert corrected. "Put them on."
Quinn considered the pants, and then looked over at the windows. There was no one out there, of course, but it was still kind of weird. "Is there someplace where I can change?"
"Do you need the little girl's room?" Bert asked, but he didn't wait for an answer, just headed back in the direction of the door where he let Quinn in. There was another staircase there, this one heading down. Quinn leaned his stick against the blackboard carefully, and followed Bert.
The doorway at the end of the stairs was tiny, and Quinn had to duck to get in. The room past the doorway was small and white-washed, with white-painted wooden chairs, tables, and mirrors lining the walls. It was messily abandoned; there were hairpins scattered across one of the nearest tables. There was a doorway nearby, leading into an eerily similar room. It was quieter down here, the drumming of the rain muted by the walls.
"I feel kind of like Alice," Quinn commented.
"Should I go ask you?" Bert tossed back over his shoulder. He kept walking, and led Quinn around the corner, into another small white room with the same tables, chairs, and mirrors on the wall.
Quinn said, "Not druggie Alice. Or-- other druggie Alice."
"I'm the Cheshire Cat," Bert said.
"You're the Mad Hatter," Quinn returned.
Bert's shoes squeaked when he turned to look at Quinn. "Who's the March Hare?" he asked.
"You are a weird motherfucker," Quinn said. Bert shrugged. "I guess I'm the March Hare," Quinn added, after a beat.
"You'll do," Bert said. "Do you want some tea?"
Quinn laughed, awkwardly, unsure if he should be embarrassed or confused. Bert just looked at him, then leaned against the table, like he was waiting for Quinn to do something. Quinn put the pants down on the table, and then lifted the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head with a grimace. "Gross," he said.
He'd expected Bert to turn away, but instead Bert held out his hand. Quinn hesitated. "There's a heater in this room," Bert explained. "It'll dry if we put it on there." Quinn handed it over, and Bert turned to spread it on the metal pipe that was running along the bottom of the wall.
Quinn pulled off his shorts awkwardly, made clumsy by his embarrassment. His shoes squeaked and squished against the cement floor as he fumbled the wet material off of his legs. Bert took the shorts, and spread them next to Quinn's shirt over the pipe. Quinn picked up the pants Bert had given him, but just the idea of putting the scratchy, dusty fabric on over his wet legs made his balls crawl up inside his body.
"Do you want to wait until your underwear dries?" Bert asked.
"Kind of, yeah," Quinn said. He leaned his butt gingerly against the table and toed off his sneakers, getting them off after a couple of abortive attempts. He peeled one sock off, then the other. "God, I'm disgusting right now."
"Well, what did you expect?" Bert asked.
Quinn squinted at him. Bert was digging in his pockets, though, so he didn't respond. "From what?" Quinn asked.
Bert pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Hah. Well, from running in the fucking rain, you moron."
"Right," Quinn said.
Bert dug a pack of matches out of the cigarette box. He tried lighting a match, but it flared and went out. Quinn leaned over and cupped his hands around the end of the cigarette, the way his dad always did. Bert squinted at him. "No wind, genius," Bert commented.
"Right," Quinn said again, feeling his face flush. "Here, let me try," he said, when the next match fizzled.
"They're wet," Bert warned, but he handed over the pack of matches easily enough. Quinn felt the matches, found the least wet one, and pressed it between his fingers. He ripped it out of the book and shuffled over to the heater, getting down on one knee and pressing the match against the surface of the pipe. The cement floor was cold on the front of his shin, and Quinn shivered. His nipples were hard, the skin prickling, and he worried that Bert would notice. He hunched forward, staring at the match on the pipe.
Bert asked, "Doesn't that hurt?"
Quinn looked back down at his finger holding down the match. "Not really," he admitted. "I burned it pretty bad once, so I can't feel much with it now."
"How'd you burn it?" Bert asked. He crouched down next to Quinn, folding his legs in close to his body.
"My brothers and I were lighting stuff on fire," Quinn said. He ducked his head when Bert giggled. "My mom came out and yelled at us, and I started trying to clean up."
"You picked something up out of the fire, didn't you?" Bert asked.
"Yeah," Quinn said. "A metal pot."
Bert just giggled, or-- it started as a giggle, but it took a left turn into a big ha-ha laugh in the middle, then fell back into weird hoots. Quinn watched Bert laughing. He looked demented, and pretty, like an evil witch in a film.
"You look creepy when you laugh," Quinn said, and picked up the match. "And I think your match is dry."
"Sweet," Bert said, his hoots abruptly breaking off. He twisted the match out of Quinn's fingers. Quinn straightened up; he rubbed the side of one hand over his nipples with the same motion, trying to make it look casual. Bert didn't seem to notice. The flame held, and he lit his cigarette, took a long drag, and sighed out the smoke. He frowned at Quinn, and Quinn stopped rubbing at his chest, dropping his arm awkwardly to his side again. Bert didn't say anything about that, though; he asked, "Does the smoke, like, offend your jock lungs?"
"It's cool," Quinn said. He gingerly braced his butt on the edge of the table again.
"Cool," Bert said, slowly. He took another drag and asked, "So why were you running in the rain?"
"Why do you care?" Quinn asked. He tugged down on the legs of his underwear, trying to get them to un-cling from his balls.
"Because that's some fucked-up abused-kid shit to do," Bert said. He took a dramatic drag off of his cigarette. "And I like a good sob story," he said on the exhale.
"Shut up, I'm not abused," Quinn said. "I just-- I want to get better, and Coach said that running laps and practicing would help."
"In the rain," Bert said. He tucked one hand under his armpit. He looked like a fag, Quinn thought uncharitably. When he looked at Bert, Bert cocked one eyebrow and took another drag, flicking his hair back from his face. It was almost like Bert was trying to be faggy.
Quinn looked away. "Every day," he said stubbornly.
"Getting hit by lightning doesn't actually give you superpowers," Bert said, like he was trying to be helpful. "You know that, right?"
"Shut up," Quinn muttered. He shifted further back, until he was completely sitting on the table. "Anyway, you're still here."
"I'm learning my lines inside," Bert said snidely.
"Are you here because you're an abused kid?" Quinn asked.
Bert laughed again, high and brittle this time. "No sob story here, sweetheart," he said.
Quinn shrugged and looked down at his bare legs. He swung them back and forth slightly a couple of times. His underwear was still riding up on him, cold and wet. He glanced at his watch where it pressed into the side of his thigh. His mom wouldn't be there to pick him up until four. He had another twenty minutes to wait. He blew out a breath.
"I'm--" Bert started. Quinn looked up at him. Bert took another drag and exhaled faster than he had before. "I'm going to be the lead in the play this spring," he said.
"Yeah?" Quinn said.
"Yeah," Bert said. He looked unsure of himself. Quinn didn't know what had changed. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bert beat him to it. "You could bring your jock buddies to the show, beat me up after," he said, like a dare.
"I wouldn't do that," Quinn said.
"What, come see the show?" Bert muttered. He finished his cigarette and reached under the table to grind it out.
"I don't beat people up," Quinn said, "Not even if they're being total fuckholes." Bert grinned at him for that, weirdly enough, looking down and tucking his hair behind his ear. Quinn leaned on one hand, feeling awkward. He said, "So when's your show?"
"Another month, end of April," Bert said.
Quinn should have thought about his schedule, about his plan to move from crease position to point position, about whether or not he had a game that day. He didn't. "I'll come to it," he promised.
"Yeah?" Bert asked.
"Fuck you, I already said I would," Quinn said.
Bert grinned at him again. He really was pretty, even if he was weird-looking. Pretty weird, Quinn thought, and had to look away so he wouldn't laugh nervously. Looking away meant he missed Bert's expression when Bert said, "Have you ever done theater?"
Quinn looked back, quickly, but Bert was just staring at him, his face serious. Quinn squinted at him, trying to find the joke in his features, but he couldn't. "No," Quinn said slowly. "No, I've never done theater."
"I'm shocked," Bert said. He leaned his side against the table, a foot away from Quinn's naked knee, and drummed his ragged fingernails on the wood. "You ever wear makeup?" he said, less a question than a challenge.
"Yeah, all the time," Quinn said sarcastically. Bert snorted, and Quinn laughed and said, "If you already know the answer, I don't know why you're asking."
"Maybe I want to see you in makeup," Bert said.
Quinn huffed a short breath through his nose, almost like a laugh. Bert didn't laugh, though, didn't even grin this time. He was staring at Quinn again. "You want to see me in makeup, you're going to have to put it on me yourself," Quinn said. He heard his voice quaking at the end, like it was about to crack, but Bert still didn't laugh.
Bert leaned forward, reached past him, and for no reason that Quinn could understand the gesture made his armpits and his sides and his dick - fuck, his dick - tighten and tense. He flinched away from Bert's arm, pressed his knees together. "Calm down," Bert said. "You need a cigarette?"
"No," Quinn said. He wanted one, but he knew from the movies that the nerd always choked on the smoke from his first cigarette. He didn't want to choke in front of this guy. "What are you doing?" he asked, craning his neck around.
"Makeup," Bert said. He glanced at Quinn from under his eyelashes, and finally, fucking finally pulled away.
"You're serious," Quinn said, even though he could see the tubes in Bert's hand.
"Yup," Bert said. He uncapped one of the tubes and twisted it, pushing up a red stick. He gestured for Quinn to lean forward.
"Don't-- are you making fun of me?" Quinn asked. His voice wobbled again.
"No," Bert said. "I don't make fun, I steal it." He smiled, though, and gestured again; this time Quinn leaned forward.
Bert held the lipstick just over Quinn's lips and murmured, "Hold still," before he tucked it into the corner of Quinn's mouth and slid it across his upper lip. It was cold and slick; it passed too quickly over Quinn's lips for him to register the sensation as more than that. "Press your lips together," Bert said, and "Now close your eyes." Quinn obeyed.
The wood was warming up under Quinn's thighs, but his calves were still cold, the thin hair on his shins standing up from his skin. Bert's ashy-smelling breath was warm, too, but it made Quinn shiver, made his nipples tighten again. Quinn startled at the pressure of the eyeliner when it came, and Bert repeated, "Hold still."
"Sorry," Quinn muttered, and held still. Bert dragged it over his eyelid, hesitant marks in the corners and then a long streak along his eyelashes. Quinn could feel the eyelashes jarred by the eyeliner. Bert did the other lid, surer this time, and then took his hand away.
"Open," Bert said. Quinn opened his eyes. He looked for a reaction, but Bert just pushed at his cheek until Quinn looked over his shoulder, into the mirror.
Quinn didn't think he looked like a girl, even though the guys always teased him for being too smooth and girl-skinny. He thought he looked like himself, just with color on his face. He watched Bert looking at him in the mirror; their eyes slid toward one another. "Strange," Quinn said, and tried a smile. His reflection's red lips curled at the corners.
"Yeah," Bert said. Quinn turned back to face him. "Yeah, it's strange," Bert said. He leaned in like he was looking closer; he put his hand on Quinn's leg, resting hesitantly above his knee. "Do you feel like a character now?" he asked.
"Sort of," Quinn said. "It might just be you, though. I'm not an actor." He thought Bert was closer, or maybe it was just him. He couldn't tell. He didn't want to shift any closer, but it felt like they were talking into one another's mouths already. Quinn wet his lips. They tasted like wax. "Do you--" Quinn said, before Bert leaned forward and pressed their lips together.
Quinn tightened his hands on the edge of the table, surprised, but he didn't jerk away. He stayed, pressing into it, and opened his mouth when Bert did. It wasn't like he expected. He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't this. Bert mouth felt like it didn't fit with Quinn's, like Quinn's mouth was too small. He opened his mouth wider, but it didn't seem to help. Bert touched Quinn's shoulder, just a quick press of fingers, but it made Quinn gasp. He took one hand off of the table and clutched at Bert's hip, widened his mouth even more. Their mouths finally fit together, matching up lip to lip.
They stayed like that, kissing slowly. Quinn was breathing hard through his nose. His feet were trembling, he could feel them. He wanted something, he didn't know what, but it felt like when he'd picked up that metal pot from the fire, like his skin was touching something so hot that it felt cold.
Quinn's watch beeped the hour, and Quinn startled and jerked back. Bert let him. His mouth was red from Quinn's lipstick, smeared around the edges of his lips. He looked like he'd been eating berries.
"I have to go," Quinn said stupidly.
"Don't," Bert said. Quinn laughed, but Bert ducked his head, like he'd meant it.
"My mom's picking me up," Quinn said. Bert just shrugged, but he let Quinn slide off of the table and go over to the heating pipe. Quinn slid his sort-of-dry shorts and t-shirt back on. He felt like his dick, hard under his wet underwear and shorts, was embarrassing, obvious. He thought that Bert would crack a joke, but Bert didn't say anything; he just leaned against the edge of the table and watched him dress.
When he'd put his wet socks and damp shoes back on, Quinn straightened up. Bert looked at him, quick, and then tucked his hair behind his ear. "You should come by tomorrow," he said.
"What, after practice?" Quinn asked. Bert nodded, looked up at him. "Okay," Quinn said recklessly, and picked up his bag.
He hesitated, said, "So," pulling his backpack straps tighter around his shoulders.
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow," Bert said, turning back to the table.
"Sure," Quinn said.
"If you feel like it," Bert said, shrugging his shoulder.
"Okay." Quinn hesitated, but Bert was apparently interested in cleaning up the crap on the tables in the room instead of looking at him. "Okay, cool," he said, and left.
When he went outside, his mom's car was pulled up next to the lacrosse field, lights on and the engine idling. She waved at him when he walked up to the car, and Quinn waved back before he opened the back to sling his backpack into the footwell. "Was practice good?" she asked, when he opened the passenger door.
"It was good," he said, absent-mindedly.
She put the car in reverse, put her arm over the back of his seat, and carefully edged them out of the parking spot. "What's with the war paint?" she asked, turned back and put the car in drive.
"What?" Quinn asked.
"The warpaint," she said, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of her face.
Quinn startled, touching his fingers to his lips. It took him a few breaths to say, "A theater kid let me stay out of the rain in the theater building, and he showed me the makeup stuff they have to do," but he hardly blushed at all.
"That was nice of him," his mom said, turning onto the main road by the school.
"Yeah," Quinn said, and touched his lips again. "Something like that."
---
Feedback of any stripe (critical, excited, blasé) is appreciated and encouraged. Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental.