In Our Bedroom After the War - 1. Chapter 1

Zane had thought it over for a while and he felt like he had assembled everything he wanted to say. All he had to do was get it out and be done with it. He scooped up Andrew's dirty soccer cleats from their strewn position on top of his neat stack of handwritten biology notes and dropped them on Andrew's bed.

"Those are dirty," Andrew pointed out, helpfully. "I kind of sleep here. So. Yeah."

Zane leaned against the dresser and faced Andrew, who sat on his bed fiddling with his Nintendo DS. Of course, Andrew hadn’t taken the shoes off the bed himself—they sat there, caked with dried mud and already forgotten. Ridiculous. He cleared his throat.

"I think from now on you should take the futon, and I can sleep on the bed."

Andrew's lips twitched, but he barely looked up from his handheld device, peering at him through the dark hair that fell into his eyes. "Oh, is that right?"

"You bet'cha," Zane replied as he crossed his arms. "I have a list."

The room was pretty big—over a thousand square feet—and contained minimalistic IKEA furniture, a flat-screen TV, a queen-sized bed, a desk, and a nice futon that Andrew had inherited from his older brother, who had moved off to college three years ago. This left plenty of room that was unfortunately claimed by Andrew's dirty laundry, strewn wherever he dropped it, along with various dishes and sports equipment laid about carelessly. It was disgusting.

Andrew blew stray hair away from his face. "I kind of have to get ready for school, so is this like a long list, or can you summarize it for me?"

"You're listening to the whole thing."

"I'm just going to tell you, dude, that it's not likely. Since, you know, this is my room. And my parents are letting you finish school here, so it's not like you pay rent or anything. Oh, and again it's my room."

"And I'm thankful for that. Finishing senior year in Florida would blow." He pointed his finger at Andrew. "This is hard for me, too, but let's be mature and get through this."

Andrew rolled his shoulders and leaned back. He spread his hands and said graciously, "I'm the epitome of mature. It's my middle name."

"Your middle name's Carol."

"Never fail to throw that out, huh?" Andrew shook his head and looked at Zane with pity. "It's a family name. Sorry, my great Uncle Carol fought and died in Vietnam so young upstarts like you can sit here playing games on your Sega and disrespect veterans."

Zane rolled his eyes and gave the boy a round of applause. Andrew bowed his head, accepting the praise with a grin.

"Nice distraction," Zane said dryly. He pushed his glasses up his nose and pulled a folded list from his jeans.

Andrew snorted. "Typed it up? Look at Mr. Bigshot over here."

"My first reason," Zane said over him, "is that you've turned me into a maid. I feel like fucking Dobby the elf, picking up after you all the time in here. Giving me the bed would be like compensation."

"House-elves don't get wages or compensation, so you just pretty much screwed yourself over on that point."

Zane narrowed his eyes as his friend mimed shooting a gun at him with his fingers. He looked pretty proud of himself, too. Bastard.

"We have to get going if we want to make it on time for school," said Andrew as he grabbed his messenger bag. Zane could see him chewing the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh. "Can we do this later? Like 'to be continued' or something."

Wrinkling his nose, Zane debated the options. They did have to drive to school, and he was on a roll this semester with no tardies. The school gave coupons to Chili's for students with perfect attendance at the end of every semester. And Zane wanted that coupon. He sighed and folded his list, carefully tucking it back into his jeans.

"This isn't over," he vowed.

Andrew just hummed happily, practically skipping out the door. "Whatever you say, Carrot Top."

"I will smack your teeth straight."

The taller boy just laughed. Zane glared darkly at his back. He snagged his backpack and followed his friend down the stairs. It wasn't his fault his hair was Crayola red—he had dyed it on a dare. A little over a month later, he was still walking around with a head full of dark red hair. He was damn lucky he could pull it off.

Zane picked up his skateboard from where it leaned against the wall near the front door. He tugged on his beanie, rolling his eyes at Andrew's hurried movements.

"You done, Princess?"

Adjusting his hat with exaggerated slowness, Zane dropped his arms and winked. "Now I am."

Andrew tugged at his beanie on his way by, just for good measure. Zane swatted at him, but Andrew dodged through the doorway, laughing.

Zane's car was a shiny black Honda Civic bought by his parents before they moved to Florida. They had felt guilty for trying to relocate him during his senior year, and the car was supposed to help him not resent Orlando so much. Or it would have, if the Wessons hadn't opened their home to him, offering him the choice of staying with them to finish his last year of high school. Really, what kid wanted to start senior year at a new school in some random state? So his parents had begrudgingly agreed as long as he kept his grades up, or he would be on the first plane to Orlando.

Zane slammed the door as he slid into the car, finding Andrew already fiddling with the aux adapter and phone until something suitable blared through the speakers. Andrew cleared his throat pointedly when Zane started the car.

"Buckle up for safety," Andrew drawled, tugging at his belt for emphasis.

"He takes one defensive driving class and now he's Officer Do-Good."

He puffed his chest up. "They gave me a certificate."

"They printed it up using Microsoft Office," Zane pointed out as he sped off down the street. He wanted that perfect attendance coupon.

Andrew drummed on his thighs to the beat of the music. "It has my name on it."

"They misspelled it."

"Hmm, first you make me miss breakfast, which is the most important meal of the day, I may add, and now you're crushing my accomplishments. Evil, man. Just evil." His stomach rumbled, and he waved at his midsection for emphasis. He scratched his nose as he turned to watch the row of houses pass by outside the window.

The stoplight flashed red, and Zane brought the car to a stop. He reached into the backpack behind his seat to grab something from the front pocket. He pressed himself back into the seat and tossed the wrapped parcel to the sulking passenger. Andrew caught the Pop-Tarts in his hand, a sunny grin breaking through his pout.

"You're amazing sometimes," Andrew crowed as he tore into the wrapping. He pointed. "Look, it's the s'mores kind. The best kind, Zane!"

He smiled as if he had just won the lottery. Crumbs were all over his chin. Unbelievable.

Zane smiled indulgently. "Yeah, yeah."

—

During the weekdays, the mall usually was not busy. They only saw peak numbers during weekends and holidays, so the food court was relatively empty. Andrew poked his turkey sub with a sad face.

"My sandwich tastes like garbage," he said sadly. "I think the girl used low-fat mayo."

Zane patted his wrist. "It's so hard being you."

Drake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Have you guys gotten sick of each other yet? What will you do if you fight?"

Zane stared at his bandmate. Their band was a work in progress. There were just two of them so far, but Andrew had already been designated groupie, much to his protest. Zane was about to answer when Andrew slung an arm around his shoulders.

"Look at that pretty, pretty face," Andrew cooed while pinching his cheeks. "Who could fight with this guy?"

Zane narrowed his eyes, side-eyeing the arm draped over him. "I swear to God if this is leading up to another Raggedy Andy joke, so help me, Andrew."

"You said it, not me."

"You are the worst thing in my life right now."

"Even when I make this face?" Andrew hedged, making his eyes big like a schoolboy and pouting as if he were being paid for it. With his flippy brown hair and hazel eyes, the overall effect was that he looked like a very cheap baby prostitute. Zane snorted. Damn him.

"Your powers are strong," admitted Zane softly.

"I learned everything I know from Martha Stewart."

"Whoa," Zane gaped. "That makes no sense."

"Have you seen those Tiktoks?" Andrew demanded, wiggling his eyebrows. He looked ridiculous.

Drake patted him on the shoulder and said solemnly, "I hear you, man."

Zane and Andrew both turned to him with wide eyes. Drake squirmed in his seat under their incredulous stares.

"TMI much, dude," Andrew drawled.

Drake's mouth fell open. "But—"

"Didn't need to know you spank it to Martha Stewart," added Zane, cutting off Drake's protest.

They met eyes over Drake's head; their shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Drake's face turned red, which only fueled their tag-team assault.

"I hate you both," Drake hissed.

Andrew ruffled Drake's hair as if he were dealing with a particularly mulish kitten. He slung his arm back over Zane's shoulder. His fingertips rested just below the shirt's sleeve, and Zane felt their heat press against his skin like a brand.

-

Zane was kind of in love with his guitar. It was an acoustic guitar that belonged to his father and was, hands down, his favorite birthday gift. Andrew called it an extension of his penis, and Zane called him a moron. He sat on the futon strumming his guitar while periodically scribbling a new lyric in the notebook beside him. It was something he did every once in a while, and when he worked he got into a zone. Andrew sighed, and Zane ignored him. Andrew sighed louder, and Zane increased his volume.

"I'm bored," said Andrew when Zane stopped to scratch his nose.

Zane sighed. "I'm not letting you French-braid my hair again. That was a one-time deal."

Andrew's shoulders dropped. "Such a buzzkill."

"Why don't you go sip on hot bleach?"

"That's hilarious coming from the male version of the Little Mermaid," said Andrew, his eyes glittering with mirth. "Try as you might, I know you think I'm adorable."

"It's been a while since you've had a date, huh?" Zane asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

Andrew shook his head. "Been keeping my love life under heavy surveillance? Stalker."

Zane grabbed at his throat and coughed as though he couldn't breathe. Andrew looked at him with concern, but Zane waved him off.

"Sorry, it's just that your ego is filling the room and now there's barely any air."

It was a stupid joke, but Andrew laughed anyway. It was kind of why they were friends—they just kind of got each other.

Andrew huffed out a heavy sigh. "Why do you hate so much?"

"Your smile is heaven's gift to me. Near or far, know I'll always be here. This is my solemn truth," sang Zane in a clear tenor, finishing with a raised eyebrow in Andrew's direction.

"You ginger son of a bitch," he whispered, a slow smile blossoming on his face. "Did you just write me a heart song?"

"What? No," Zane snapped. "I was just showing you that I have a heart, asshole."

It was too late. Zane groaned as Andrew shot off his bed with his hands above his head. Andrew let out a loud whoop and performed a dance that was half gyrating and half awkward. He looked as though he were on coke.

"You like me, you really like me!" he howled, doing a dance routine that Zane swore he had ripped from some boy band. "I'm awesome."

Zane picked up his guitar and ducked his head to hide his smile, focusing on the guitar strings and his finger placement. He played until the tightness in his stomach loosened and warmth spread through his veins.

One day in January, Mrs. Wesson poked her head into the room while Andrew was at soccer practice. Zane was a storm of determination, so focused on cleaning up the hellhole that passed for a room that he genuinely screamed when he saw Andrew's mom leaning against the jamb.

"You sounded like a baby orca," she said, amazed.

Zane flushed, feeling like a freaking schoolgirl. He cleared his throat. "I was... surprised."

She shook her head at the pile of dirty clothes Zane was separating from the clean ones. "You really don't have to do this, Zane. This is Andrew's mess, and that boy has got to learn to pick up after himself." Mrs. Wesson tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "You're making me look unfit. I feel like I should be paying you or something."

"Payment is me getting to breathe clean air. I feel that that’s important."

A laugh left her throat. "Last year I vowed never to set foot in here. I can't afford to catch the plague."

"Lucky," he muttered enviously. He dreamed of one day sleeping in fresh air; it had been a long five months.

Mrs. Wesson leaned forward and whispered, "How about this, I baked cookies. They're all yours if you want. I won't tell Andrew if you won't."

"What kind?" he asked curiously.

"Chocolate chip."

Zane dropped the soccer jersey onto the dirty pile of clothes and laughed. "You had me at baked cookies."

-

During soccer season, Andrew had been practicing pretty hard. He had logged extra gym time since the offseason, and it was paying off. His chest was insane, and Zane couldn’t help but admire the ripped body sprawled across the couch. Andrew was in jeans, his boots, and nothing else. A glass of water sat on the coffee table alongside a half-eaten bag of marshmallows. He was dead asleep, probably lulled by SportsCenter still playing on the TV—ESPN was boring as hell, so Zane could understand how anyone might fall asleep watching it.

He knew Andrew was in the comfort of his own home, but who walked around in everything but a shirt? A show-off. It was so like Andrew to be so enamored by his own abs. A devious grin formed on Zane’s face as he slid a Sharpie from his pocket. He walked over to the sleeping boy and carefully dragged the cold marker across the smooth, bare chest.

A minute later, Zane stepped back to admire his handiwork. Branded across Andrew's chest in black permanent marker was a single line surrounded by swirls, stars, and hearts: "Bottom Bitch."

Zane's shoulders shook as he stifled a snort, and he congratulated himself on a job well done. Kudos to him—he was awesome. He slipped the Sharpie back into his pocket and turned. His foot hit the coffee table, and he bit back a curse as the glass tipped over, spilling a small puddle of water across the surface. He groaned, then paused to think.

Quickly, Zane picked up Andrew's arm that was hanging off the couch. He slowly moved the arm across the space until his hand settled on the fallen cup. He stepped away to ensure Andrew stayed asleep and his arm remained in position. Then he ran from the living room, turned the corner, and leaned against the wall by the entrance. Zane waited for a moment before bumping his elbow against the wall, sending a loud thud echoing through the room.

He heard movement on the couch—the sound of Andrew waking up. There came a curse, the sound of Andrew hurriedly getting up, and then the cup being picked up and moved around. It was coming. He didn’t have to wait a full minute before he heard Andrew gasp, followed by a confused murmur and choked-back laughter.

"This better wash out," Andrew's voice growled from the living room. "Touché, Ginger."

Zane sat against the wall, his hands covering his mouth while muffled laughter shook his whole body. Tears pricked his eyes as he laughed until his stomach ached.

-

Winter rolled away and gave way to spring. Zane took out his contacts in the bathroom and tugged at the reddish strands that flopped out at the nape of his neck. He was due for a cut soon—maybe he would go the next day. He wiped his glasses and stepped out into the bedroom. Zane didn't make it a foot into the room before he came to a stop, staring.

Zane blinked. "What's going on? I don't understand."

Andrew spun in a little circle, gesturing at the clean floor. "Look, we can see the floor," he said gleefully. He straightened up to his full height, as though that made what he was about to say more important. "I cleaned."

"You just dumped everything on the futon," Zane said dryly, staring at the unbelievable pile of crap that was stacked together. "You know I sleep there, right?"

Andrew sighed, long and labored, though the corners of his lips tugged up into a smile. "Well, I cleaned the floor so nicely. All you'd need is a sleeping bag and you'd be good to go."

"No. That's idiotic."

"What? No. You're idiotic."

Zane narrowed his eyes. "Is that my shirt?"

Andrew had the nerve to strike a little bicep-curling pose as though he were Mr. Universe, displaying the Led Zeppelin print across the front like a runway model's work. Zane wasn't much smaller than Andrew, but the taller boy was more muscular, and it showed with the shirt fitted on him as though it were painted on.

"I didn't want to get one of my shirts dirty with all the dust and stuff. And besides, I look really good in this. Go on, admire me all you want. I don't mind," Andrew said, his voice dripping with faux politeness.

"I swear," Zane sighed. He rubbed his hands together as his skin tingled and his palms felt hot. "I hate everything about you."

Andrew laughed, clear and loud. "You say that all the time, you know that? I hate everything about you too, Andrew—you're the worst thing in my life, or die, asshole." He swiped at the hair that fell in his eyes while still grinning. "Your eyes, though—you don't mean it. You say it, but you mean the opposite. Come on, give me a point on my best friend card. You know I'm right, Raggedy Andy."

"I hate you."

He clapped his hands, his body practically vibrating with happiness and triumph as he pointed at Zane. "See! You're about to smile because you know I'm right."

Zane rolled his eyes, doing his damnedest not to crack. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I want all that stuff off the futon, or I'm taking the bed tonight and your ass can sleep on the floor."

Andrew shook his head. "Always talking about wanting my bed. Obsessed."

Sometimes Zane needed to be outside the house; he had always been like that. His parents had a picnic table in the backyard where he used to sit when he needed fresh air. He would pluck at his guitar and stare at the sky, thinking there had to be more.

The Wessons didn't have a picnic table, but there was a bench and a lone tree that stood proudly next to a faded gray shed. Zane sat on the bench with his guitar resting on his lap.

Andrew squinted at the tree. "I think we should build a treehouse."

"You're eighteen years old," Zane pointed out. "That ship has sailed."

He pulled a serious face. "Age is nothing but a number."

"You sound like a pedophile."

"Zane," Andrew whimpered, "it'll be fun. We can put in a really cool rope. Oh, and a 'No Girls Allowed' sign!"

Zane stared at him for a long moment. "Is this real life?"

"The idea is just that awesome, right?" he asked, smiling so widely that Zane could see the back of his molars.

"How about this—if you give me your bed I'll help you build the treehouse."

Andrew raised his eyebrows. "Still gunning for that bed, huh?" His shoulders slumped. "No deal, Big Red. You'll die on that futon before I give up my luxurious bed."

Nodding, Zane rolled his shoulders and adjusted his guitar. Andrew plopped down on the lawn and tore a fistful of grass from the ground. He stared up at Zane on the bench while the sun shone in his eyes, making them crinkle tightly at the corners, light greenish-brown and barely visible behind thick eyelashes.

"Your red hair has made you evil," Andrew glared up at Zane, though his eyes shone with humor. "I never get anything I want."

He said this even as Zane eyed the shirt Andrew was wearing—a dark crimson shirt that clung tightly against his impressive torso. "Evans" was branded across the back along with Zane's family coat of arms dating back to the 17th century, right underneath.

Zane bumped his shoe against Andrew's ankle. "Ri-ight. Nice shirt."

Andrew batted his eyelashes, looking up at Zane through his side-swept bangs. "I know, right."

Zane's heart sped up a little, and he rolled his eyes. Andrew made a humming noise and lifted his hand, blowing hard into his open palm. Dozens of torn-up blades of grass floated through the air, and Zane chuckled as they landed on his lap.

-

At least once a week, Andrew had an urge to play guitar, even though he had zero musical talent. It was as though he were a gigantic black hole of artistic ability. It was sad. Zane urged him to become a case study, but the idea was frequently shot down.

The futon dipped when Andrew sat on its edge quietly as if Zane could not feel the shift in the thin cushion. He knew he should have opened his eyes and told Andrew to evaporate, but he foolishly thought that if he ignored him, maybe he would disappear like a hallucination induced by food poisoning. It was not the first time he had thought this.

The guitar strummed softly and Zane twitched. Then Andrew suddenly plucked at the strings savagely, belting out, "Hands down this is the best day I can ever remember, always remember, the sound of the stereo. The dim of the soft lights, the scent of your hair that you twirl in your fingers. And the time on the clock –"

"Oh, God," Zane moaned as he slammed a pillow over his head, hoping that he would suffocate. "We've talked about this. You're not my alarm clock, douchebag."

He waved his arm upward and around without lifting his head, hoping that he would catch Andrew in the eye with his fist. No such luck occurred. Andrew calmly avoided his flailing appendage and tapped the skin on the nape of Zane's neck three times.

Zane tried to kick him but missed. "Die, scumbag," he declared.

"Goonies never say die," Andrew replied.

Zane chuckled— that one was funny. He picked his head up, blinking blearily. "Today’s only Monday, isn’t it?" he said. He turned over onto his back, frowning at the ceiling. "If you sit next to me at lunch I will stab you in the leg with a fork. This is injustice."

"Good morning to you, too," said Andrew, flattening his hand against Zane's chest, lingering a little longer than necessary. Neither said another word.

-

The heavy bass line of the music broke the stillness of the night as the party continued in the lit-up house set back from the road and bordered by woods. It was perfect for a party at which alcohol and minors were in full presence. It was the biggest party before graduation, and everyone was letting loose. It was not the last party, but it was the best so far.

"Can I bum a cigarette?" Zane asked Drake, blowing on his hands and rubbing them against his pants.

Drake was already holding up the pack. "As long as you got a light, bro," he replied.

Zane did not usually smoke, but it had been a long time since he had, and he only ever did it when he was moody. At that moment, it was the only balm for his agitated nerves. He took a long drag on the vape pen in his hand, and inhaled the smoke, letting it linger in his chest until it burned, and his cheeks turned pink. He exhaled the smoke in a low, measured breath, feeling the burn in the pit of his gut. He did it until the ache in his chest subsided and the nervous, angry energy faded from his heart.

"Zane, where'd you go?" said Andrew, jogging across the lawn to the sea of cars where Zane stood. He panted to catch his breath. "Why did you leave?"

Instead of looking at him, Zane stared at the ground and muttered, "Too many people. No room to move." He glanced up, trying to look away from the rumpled collar and the smear of red against Andrew's jaw. "You have lipstick on your face."

"Damn it," groaned Andrew. He wiped at his face savagely. "Stacy kisses like a Doberman. Sloppy."

"I don't think this is going to work," Zane said.

Andrew frowned, still wiping his face. "What are you talking about?"

"I had all these reasons why I should take the bed. You are messy, you have no concept of space, and you are inconsiderate – and really, all of this just makes me want to move out."

Finally, Zane looked him in the eyes, and their locked gaze felt like an explosion in his chest. He could not tell if his heart was beating fast or slow; there was too much air in his lungs, and his breath was coming out all wrong, fast and heavy.

"I don't understand," Andrew said.

Andrew took a step back, and his face turned pale. He leaned against a pickup, panting and distressed, and he could not have looked more shocked. Zane wanted to take it back—anything to soothe the hurt on Andrew's face—but he did not.

Zane did not look him in the eyes again. He did not look at the smeared lipstick marring Andrew's sun-kissed skin; instead, he stared at the middle of Andrew's chest, safe territory. "Thanks for letting me stay for so long anyway," he said stiffly and formally.

That was it. Andrew’s shoulders straightened and a hard look came over his face. Anger flashed in his eyes along with something else that Zane did not have a name for.

"Really. This is how you're acting. Stacy's my clingy ex. You're just mad because I let her," Andrew said, stopping mid-sentence, swallowing heavily, and biting his lower lip until it turned white.

Anything would have been better than that finished sentence. At that moment, Zane wanted the earth to open up and drag him down, down, and further down until there was nothing but sweet darkness and nothingness. It was perhaps the longest moment of Zane’s entire life as the silence lingered in the air like something tangible and solid enough to touch. Zane sighed, watching his chest rise and fall.

"This is San Diego," said Drake quickly, looking spooked. "You boys know West Hollywood is like a few cities over. God, I need a beer now."

He sort of ran away before they could say anything.

Zane walked away. He could not take Andrew’s presence anymore. He took a drag on the cigarette in his hand. He inhaled the smoke, letting it linger in his chest until it burned, and his cheeks turned pink. He exhaled the smoke in a low, measured breath, feeling the burn in the pit of his gut. He did it until the ache in his chest subsided and the nervous, angry energy faded from his heart.

The next few days were quieter. They walked on eggshells around each other. One morning, when Zane dared to pull out a suitcase, Andrew gave him a hard look. "I swear, Zane if you pack one bag—" he said gruffly, but there was an ultimate fragility in his tone that startled Zane into stillness. He did not think; he knew that would break Andrew. The suitcase disappeared shortly after and never reappeared. Now, when Andrew came home he didn't drop his things randomly. He took the time to put his belongings in their proper places, and their room became neater.

Instead of waking him with a song that could only be produced by a tone-deaf sea lion, Andrew ran his fingers through Zane's hair until his eyes cracked open, and he whispered, "Wake up."

Zane did not talk about it; he did not want to change this, whatever it was. Andrew was different. It was two in the morning, and they were yawning and resisting the lull of sleep that was on the verge of smothering them. The mattress felt like heaven—way better than the futon. Zane sighed peacefully, enjoying the rare comfort. Andrew faced him on the bed, turning onto his side and propping his head up on the crook of his elbow.

"Are we pretending that it never happened?" Andrew asked, a nervous smile on his lips. His eyes were fixed on the stitching of the bed comforter. "I can so do that if you want. Like, I don't. Things are weird, kinda."

Zane closed his eyes as he tried to ignore the last ten months sprawled behind them like some phantom staircase leading up to something. He turned onto his back, counting the speckled paint on the ceiling, partly to hide the way his face grew too warm—he was sure the flush was visible along the arch of his neck.

"I thought we were already pretending," he said at last, smiling crookedly.

"Zane—" Andrew started.

"Can we not," Zane interrupted him. "I mean, I don't want to go into it. We're cool, Andrew. Let's forget it, okay?"

Andrew stayed silent for a minute, then he smiled weakly and turned onto his back. They stared at the ceiling together, their shoulders brushing, but Andrew never answered the question.

-

Prom was like every other event their school hosted—lame. The punch was not even spiked as in every single teen movie. Most of their friends did not bother getting dates, as there was no point since everyone planned to leave early. Zachary Niley was throwing a party on the lake, and that was when the real fun would begin.

"You clean up good, Wesson," said Zane, gulping down the last of his punch. They stood on the edge of the dance floor near a cluster of tables. "You look like a mix between Zac Efron, a Ken doll, and a mountain troll."

Andrew bumped his shoulder against Zane's. "Laying it on thick with the compliments, Opie. Be careful, or I might start thinking you have a heart."

"Ssh," Zane said with his finger over his lips. He winked. "Don't say that too loud. I have my hard skater boy rep to maintain."

The music was loud—it was some electropop song that was annoying but ultimately became catchy after more than two plays. Zane looked through the crowd, and his eyes darkened when they landed on Stacy standing across the floor. She had her sights on Andrew with a determined intensity. Zane's fingers tightened around his cup so hard that tiny fractures appeared on its surface.

"Stacy looks like she wants to have your babies. You might get lucky tonight," Zane said, smiling wanly. He waved his empty cup. "I'm going to get some more punch. Shit tastes like some kind of super Kool-Aid."

Andrew did not glance her way. He shrugged and finished the last of his drink before turning to follow Zane. He walked close so that he could talk into his ear over the music.

"Hey, do you want to go to the skate park tomorrow?"

Zane raised an eyebrow. "You don't even like the skate park. You said it's like standing in the middle of a Tony Hawk wet dream."

"Well, I'm full of surprises."

"Right. They go left. You go right," Zane stopped him before they reached the refreshment table. "You seriously want to go? You suck at skating. You hate it there."

Andrew looked fidgety. He smiled, but it was weak and timid. "But you like it there, so if you're there, I'm there."

Zane's eyes grew wide. He swallowed heavily and looked down at the floor. "Yeah, okay then," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse as his throat tightened.

Andrew's eyes lit up, relieved and happy, and they continued to the table. Not for the first time, Zane realized that Andrew's hand rested on his lower back as they walked through the dimly lit ballroom, guiding him through the sea of dancing bodies.

-

It was late Saturday night. The TV was on, and an infomercial played silently on the flat screen. Zane snapped awake from a sense of urgency that he thought had come from a dream, but he could not remember it as soon as his eyes opened.

It was as though the pieces were all laid bare and the puzzle was complete. He stood up, his bare feet padding across the gray carpet to Andrew's bed. The boy lay on his back with his hair haloed around him on the pillow. During the day, Andrew was a ball of energy—always moving, loud, and random. He was smiley, energetic, and a pain in Zane's ass. Seeing him so still and quiet tugged at Zane's heartstrings. Zane licked his lips and reached out, touching the tips of his fingers against the line of Andrew's jaw.

Everything had been pointing to this moment, leading up to it, and he had tried to fight it, but it was inevitable. The moment felt heavy.

"If we fall, we're going to fall hard," he whispered, stroking his fingers gently across Andrew's cheek. "You're my best friend. I need you. What if we screw this up?"

Andrew was usually a sound sleeper. He would not have woken up even if music had been played directly into his ear. As usual, Andrew had some internal radar for Zane. He could find Zane in the middle of a rave without missing a beat. So Zane was not surprised when Andrew's eyes cracked open. Zane froze.

"Really, Zane—while I'm sleeping," said Andrew, his sleepiness making his voice come out in a rasp. His eyes were barely open, and he gave a tiny yawn, looking up at Zane, who stood over him with a sleepy smile. "I've never done this before. But. You feel it, right? How epic we can be. You make me fucking dizzy. Do you know how much I want to kiss you, all the goddamn time?"

It took a moment for Zane to understand that Andrew was talking about him. The declaration felt too real. He knew he must have looked a sight with his slack jaw and wide eyes. Zane took a sharp breath. Warmth flooded through him, making his head swim, and his heart felt as though it were bursting with all the emotion he felt for this boy, who stared at him with worried, vulnerable eyes now that everything was on the line.

"This is all your fault. Walking around with no shirt. Being there all the time with your stupid face." His fingers caught the sleeve of Andrew's shirt, tangling in the fabric. "I know you did this on purpose. You are the worst, I swear—"

The brief look of panic and hurt in Andrew's eyes faded quickly as realization chased it away. Then tender affection shone through, lighting his whole face. "You mean the opposite. I like when you do that."

He meant it, for his smile was bright and dreamy. Zane's heart fluttered when Andrew grabbed his hand, tugging him down onto the bed. "C'mere."

Zane landed on Andrew's lap between his legs. Andrew squeezed his legs around Zane, making him laugh at the ticklish sensation. Gently, he wrapped his arms around Zane's waist and leaned close. Zane let out a deep breath as he trembled from a mix of nervousness and anticipation for what might come.

"With your stupid grin. And your boyband hair. I hate—"

Andrew let out a long, happy laugh before he kissed him. Zane's vision whitened as sparks exploded behind his eyes, warmth and elation warring together to send his senses to higher levels. He melted in Andrew's arms as the boy kissed him slowly, holding Zane's face and letting himself go boneless under the heat of Andrew's mouth. Andrew licked across Zane's lower lip, drawing a shuddering whimper from him, before pulling back to stare into Zane's dazed face.

"I'm not saying sex or anything," said Andrew quietly, his hand trembling as he reached up to cup Zane's face. "But do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?"

Zane bit his lip to stifle a smile. "See, if I'd known that from the beginning, all I needed to do was put out—to sleep in your bed."

"Amount you talk about it. Starting to think you love the bed more than me," Andrew said with fond exasperation.

Andrew did not realize he had just uttered the L word, but Zane did, and his heart soared because it felt so easy, so right.

"Never," he stated clearly, then added sincerely, "I don't love anything more than you."

Andrew stared at him for a long moment. Then his smile came, like the first rays of the sun after winter in spring. It was beautiful. He reached up to tug at Zane's ear, trailing his hand down to rest against the slope of his neck, his palm over his pulse point.

"Me, too," Andrew said with uncharacteristic seriousness, meaning every word, as he stroked the sides of Zane's face. "Love you, too. For a long time now."

Zane breathed slowly, affection curling low in his stomach as Andrew's hands settled on his hips. Softly, he gazed at Andrew, trying not to drown in those eyes. He turned away, feeling choked up.

"Such a girl," he said gruffly, his voice lower than usual.

Andrew's hands drifted down to his ass, pulling Zane so that they were chest to chest. "Are you going to cry?" he asked, completely delighted. "Is it too much emotion for your cold, dead heart?"

"I hate you."

"You say the sweetest things."

A hand tugged at his arm, and Zane lowered himself onto the bed on his side. Andrew crawled behind him. He slid his leg between Zane's, and one arm fell over his waist. Fingers slipped past the hem of Zane's shirt and brushed against warm skin.

"Tomorrow, when I'm more awake and it's not five in the morning, you're putting out," Andrew said, his breath ghosting against the back of Zane's neck.

Zane sighed. He closed his eyes and laid his hand over the one resting on his hip. "Dream on."

"Fuuuck."

Andrew buried his face in Zane's hair, squeezing his waist. Zane felt warmth pour from his chest, and a smile tugged at his lips. Tomorrow, he would be so putting out. They had waited this long, after all. They had plenty of time to be together now. They fell asleep in each other's arms with the rest of their days spread out before them.

[end.]