Fic: Primavera 2/?
Title: Primavera, part 2, WIP
Pairing: Pre-slash BB Pinto
Rating: PG-13 for cursing? Pretty much PG
Word count: 3200 (freakily the same as the last chapter)
Summary: teenage Chris goes to live with the Quinto family when his mom is sick
A/N: Some sort of slash may occur (look at me being all coy) once they're both legal. They'll get a little older with each chapter. Part 1 is here. This is for halfbreedchild . Most of my Pinto is, she also owns Stoner Dudes, but this one is hers in particular.
“Quit going in my room, I have fucking told you and told you.”
“Why would I want to go in your stupid room anyway? It smells weird in here.”
Chris wrinkles his nose, hands deep in his pockets as he slouches against the door post.
“You are such a total brat.”
“I don't know why you're even looking at me. I didn't do anything.”
His eyes glitter and tell me something else entirely.
“Mom? I'm putting a lock on my door.”
“Zach, for the last time, no locks. Chris, quit bugging Zach.”
“I didn't do anything! Shit, I wish everyone would just get off my case.”
He double-flips me off before going back in his room and slamming the door behind him. Fucking little prick. I check it again - the hair I'd taped over my closet door is still there but it's totally moved and I know he's been in there. I don't see why Mom's so anti-locks because it's the only thing that'd keep Chris out of my room when I'm out. Except he'd probably learn to pick it, just to piss me off.
I don't think he knows what he's looking for. I'm pretty sure. Not, like, a hundred percent or anything because he definitely saw the bag I had it all in before I stuffed it back in my bookbag but it's not like he'd even know the name of that store. He's looking in the wrong place, even if he does know. I close my bedroom door and go check under the vanity in my bathroom, where the footboard's loose as not even that little punk's going to think to look under here. Or Mom either, for that matter. I stuff my fingers into the gap I've made and there they are. Lock my bathroom door and tug them out carefully, slide a flat hand over the guy on the cover of the one on top, rub my fingertip over one of his nipples. Try to figure out if I've got time to beat off and clean up before dinner's ready.
“So, how was school?”
“Sucked ass, as usual. At least it's nearly done.”
“Chris, now, we've talked about your language.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Q.”
“Yes, Christopher. Cursing is merely an indication of an exiguous vocabulary.”
“Oh, go stuff it up your -”
Mom smacks her newspaper down on the table. This is serious, she never puts her paper down during dinner.
“Christopher Whitelaw Pine, you are pushing my every last nerve with your profanity!”
“Sorry, ma'am.”
I snicker into my fork. “Suck up.”
“'Suck up'? That the best you can do? Whoa, that's some awesome huge vocab. You sure told me.”
“Both of you, cut it out, I've had enough of your squabbling. Zach, you're old enough to know better.”
“Hey, don't pick on me, he's been driving me nuts all day.”
“You're the adult. Start acting like it.”
“Mom . . .”
“I'm out this evening, you two can spend it together and learn to get along because, I swear to the Lord Almighty, I'm at my wits end with all this fighting. And no shutting yourselves into your rooms, you can stay down here and talk to each other for once.”
Chris looks probably about as horrified as I'm sure I do. We speak at the same time,
“But I've got -”
“No fair, I was going to -”
But Mom holds up her hand in a manner even Chris recognizes now as her Don't Poke the Angry Tiger gesture.
“If I hear another word, people will start getting grounded. Eat your pasta.”
He glowers across the table at me, mouths something that looks like 'Nice going, dumbass'.
“Did you take your shoes off or something? What the fuck is that smell?”
“Haha funny. You want some?”
“Canned chili? Gross, much. Think I'll pass, thanks.”
Chris slumps down along the couch with his feet sticking towards me, already stuffing a huge spoonful into his mouth from the bowl he's hugging to his chest. He eats like a starving gorilla, it's insane how he's still so skinny. Getting taller now, though, his legs stretching the entire length of the couch between us in his stupid baggy shorts and gym socks. He swallows his chili heavily, pokes at my thigh with his toe until I slap it away.
“Keep your fucking feet over your end.”
“What is this shit we're watching, anyway?”
“Masculin, Féminin. It's Godard.”
“I repeat - what is this shit we're watching?”
“You're such a drooling ignoramus. He's a totally important director. He's, like, radical and challenges the conventions of traditional cinema, citing Marxism and existential philosophy. His films express his political ideologies.”
“Did you read that off the box?”
Yes. “Quit yapping, I'm trying to concentrate.”
“I'm guessing you found this on the Artsy Foreign Pretentious Subtitled Bullshit shelf at Blockbuster.”
“I mean it, cut it out.”
He noisily eats a few more spoonfuls, mouth open and smacking his lips and I know he's trying to bug the shit out of me so I try to ignore him.
“You know, just because you're trying to be this big “actor” and everything, doesn't mean you have to watch a bunch of pompous crap like this. Let's watch the wrestling.”
“I am an actor. Fuck off with the fingers.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about the award. What was it for, again? Most faggiest performance in a public arena?”
Again, I get the sense that he knows. Chris only ever calls me a fag when he's busting my nuts, never out of anger, it's like a boundary he won't cross in the same way I've never retorted that I can totally see why your family sent you away, no matter how mad he makes me. I freeze, a deer in oncoming headlights, heart pounding through my chest and I feel hot and cold and like I turned to stone. He doesn't seem to notice, taking a huge gulp of soda and belching deliberately before carrying on.
“Anyway, there's nothing you can tell me about being an actor. I'm, like, Hollywood royalty. My whole fucking family, dude. Both sides. It's, like, totally genetic. I could be a way better actor than you if I wanted.”
“Somehow I doubt it. You need sensitivity to be an actor, you need to be able to look inside your own psyche. We contain within ourselves all that we have been and might be, that can take you anywhere, to your feminine side, your subconscious, to any age, to any emotion, whatever. If you don't approach the role from a position of emotional truth, you can see the actor underneath and that's horrible, that's totally false, completely phony. You have to surrender your ego. You're too shallow to even come close to that. You'd suck.”
“Zach, you were in, like, three musicals.”
“I've been acting since I was a kid and I've been in, like, more stuff than I can even list.”
“Sure you have.”
I sigh, aware that I'm just going to look lame if I push the point. “I'm trying to watch my movie.”
“You're just pissed because you know I'm right.”
“Movie, Chris.”
He watches for a little while, slurping his soda thoughtfully, eyes trained on the TV like he's looking for something and it's pissing me off because now I keep watching him rather than the movie. He frowns suddenly, narrows his eyes in consideration and chews on his bottom lip.
“So, this dude, that's his girlfriend but they're living with those two other chicks? Awesome. Party on, French dude.”
It's taken him a few minutes to figure out more of what's going on than I have in the last half hour. It grates and I don't want him to see. “That's it, I'm throwing Bill and Ted's out.”
“Bogus.”
“You want to watch the wrestling?”
“Nah, you can leave this on. I want to know if he's going to bone them all.”
God. I hope not.
It's kinda excellent that I'm going to get to stay at home for college but, man, being at Joe's just makes me want my own place so bad. Like, I do anyway because I get zero privacy at home with Chris across the hall and Mom has super-human hearing, but Joe's place is awesome. He has this fun roommate, and a girlfriend who stays over, a Playstation now and he always has weed. Always. He even lets me have beer if I'm staying over. There's this seriously cool wall hanging above the couch in the living room and, with the blacklight on and a couple of bong hits, it blows your mind with all these little glowing eyes staring down at you.
“You do have a change of clothes for the morning, right? Because I'm not sending you back to Mom's stinking of weed, she gives me a hard enough time about it as it is.”
“Sure, I got jeans and a shirt.”
“So.” Joe opens another beer, starts flipping through TV stations on the remote. “How does it feel, having graduated?”
“Weird. Totally weird.”
“You're so wasted.”
“No I'm not. Okay, maybe a little. Can we play Wipeout?”
“Later, I'm chilling, work sucked today. Oh, I picked up those headshots you wanted.”
He tosses a print store envelope across to me and I'm almost nervous, sliding my fingers under the flap and pulling out a sheaf of eight-by-ten photos. I look -
“I look like a fucking geek. Shit.”
“Did what I could, I'm not a magician. You look fine.”
“I look retarded. Fuck. I'm never going to get an agent -”
“You can always play character roles. Right? You'll do fine. You're good at that stuff.”
“You think I'm a good actor?”
“Eh, you know. Sure. Want another beer?”
We watch a bunch more shitty TV and get more stoned, and he's flipping through stations again when he settles a re-run of Victor/Victoria.
“You like this, right?”
“This is a fucking awesome movie.”
“Is that James Garner? Maverick was in a musical?”
“He doesn't sing. Julie Andrews does all the singing. And that Toddy guy sometimes. He's hilarious.”
I'm stoned enough I forget what it's about and it takes a moment before the creeping discomfort starts as I sink further into the couch, glad there's only one other lamp on other than the blacklight so the room's pretty dark.
”I think that the right woman could reform you.”
“You know, I think that the right woman could reform you, too . . .“
“Me? Give up men? Forget it!”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
I don't know if it's just because I'm kinda wasted or what but I'm sure Joe's looking at me through this entire exchange and it's stupid, it's fucking ridiculous to get so tied in knots because, out of everyone in the world, I'm sure he'd be okay about it. He even has a gay friend he hangs with, I swear it wouldn't be a big deal. He's looking solidly at the TV now, stuffing potato chips into his mouth one by one from a bag in his lap.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“Sure, yeah. I guess.”
“I mean it. Anything you want.”
“I know. Thanks.”
My ears buzz, like the air in the room's vibrating really fast and he doesn't look at me, my pulse going through the fucking roof. I tuck further into myself, eat through an entire carton of cookies, a bag of chips as big as a pillow and feel gross, my stomach tight and my head all spinny and hot.
”Can I ask you a . . . personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How long, I mean . . . exactly when did you know you . . .”
“How long have I been gay?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, God, I can't remember when I wasn't!”
“I've known you for fifteen years . . .”
“You know a lot of guys, boss, you'd be surprised.”
“C'mon, Zach. You're sure you've not got anything you want to talk to me about?”
“Like, uh, what?”
“You really don't know?”
“No. I don't.”
He sits up in his recliner, puts his empty bottle down and grabs his bong.
“Okay, dude, but I have to say - don't talk to Mom about what we're not talking about.”
“Huh?”
“She seems pretty cool, I know, but she wouldn't be okay with . . . whatever you might want to tell me sometime.”
“What?”
“I'm just saying. Better leave that till you're older and more able to deal if she blows up, like, leave it till after college or something.”
I can't breathe and start to feel a bubble of panic rising in my gut, hands shaking as I wipe them over my face.
“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.”
“Which is cool. No pressure. But Mom's not one of those moms who will've guessed about . . . or, she has and she's pretending like it's not happening. She's got issues around the . . .”
If he says anything about me being gay, I swear, I'll pass the fuck out.
“I don't know, the whole - whatever. Hey, chill out. Dude, chill. I'll change the subject.”
I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, slumped over on my knees almost with my head hanging between them, trying to stop this flood of stomach acid burning me up. Joe gets up, crouches beside me and slings a warm, heavy arm over my shoulders, hugs me to him a little.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to weird you out.”
“S'okay.”
My voice is muffled by my hands, I'm not sure if I'm hiding or what. I fucking wish I wasn't so wasted.
“You're my little dude, that's all.”
“I'm as tall as you are, freak.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” I lift my head, look at him. He's a pain in the ass and usually a total jerk to me whenever he gets the chance, but he's still the most awesome brother ever. “Listen, Joe. I, uh, I'm -”
“Hey. You don't have to.”
“Yeah, I do. I'm, uh. Gay.”
Jesusfuckingaugh.
“I'm gay.”
This hot bolt of something heavy and hot and shivery and too fucking weird to describe runs through my whole body like a shockwave as he grins huge and punches me on the arm hard.
“No shit, dumbass.”
“You have a good time with your bro?”
I nod at Chris through the door of his bedroom where he's lying on his bed face down, flipping through a skater magazine with the TV on MTV across from him. He must've had his hair cut yesterday, the long, floppy thing has changed to shorter and spiky. I can't tell if it looks better or worse.
“I guess. What the fuck happened to your hair?”
“You wish your hair looked half this good.” He grins, lowers his voice, which is pretty fucking low since his voice broke at Christmas. “Get wasted?”
“None of your business.”
“Which means 'yes'.”
“It means, it's none of your business. I don't ask what you do when you go see your family.”
He shrugs, sits up.
“Not much to tell. Your brother's way cooler than my sis with stuff like that.”
“Well, whatever. I've got stuff to do. Which wasn't an invitation to follow me into my room!”
He's back at the door frame again, arms folded across his Chili Peppers shirt, his face shining with some sort of energy that makes me frown. What the fuck -
“You know, you should get your vanity looked at. You probably haven't noticed but the kickboard's bust.”
I look over at him sharply and he's smirking at me again, eyes bright like he's really enjoying this.
“Like, I don't give a fuck if you want to be a fag or whatever, everyone at school figured you were one anyway. I knew you were hiding something, that's all.”
I'm shaking, literally shaking with anger and I want to go smack the shit out of him so bad right now but Mom's downstairs. My voice lowers to a hoarse hiss,
“You fucking dick, this is a total invasion of my privacy, and school, what the fuck -”
“What's the big deal, I won't touch your porn. I just wanted to know what you had in that bag from the other day.”
“'What's the big deal'? Why the fuck do you think I was hiding them! Fuck, I wanted to keep them private, I'm allowed to have private stuff. Jesus, I can't believe you think it's okay to just come in here when I'm away and just . . . fucking hell. You total - asshole. You're such an asshole.”
“Hey.” I sit on the end of my bed as my legs collapse from under me and he comes into my room, eyes wide, looking almost conciliatory, touches my arm lightly until I pull away. “I didn't mean to piss you off. Don't have like a spazz attack. I'm just a nosy jerk, I used to do this shit to Katie all the time till she moved out. I'm not going to tell anyone.”
“It's not okay. You can't just do this to people. To me. It's fucking shitty.”
“Everyone's gay these days. I was thinking I might go for being bisexual, Kurt Cobain was totally bi. You'd get way more tail that way, right? Chicks totally dig bi guys. This dude at school said it makes them think you'll be hotter in the sack, or something. I would totally kiss a dude if it meant I was going to get some hot big-titted bitch wanting to fuck me.”
“I don't think it all works quite that way, Chris.”
He grins, wide and white, and I feel myself halfway grin back without meaning to.
“Whatever. But, hey, don't sweat the whole fag thing around me. I'm good with it. Fuck, some of the guys in those magazines are almost, I don't know, like, pretty.”
He turns to leave, hands in his pockets as ever like he's digging for gold. I blink fast as my eyes start stinging because that's the last thing I need him to see, but this is all so aggravating, all of it, him, Joe, being stuck here without a single fucking place I can keep for myself. But he pauses at the door, one hand curled around the frame as his head pokes back around.
“I think it's pretty cool. You being gay. Like, you'll get to go to all the best parties and stuff. Gays always have the best parties, Mom says.”
“Chris, I'm kind of tired.”
“Oh, right. Well, sorry I got you all pissed at me.”
“Whatever. Hey.”
“What?”
“Thanks. Not for being a jerk, because you were a total jerk and if I catch you in here again I'm going to kick your fucking ass. But, y'know. For not freaking out.”
He shrugs shoulders that are getting broader now he's filling out, all that basketball I guess.
“No biggie. All actors are fags. Except my dad.”
Next
Pairing: Pre-slash BB Pinto
Rating: PG-13 for cursing? Pretty much PG
Word count: 3200 (freakily the same as the last chapter)
Summary: teenage Chris goes to live with the Quinto family when his mom is sick
A/N: Some sort of slash may occur (look at me being all coy) once they're both legal. They'll get a little older with each chapter. Part 1 is here. This is for halfbreedchild . Most of my Pinto is, she also owns Stoner Dudes, but this one is hers in particular.
“Quit going in my room, I have fucking told you and told you.”
“Why would I want to go in your stupid room anyway? It smells weird in here.”
Chris wrinkles his nose, hands deep in his pockets as he slouches against the door post.
“You are such a total brat.”
“I don't know why you're even looking at me. I didn't do anything.”
His eyes glitter and tell me something else entirely.
“Mom? I'm putting a lock on my door.”
“Zach, for the last time, no locks. Chris, quit bugging Zach.”
“I didn't do anything! Shit, I wish everyone would just get off my case.”
He double-flips me off before going back in his room and slamming the door behind him. Fucking little prick. I check it again - the hair I'd taped over my closet door is still there but it's totally moved and I know he's been in there. I don't see why Mom's so anti-locks because it's the only thing that'd keep Chris out of my room when I'm out. Except he'd probably learn to pick it, just to piss me off.
I don't think he knows what he's looking for. I'm pretty sure. Not, like, a hundred percent or anything because he definitely saw the bag I had it all in before I stuffed it back in my bookbag but it's not like he'd even know the name of that store. He's looking in the wrong place, even if he does know. I close my bedroom door and go check under the vanity in my bathroom, where the footboard's loose as not even that little punk's going to think to look under here. Or Mom either, for that matter. I stuff my fingers into the gap I've made and there they are. Lock my bathroom door and tug them out carefully, slide a flat hand over the guy on the cover of the one on top, rub my fingertip over one of his nipples. Try to figure out if I've got time to beat off and clean up before dinner's ready.
“So, how was school?”
“Sucked ass, as usual. At least it's nearly done.”
“Chris, now, we've talked about your language.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Q.”
“Yes, Christopher. Cursing is merely an indication of an exiguous vocabulary.”
“Oh, go stuff it up your -”
Mom smacks her newspaper down on the table. This is serious, she never puts her paper down during dinner.
“Christopher Whitelaw Pine, you are pushing my every last nerve with your profanity!”
“Sorry, ma'am.”
I snicker into my fork. “Suck up.”
“'Suck up'? That the best you can do? Whoa, that's some awesome huge vocab. You sure told me.”
“Both of you, cut it out, I've had enough of your squabbling. Zach, you're old enough to know better.”
“Hey, don't pick on me, he's been driving me nuts all day.”
“You're the adult. Start acting like it.”
“Mom . . .”
“I'm out this evening, you two can spend it together and learn to get along because, I swear to the Lord Almighty, I'm at my wits end with all this fighting. And no shutting yourselves into your rooms, you can stay down here and talk to each other for once.”
Chris looks probably about as horrified as I'm sure I do. We speak at the same time,
“But I've got -”
“No fair, I was going to -”
But Mom holds up her hand in a manner even Chris recognizes now as her Don't Poke the Angry Tiger gesture.
“If I hear another word, people will start getting grounded. Eat your pasta.”
He glowers across the table at me, mouths something that looks like 'Nice going, dumbass'.
“Did you take your shoes off or something? What the fuck is that smell?”
“Haha funny. You want some?”
“Canned chili? Gross, much. Think I'll pass, thanks.”
Chris slumps down along the couch with his feet sticking towards me, already stuffing a huge spoonful into his mouth from the bowl he's hugging to his chest. He eats like a starving gorilla, it's insane how he's still so skinny. Getting taller now, though, his legs stretching the entire length of the couch between us in his stupid baggy shorts and gym socks. He swallows his chili heavily, pokes at my thigh with his toe until I slap it away.
“Keep your fucking feet over your end.”
“What is this shit we're watching, anyway?”
“Masculin, Féminin. It's Godard.”
“I repeat - what is this shit we're watching?”
“You're such a drooling ignoramus. He's a totally important director. He's, like, radical and challenges the conventions of traditional cinema, citing Marxism and existential philosophy. His films express his political ideologies.”
“Did you read that off the box?”
Yes. “Quit yapping, I'm trying to concentrate.”
“I'm guessing you found this on the Artsy Foreign Pretentious Subtitled Bullshit shelf at Blockbuster.”
“I mean it, cut it out.”
He noisily eats a few more spoonfuls, mouth open and smacking his lips and I know he's trying to bug the shit out of me so I try to ignore him.
“You know, just because you're trying to be this big “actor” and everything, doesn't mean you have to watch a bunch of pompous crap like this. Let's watch the wrestling.”
“I am an actor. Fuck off with the fingers.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about the award. What was it for, again? Most faggiest performance in a public arena?”
Again, I get the sense that he knows. Chris only ever calls me a fag when he's busting my nuts, never out of anger, it's like a boundary he won't cross in the same way I've never retorted that I can totally see why your family sent you away, no matter how mad he makes me. I freeze, a deer in oncoming headlights, heart pounding through my chest and I feel hot and cold and like I turned to stone. He doesn't seem to notice, taking a huge gulp of soda and belching deliberately before carrying on.
“Anyway, there's nothing you can tell me about being an actor. I'm, like, Hollywood royalty. My whole fucking family, dude. Both sides. It's, like, totally genetic. I could be a way better actor than you if I wanted.”
“Somehow I doubt it. You need sensitivity to be an actor, you need to be able to look inside your own psyche. We contain within ourselves all that we have been and might be, that can take you anywhere, to your feminine side, your subconscious, to any age, to any emotion, whatever. If you don't approach the role from a position of emotional truth, you can see the actor underneath and that's horrible, that's totally false, completely phony. You have to surrender your ego. You're too shallow to even come close to that. You'd suck.”
“Zach, you were in, like, three musicals.”
“I've been acting since I was a kid and I've been in, like, more stuff than I can even list.”
“Sure you have.”
I sigh, aware that I'm just going to look lame if I push the point. “I'm trying to watch my movie.”
“You're just pissed because you know I'm right.”
“Movie, Chris.”
He watches for a little while, slurping his soda thoughtfully, eyes trained on the TV like he's looking for something and it's pissing me off because now I keep watching him rather than the movie. He frowns suddenly, narrows his eyes in consideration and chews on his bottom lip.
“So, this dude, that's his girlfriend but they're living with those two other chicks? Awesome. Party on, French dude.”
It's taken him a few minutes to figure out more of what's going on than I have in the last half hour. It grates and I don't want him to see. “That's it, I'm throwing Bill and Ted's out.”
“Bogus.”
“You want to watch the wrestling?”
“Nah, you can leave this on. I want to know if he's going to bone them all.”
God. I hope not.
It's kinda excellent that I'm going to get to stay at home for college but, man, being at Joe's just makes me want my own place so bad. Like, I do anyway because I get zero privacy at home with Chris across the hall and Mom has super-human hearing, but Joe's place is awesome. He has this fun roommate, and a girlfriend who stays over, a Playstation now and he always has weed. Always. He even lets me have beer if I'm staying over. There's this seriously cool wall hanging above the couch in the living room and, with the blacklight on and a couple of bong hits, it blows your mind with all these little glowing eyes staring down at you.
“You do have a change of clothes for the morning, right? Because I'm not sending you back to Mom's stinking of weed, she gives me a hard enough time about it as it is.”
“Sure, I got jeans and a shirt.”
“So.” Joe opens another beer, starts flipping through TV stations on the remote. “How does it feel, having graduated?”
“Weird. Totally weird.”
“You're so wasted.”
“No I'm not. Okay, maybe a little. Can we play Wipeout?”
“Later, I'm chilling, work sucked today. Oh, I picked up those headshots you wanted.”
He tosses a print store envelope across to me and I'm almost nervous, sliding my fingers under the flap and pulling out a sheaf of eight-by-ten photos. I look -
“I look like a fucking geek. Shit.”
“Did what I could, I'm not a magician. You look fine.”
“I look retarded. Fuck. I'm never going to get an agent -”
“You can always play character roles. Right? You'll do fine. You're good at that stuff.”
“You think I'm a good actor?”
“Eh, you know. Sure. Want another beer?”
We watch a bunch more shitty TV and get more stoned, and he's flipping through stations again when he settles a re-run of Victor/Victoria.
“You like this, right?”
“This is a fucking awesome movie.”
“Is that James Garner? Maverick was in a musical?”
“He doesn't sing. Julie Andrews does all the singing. And that Toddy guy sometimes. He's hilarious.”
I'm stoned enough I forget what it's about and it takes a moment before the creeping discomfort starts as I sink further into the couch, glad there's only one other lamp on other than the blacklight so the room's pretty dark.
”I think that the right woman could reform you.”
“You know, I think that the right woman could reform you, too . . .“
“Me? Give up men? Forget it!”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
I don't know if it's just because I'm kinda wasted or what but I'm sure Joe's looking at me through this entire exchange and it's stupid, it's fucking ridiculous to get so tied in knots because, out of everyone in the world, I'm sure he'd be okay about it. He even has a gay friend he hangs with, I swear it wouldn't be a big deal. He's looking solidly at the TV now, stuffing potato chips into his mouth one by one from a bag in his lap.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“Sure, yeah. I guess.”
“I mean it. Anything you want.”
“I know. Thanks.”
My ears buzz, like the air in the room's vibrating really fast and he doesn't look at me, my pulse going through the fucking roof. I tuck further into myself, eat through an entire carton of cookies, a bag of chips as big as a pillow and feel gross, my stomach tight and my head all spinny and hot.
”Can I ask you a . . . personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How long, I mean . . . exactly when did you know you . . .”
“How long have I been gay?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, God, I can't remember when I wasn't!”
“I've known you for fifteen years . . .”
“You know a lot of guys, boss, you'd be surprised.”
“C'mon, Zach. You're sure you've not got anything you want to talk to me about?”
“Like, uh, what?”
“You really don't know?”
“No. I don't.”
He sits up in his recliner, puts his empty bottle down and grabs his bong.
“Okay, dude, but I have to say - don't talk to Mom about what we're not talking about.”
“Huh?”
“She seems pretty cool, I know, but she wouldn't be okay with . . . whatever you might want to tell me sometime.”
“What?”
“I'm just saying. Better leave that till you're older and more able to deal if she blows up, like, leave it till after college or something.”
I can't breathe and start to feel a bubble of panic rising in my gut, hands shaking as I wipe them over my face.
“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.”
“Which is cool. No pressure. But Mom's not one of those moms who will've guessed about . . . or, she has and she's pretending like it's not happening. She's got issues around the . . .”
If he says anything about me being gay, I swear, I'll pass the fuck out.
“I don't know, the whole - whatever. Hey, chill out. Dude, chill. I'll change the subject.”
I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, slumped over on my knees almost with my head hanging between them, trying to stop this flood of stomach acid burning me up. Joe gets up, crouches beside me and slings a warm, heavy arm over my shoulders, hugs me to him a little.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to weird you out.”
“S'okay.”
My voice is muffled by my hands, I'm not sure if I'm hiding or what. I fucking wish I wasn't so wasted.
“You're my little dude, that's all.”
“I'm as tall as you are, freak.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” I lift my head, look at him. He's a pain in the ass and usually a total jerk to me whenever he gets the chance, but he's still the most awesome brother ever. “Listen, Joe. I, uh, I'm -”
“Hey. You don't have to.”
“Yeah, I do. I'm, uh. Gay.”
Jesusfuckingaugh.
“I'm gay.”
This hot bolt of something heavy and hot and shivery and too fucking weird to describe runs through my whole body like a shockwave as he grins huge and punches me on the arm hard.
“No shit, dumbass.”
“You have a good time with your bro?”
I nod at Chris through the door of his bedroom where he's lying on his bed face down, flipping through a skater magazine with the TV on MTV across from him. He must've had his hair cut yesterday, the long, floppy thing has changed to shorter and spiky. I can't tell if it looks better or worse.
“I guess. What the fuck happened to your hair?”
“You wish your hair looked half this good.” He grins, lowers his voice, which is pretty fucking low since his voice broke at Christmas. “Get wasted?”
“None of your business.”
“Which means 'yes'.”
“It means, it's none of your business. I don't ask what you do when you go see your family.”
He shrugs, sits up.
“Not much to tell. Your brother's way cooler than my sis with stuff like that.”
“Well, whatever. I've got stuff to do. Which wasn't an invitation to follow me into my room!”
He's back at the door frame again, arms folded across his Chili Peppers shirt, his face shining with some sort of energy that makes me frown. What the fuck -
“You know, you should get your vanity looked at. You probably haven't noticed but the kickboard's bust.”
I look over at him sharply and he's smirking at me again, eyes bright like he's really enjoying this.
“Like, I don't give a fuck if you want to be a fag or whatever, everyone at school figured you were one anyway. I knew you were hiding something, that's all.”
I'm shaking, literally shaking with anger and I want to go smack the shit out of him so bad right now but Mom's downstairs. My voice lowers to a hoarse hiss,
“You fucking dick, this is a total invasion of my privacy, and school, what the fuck -”
“What's the big deal, I won't touch your porn. I just wanted to know what you had in that bag from the other day.”
“'What's the big deal'? Why the fuck do you think I was hiding them! Fuck, I wanted to keep them private, I'm allowed to have private stuff. Jesus, I can't believe you think it's okay to just come in here when I'm away and just . . . fucking hell. You total - asshole. You're such an asshole.”
“Hey.” I sit on the end of my bed as my legs collapse from under me and he comes into my room, eyes wide, looking almost conciliatory, touches my arm lightly until I pull away. “I didn't mean to piss you off. Don't have like a spazz attack. I'm just a nosy jerk, I used to do this shit to Katie all the time till she moved out. I'm not going to tell anyone.”
“It's not okay. You can't just do this to people. To me. It's fucking shitty.”
“Everyone's gay these days. I was thinking I might go for being bisexual, Kurt Cobain was totally bi. You'd get way more tail that way, right? Chicks totally dig bi guys. This dude at school said it makes them think you'll be hotter in the sack, or something. I would totally kiss a dude if it meant I was going to get some hot big-titted bitch wanting to fuck me.”
“I don't think it all works quite that way, Chris.”
He grins, wide and white, and I feel myself halfway grin back without meaning to.
“Whatever. But, hey, don't sweat the whole fag thing around me. I'm good with it. Fuck, some of the guys in those magazines are almost, I don't know, like, pretty.”
He turns to leave, hands in his pockets as ever like he's digging for gold. I blink fast as my eyes start stinging because that's the last thing I need him to see, but this is all so aggravating, all of it, him, Joe, being stuck here without a single fucking place I can keep for myself. But he pauses at the door, one hand curled around the frame as his head pokes back around.
“I think it's pretty cool. You being gay. Like, you'll get to go to all the best parties and stuff. Gays always have the best parties, Mom says.”
“Chris, I'm kind of tired.”
“Oh, right. Well, sorry I got you all pissed at me.”
“Whatever. Hey.”
“What?”
“Thanks. Not for being a jerk, because you were a total jerk and if I catch you in here again I'm going to kick your fucking ass. But, y'know. For not freaking out.”
He shrugs shoulders that are getting broader now he's filling out, all that basketball I guess.
“No biggie. All actors are fags. Except my dad.”
Next