Chapter Text
Tony brings me to a shady punk bar on my seventeenth birthday, arming us with fake IDs and real jewelry in our safety pin piercings. My mom just about shat herself when she saw what I'd done to my nose. The ears were one thing, but even after I stretched them with screws from my stepdad's toolbox, it didn't even come close to how badly she'd flipped when she saw my left nostril with a tack poked through it.
She said she'd let me keep it if I didn't get a mohawk. It was a good compromise, because I didn't really want one anymore. Too typical, eurotrash punk. Instead, I have thick spikes all over my head. When I don't fix it up, it's just a curly mess, but the only people who have seen that are my parents and Tony.
Tony, bless his soul, is a little bit stuck in 1979; he has a thick mohawk that, more often than not, he's too lazy to spike and instead lets hang in a shaggy mess off the back of his head. When he does spike it, and when he wears his studded jean jacket, you'd think he's one of those kids who still listens to The Ramones. Which he does. But he doesn't tell anyone that; at least no stranger. When people ask, he says he just likes the style. It's high maintenance, but it looks badass, and nobody fucks with Tony.
It's raining in Los Angeles, but above the noise of the bar, it's impossible to tell. We got drenched on the way from the car to the door. It didn't help that we had to wait in line for a half an hour, but we were covered by the overhang, except for that time when it came in sideways for a good five minutes. My t-shirt is damp and clinging to my torso. The bar is hot, though, and once I get some whiskey in me, I'll warm up.
Tony heads over to the counter, and I'm soon to follow. We're not drunks or burnouts or anything; we just like to have a good time every now and then. We like to take advantage of the fact that we don’t look our age.
While I absently flash my ID to the bartender who asks, I look up to the stage. There's a group of sweaty guys yelping and shredding a cover of a song that sounds vaguely familiar. Nobody who’s anybody ever plays here. This isn't even a real venue. I don't mind, though. Some of the best music is the kind you don’t have to worry about posers glomming onto.
About the time they finish off their set and I finally get my shot, I see him for the first time. The guy who's going to fuck me up. I don't know it yet; I don't even know him. But that's who he is. My goddamn demise.
When he first comes onstage, I have to do a double take because at first, I think he's a girl.
I double take because what the absolute hell is a girl doing at a hardcore punk bar with a microphone? Girls can't scream. They can wail, maybe, but they can't growl.
Then, something about this girl has me choking on my drink. She has balls. For real. I can see them through her skin-tight jeans. I look up to her face to get an eyeful of her eyebrow ridge and jawline and realize—oh. This is not a girl at all. This is a man.
But, come on, he must at least be a queer.
At first glance, I deduce that this guy has no idea what he's doing. He has long hair like fucking Aerosmith. Clearly, he didn't get the memo that if you're going to be seen as anything besides a douche, you've gotta lose the pussy-ass metal poser ‘do. But this guy—he probably thinks it's cool to have hair like Rapunzel. And that's not all. He's got these weird skin-tight pants I'm sure took a hell of a lot of effort to get on. Then there's the Ziggy Stardust logo jacket, which I only recognize because my brother's best friend's sister likes Bowie. And finally, the goddamn shoes. He's wearing prom shoes. Wedding shoes. Funeral shoes. Not the kind of thing you wear onstage to a bar. I'm not even sure how to take it. Is he some kind of secret yuppie who will only wear the best on his feet? Does he think it will make people respect him? Either way, it's fucking weird, and he is fucking weird.
To the right of the homo singer is a burly dark-skinned guy with a beat-up guitar and a curly mess on his head. He's wearing a coat. A coat. In Los Angeles, In May. Sure, it's raining outside, but with how big he is, shouldn't he be sweating from his body weight alone?
In the back, there's a skinny kid behind a drum kit with spikes on his head like mine, except they're bleached blonde and they look about four times as haphazardly done. He has an obviously-fresh piercing beneath his lower lip, and he looks like he thinks he could conquer the world with his drumsticks.
I have low expectations for this act between the prepubescent drummer, the giant mutt on a shitty Fender, and that he-she of a singer. Oh, it's going to be hellacious.
“How the fuck are you, LA?” squeaks the front man into the microphone in what is probably the most erratic, unreliable voice I've ever heard. “We're called Civil Fights, and we're here to make sure you have a good time tonight.”
I snort and glance at Tony, but he's not looking at me; he's looking at the bodacious brunette on his right. Well, fuck him. I can laugh at their stupid-ass band name on my own.
I turn away and divert my attention to getting another shot. It's a bit of a wait with all the other customers, so it's about the time the bartender actually gets to my order that I realize my head is moving to the beat involuntarily. How long is this intro? I haven't heard any vocals yet, aside from that awkward spiel at the beginning. They're going on thirty to forty measures of just guitar and drums. Either they have no clue what the hell they're doing, which I wouldn't put past them, or they're trying to be original on purpose. I wouldn't put that past them, either. I mean, come on: a scrawny Mexican metal/pop/yuppie/punk hybrid with a microphone; an overweight, Samoan hippie-looking guitarist; and that squirrely kid with the drums? They're bound to come up with something weird, like mixing prog with hardcore.
Except, it's not really that bad.
I down my second shot and pat Tony on the shoulder.
“Gonna go mosh,” I tell him. “My shots are on you.”
“What?” he protests, finally pulling away from the lady he's trying to get horizontal with. I'm gone before he can object any more, and the bartender will keep him there until he pays. Maybe it's a dick move, but it’s my goddamn birthday. I'm allowed to be a dick.
I bump around in the crowd a little until the intro slows to a stop. God, finally. Like, it was good, but I want to hear this fag let out some whines. There's nothing like laughing at a guy who thinks he can sing.
The drummer taps his sticks together four times, and the song comes in fast and loud, all three members starting their parts at once. What else comes in fast and loud is my jaw hitting the fucking floor. This guy…this guy has some lungs.
Actually, he's kind of badass, his voice harsh and shrill against the rapid-fire drums and aggressive guitar. If you were a yuppie or a prep, you'd probably cringe. Me, though, I've got a racing heart hearing the way he wails and turns it into a long, low growl in one breath. One breath!
I think I'm in love.
Wait, I didn't—yeah, yeah, okay, maybe. Maybe I happen to be a queer. But it's not something I go around advertising. I don't go to those rallies in San Francisco, even if I could get there. I just turn sluts away when they try to shove their 'ta-tas' in my face. They're lumps of fat. I don't see what the big deal is.
The big goddamn deal is how Civil Fights' singer jumps off an amp, grabs onto a rafter, and hooks his legs around it, hanging upside down and screaming a few words at us. By now, the crowd is getting excited by the energy and picking up the speed at which it's shifting. I don't hesitate to join. I said there's nothing like laughing at a guy who thinks he can sing, but there's goddamn nothing like slam dancing to a song as fast as this.
By the time they're on their third song, I'm feeling the whiskey, plus the soreness of the few fists I've taken to my stomach and arms. It's not a bad kind of soreness, because it came from getting pummeled in the crowd. It's hard to give a damn about getting bruised when you're doing the same to the people around you. That's the thing about slam dancing; it's like fighting, but it's respectful, and everyone has a good time throwing themselves.
I turn my head when a guy rams full force into me while the song ends and the crowd slows.
“Watch it,” he says, but he's laughing. Then we're both laughing, and I begin to notice the buzz.
“Alright,” breathes the singer into the microphone. His voice is deeper now that he's abused it, and sweat plasters his smooth, wavy hair to his forehead. Something about it makes the homo part of me wake up a little. “We're giving out free t-shirts. Meet us after the show.”
The guitarist opens his coat to reveal a white cotton t-shirt, the band's logo scribbled very poorly in permanent marker, along with a shitty caricature of Malcolm X wielding a machete. A few people whistle facetiously, a few call out vague insults; but it's all lost beneath the drums coming back in. The drummer isn’t actually bad, despite the fact that he looks about twelve years old. Then the music is back on, and I'm thrashing around again to the singer's wild voice.
By the time their set ends, I'm sweaty and worn out. My hair is still intact, but I have a few extra rips in my favorite NOFX shirt. Not that it matters; it was basically trashed anyway. I let out a long breath and find my way back to the bar. I could do with another shot of whiskey.
A new bartender has started their shift, so I flash my ID again. He turns around to grab what I asked for, but gets distracted by a tall, skinny punk girl flagging him down for another beer, and walks to her end of the bar. Fucking asshole. Like she’s going to fuck you just because you served her, like, eight seconds faster.
While I wait, I scan the mass of people to see where Tony ended up. He only gets in with the crowd when he's in the right mood. Usually, he just hangs back and watches the show; and with that chick he was talking to earlier, I'd bet that he's trying for at least second base with her and not wasting his time dancing around with a bunch of dudes. I finally spot him in the corner, pressed up against the same girl. She has her arms around his neck, and he's grabbing her waist while they swap spit. I guess I'm paying for my own shots from now on.
I sigh and stare down the bartender while he pours a few shots. He flashes a 'one moment' sign to me, looking unapologetic, and taking someone else's order.
“Wastoid,” I mutter while a burly, tattooed man slips between me and the occupied bar stool on my right. The bartender serves that dick first before finally getting me my shot. No goddamn tip for him. I down my Johnnie Walker and pay him exactly what I owe before walking back toward the crowd. I’m pretty beat, so I don’t plan on doing any more slam dancing. Anyway, the band that's on now isn't nearly as good as Civil Fights, even if their name is less atrocious.
While I fold my arms and watch the show, I catch a glimpse of the skinny singer from earlier, chatting with a group of people while the drummer trails behind him like a lost puppy. He laughs and turns to his band mate, holding out his hand. The kid passes him a t-shirt, and he turns it over to the chick he's talking to. She makes a point of lifting her Black Flag tank over her head and trading it for her brand new Civil Fights tee; exposing a red cotton bra in the process. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but despite all the wolf whistles coming from ogling dudes in the crowd, the singer seems unbothered. Maybe he really is a queer.
Not that I'd know what to do with it if he was. I’ve never had the chance to try to get in bed with a guy. Except for me, Tony, and a few friends who are either female or fugly, everyone at my school is a stupid W.A.S.P.-wannabe. The only dudes I’ve been seriously attracted to have been plastered on the pages of Slash magazine, or nameless attendees of hardcore shows.
I love the punk scene for what it is—an outlet for all the bullshit you put up with in day to day life. A place to thrash around and scream and be a fucking animal. Hear some damn good music. But it is not forgiving of people like me; dudes who like cock, chicks who like pussy. Punk guys take it as an insult if your eyes pass over their crotch area, or even if you look at their face too long.
And if I wanted to suck it up and try to get horizontal with one of the yuppie assholes at school, I’d still be fucked. Some parts of LA are progressive. Some places, it’s no big deal if you come out as gay in high school. Not mine. The only kid who ever tried got taunted and beat up so badly that he had to transfer within a month.
If I never get the hell out of this town, I figure I'll end up hitched to some woman and start a family, just because that's what you do in LA if you’re not rich and famous. That, or I'll start a band like I've always wanted to do. Be a lone wolf. I don’t expect to go anywhere; I just want to make music well enough to get by. Of course, it would help if I had a decent guitar or some actual talent. Maybe I should pick up a summer job like my stepdad has been begging me to.
When Civil Fights' singer and drummer pass me, the whiskey gives me enough courage to call out, “Hey, good show!” I figure they'll ignore me; maybe grin or say thanks, but oh, fuck, am I wrong.
The singer turns to me and splits a massive smile. He comes back over and claps me on the shoulder. “Really? Oh, dude, I'm glad you liked it! Y’know, a lot of people don’t get us.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah,” I shrug awkwardly, not really sure what to say. I'm saved by the drummer.
“Cool shirt,” he tells me in a voice that is perfectly reminiscent of Tony's when he entered puberty. His voice cracked. He might actually be a kid.
I offer, “Thanks. You like NOFX?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says enthusiastically. “Dude, how could you not? Like, the right amount of clean, and then the right amount of gritty. I own a few of their singles.”
“God, Mike, quit being such a fucking noid,” the front man scolds. Then, he turns to me. “Don't mind him. He's a huge geek sometimes.”
I chuckle. “It's fine. I'm a geek, too.”
He eyes me up and down. “You don’t look like a geek. You look like a total koozbane. In a good way, of course.” He smiles and holds out his hand. “I'm Vic. Vic Fuentes.”
I take his hand tentatively and he surprises me with a firm handshake.
“Jaime Preciado,” I tell him as he releases my hand.
“Jaime. Cool. This is Mike.” He gestures behind him to the drummer, who raises a hand in a half-wave. “He's my kid brother.”
“Ah,” I nod. “That explains a lot.”
Vic grins. “What, couldn’t figure out why a twelve year old was let into a bar?”
“I'm not twelve!” Mike pipes in, but his voice breaks comically on the last syllable. I chuckle, and he glares at me.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Thought maybe he got lost on the way to the mall.”
“I don't even like the mall,” Mike protests.
“Mike, chill,” Vic hisses. “He's joking.” He turns to me. “Right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I assure him. “You’re a talented drummer, kid. Respect.”
Mike grumbles some more, but eases off, and Vic turns to me with a smile.
“Thanks for saying hi. It's easy to get discouraged when the only people who say they like our shit are chicks trying to get horizontal, you know? Seems like nobody gives a damn about the music anymore.”
“Hey man, it was cool,” I reassure. “Definitely something new.” I fidget for a moment, unsure of what to say, but I’m buzzed enough to know that I want to keep talking to Vic. Because he’s gay? Maybe. I haven’t even figured out if that’s true yet. No matter what, he’s different. He’s a hell of a lot nicer than most punks I’ve met here.
“Um,” I say, “think you can spare a t-shirt? Mine got a little fucked up in the crowd. I don’t want it to fall apart completely.” The excuse is unnecessary, but I’m nervous. Vic just nods easily and plucks a shirt from the bundle in Mike’s arms.
Okay, so Vic gave no fucks about that chick changing her shirt. Maybe he’ll react to me changing mine.
I’ve never taken off my shirt in a bar before, but despite how self-conscious it makes me feel, I do my best to take my time without being obvious. I’m conducting an experiment here; it’s all in the name of science.
After pulling my new tee over my head, getting a strong whiff of permanent marker in the process, I peer at Vic’s expression. It seems…different. Maybe. Or maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe I’m crazy. But I swear to God, he’s looking at me with these eyes—I can’t decipher them. Some weird mixture of intrigue, submission, and feigned indifference. All I know is that he looks sort of goddamn sexy and it stirs up a strange feeling in my stomach and suddenly I want to do something really dumb like kiss him.
“You're cool,” he says, his voice marginally lower than it was a second ago. I wouldn't notice if I weren't paying attention. “Do you smoke?”
“Smoke what?”
He laughs. “I mean, whatever. All I’ve got are cigarettes. Want to come out back with me while I light up?”
I shrug and say, “Sure, if you can spare me one,” as if I don't really care, but I'll admit that I'm pretty pleased that he wants to hang out. He smiles faintly and grabs my arm, which startles me. Before I have time to react, he's pulling me behind the stage and out the back door, Mike tagging along behind us.
Vic pulls a thin case out of his pocket and opens it to reveal three rolled joints and a lighter. “Here,” he murmurs, selecting a cigarette and placing it between my lips. I lean in to his cupped hand shielding the lighter from the wind as someone’s tires squeal on the next street over. It isn’t raining anymore, but there’s water pooled all over the cheaply-paved parking lot.
Once mine is sufficiently lit, he chooses one for himself. Mike attempts to grab the last one, but Vic snaps the case shut before he gets the chance.
“Not for you,” he scolds.
Mike pouts. “Please?”
“No, dude. You're fourteen.” He lights his cigarette and takes a drag. “Amber ain’t even here, you’ve got no one to impress.”
“Asshole,” grumbles Mike, cheeks reddening as he slinks away. “Not like you haven't seen me smoke before.”
“Don't mind him,” says Vic, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
“Who’s Amber?” I ask. He smirks.
“His crush. He thinks he’s got her wrapped around his finger, since he’s sooooo goddamn badass.” He twirls the cigarette between his fingers and says more quietly, “Last month, he called her to ask for the math homework, and then bragged about it for weeks.” Vic rolls his eyes and pulls the lighter back out of his pocket when he notices my cigarette has gone out. His knuckle brushes my chin as he lights me up, making my stomach flip over.
“Kind of looks like a doobie,” I comment after he's retracted his hand, a light puff of smoke escaping my lips despite how I try to hold it in. The tobacco is sweeter than I’m used to.
“Yeah,” he grins. “I roll them myself sometimes.” He barks suddenly, “Mike!” I look over to see Mike scraping something into the wall with a knife.
“What?” Mike asks in the most angsty-teenage voice I've ever heard.
“Go help Will with the instruments and stop vandalizing the wall. Pete hates us enough as it is.”
“You're fucking road pizza,” Mike complains. Vic just brushes him off, and then I hear the sound of the back door squeaking open and closing with a loud thud.
“Sorry,” he laughs. “Mike kind of thinks he's a hessian or something, like he always has to do shit that cops would tackle him for.”
“Maybe he's the Angry Samoans' apprentice,” I remark. Vic laughs heartily, letting out a huge cloud of smoke with his exhale.
“Angry fuckin' Samoans. I'd love them if their lyrics weren't so damn insulting.”
“Yeah, they're Tony's favorite. It fits him.”
Vic asks, “Who's Tony?”
“My best friend,” I tell him. “Since we were kids. I’d probably hate his guts if I met him now; he can be kind of a dick. He gave me a ride here tonight, though.”
For a while, we shoot the shit together; mostly talking about music. I tell him to pick up Agent Orange’s record from Leroy’s downtown and he gushes about T.S.O.L.; how he’s “seen them eight times since last November and they’re, like, kind of new, so they haven’t sold out.” He gets embarrassed by his rambling after a paragraph or so and laughs sheepishly before apologizing.
“It’s cool, dude,” I assure him. “I saw them when they played here last time, actually. Guess I didn’t see you.”
Vic smiles shyly. “Shame our paths didn’t cross earlier.”
It kind of makes my stomach flip over how he looks up at me through his eyelashes, and I find myself looking away after taking a heavy puff of my cigarette. His mood then goes from bashful to upbeat before I can even process what’s happening, and he says, “Have you heard of Wasted Youth? Like, L.A.'s Wasted Youth?”
We talk about local bands until our cigarettes are gone and we toss them on the ground. It’s damp enough that we don’t even need to stub them out.
“Do you want to go up to the roof?” he asks me suddenly. I frown warily at the sky—dark, in a way that lets you know it could split open and take a piss on you at any moment. He sees me hesitate and continues, “It won't rain again. And if it does, there's shelter. Trust me, I go up there all the time with my hippie friend, Chris. He gets gigs here early in the evening, and between his and mine, sometimes we'll light up. 'Course, I don't do that often. It's a bitch for my throat.”
Vic realizes, for the second time, that he's running his mouth, and shuts up with an awkward smile. He takes my silence as agreement, and gestures with his head to the fire escape. The building is three floors; the first is the bar, the second is storage, and the third is living space, probably for whatever asshole runs the tavern. I follow Vic as we quickly ascend, making as little noise as possible when we pass the windows. We have to hoist ourselves over a few feet of brick on the last part; he does so expertly, whereas I nearly fall on my ass. Vic pretends he doesn't notice, which I'm grateful for.
There are people who touch you shamelessly without having a reason to. I have a little cousin named Jésus who will sit in the middle seat of the car even if you're the only two in the back. Everyone knows someone who’s like that. You don't ask questions unless you've got issues. You let them get their human contact fix. Once we're leaned up against some sort of metal contraption, I learn that Vic is one of those people.
He has the final cigarette and the lighter in his grip, the case tucked safely away in his pocket. “Wanna split the last one?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say easily. There’s something intimate about sharing a cigarette. For whatever reason, it feels closer than passing a joint back and forth. I still haven’t decided if Vic is gay or not. Even if he is, that doesn’t mean that he’s into me. No matter what, I’m not going to pass up an excuse to be close to him. Not when it’s just the two of us, alone on this rooftop.
I sit first, he sits second; letting our knees touch and not giving a damn if our arms brush or if his hair falls on my shoulder while he leans down to shield the flame from the wind. I don’t mind…or maybe I do. My chest is buzzing. Vic's knee is touching me. It's definitely touching me.
Once the cigarette is properly lit, he tucks the lighter away and gives me a friendly smile.
“I'm surprised you turned out to be so cool.”
“Really?” I laugh. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I don't know. I saw you in the crowd during my show. You seemed kind of angry at first, you know? But I think you're actually a secret nice guy.”
“I'm not nice,” I scoff. “I'm the meanest cornchip on this roof.”
“Alright, maybe that's true,” he laughs. “But I bet you're the type to save kittens from trees.”
“Except I'm allergic to cats.”
He passes me the cigarette. “Okay, wise-ass, no need to have an attitude.”
“Maybe I am the nice one,” I grin. Vic grins back while he waits for his turn on the tobacco. Briefly, his gaze flicks over me; I'm not sure what to make of it, so I push it out of my head and ignore my racing heart. Duh, I think Vic is hot. Duh, I would be stoked if he thought I was hot too. Still, I’m out of my depth here—I can’t flirt with a dude. I’m letting this all happen; the sharing of the cigarette, the touching of the knees, the getting to know each other…but the second I start to push things further, I’m fucked.
How goddamn shitty would it be if I’ve been misinterpreting things, and Vic is just an effeminate straight guy, and I’ve outed myself as a homo? Half the punks in L.A. beat up faggots on a regular basis, either to take their cash or just for the hell of it. No, if something is going to happen between Vic and me, it’ll be on his terms. I’m too young to die.
“You did that piercing yourself, right?” Vic asks, pulling me out of my thoughts and pointing to the stud in my nose.
“Uh-huh,” I confirm. “What kind of punk would I be if I didn’t?”
“Touché,” he laughs. “What did you use?”
“A tack.”
“Mondo. I used a safety pin for mine.” Absentmindedly, he touches the ring through his nose, which mirrors mine. “Actually, Will did it. My guitarist, have I mentioned him? Yeah, he wants to be a piercer-slash-tattooer if our band doesn't work out.”
“Is he good?”
“At piercings, yeah. But he gave Mike the shittiest tat last month. It's, like, under his armpit and it's the anarchy symbol, but it kind of looks like a cartoon eyeball or something. So bad.” He shudders. “Anyway, if you ever wanted something else pierced, he's your man.”
“Really? Cool, do you think he'd do my eyebrow?”
Vic smiles encouragingly. “Fuck yeah, dude, that would be gnarly.”
I snort. “Gnarly? What is this, Malibu?” I ask while we pass the cigarette back and forth again. Vic laughs at that.
“Whatever, man. I picked up that word from my friend Alan. He's, like, a surfer, but also a burnout, so it's weird.”
I note, “You must have a lot of friends.” Vic shrugs.
“I guess. Some of them I probably shouldn’t call friends anymore. Mostly, there's just Will, Chris, Alan, Jason, Tyler, and Jen.”
“That's still a shitload more than I have.”
“Well, friends are exhausting, so be grateful,” he advises me. Since I'm not exactly a social butterfly, I have no objections.
Vic and I chat about nothing for a while. Police sirens wail in the distance, and the other sounds of the city provide a backdrop for our conversation. I learn that he's only owned one pair of shoes since last year, hence the overdressed state of his feet. He tells me he just hasn't gotten around to buying something more appropriate to this scene, and most people don't give a fuck about shoes anyway, unless they're gay. I stifle a laugh at that since his shoes were one of the first things I noticed about him, which kind of proves his point on the whole gay thing. I ask about his life. He tells me about it, earnestly. Vic Fuentes is definitely a talker.
Our cigarette has long gone out, but Vic’s knee is still bumping against mine. He sighs, “I know that smoking is bad for you, but I really wish we had another one.”
“I think I have gum,” I offer lamely. As I fish through my pockets, I can feel Vic’s gaze on me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t put me on edge. It’s a good kind of edge, though. I’m not sure why, but it’s exciting to be sitting here with such a bodacious boy, even if I’m ninety-nine percent certain nothing is going to happen.
“So,” he says after I’ve pulled out my pack of gum, popped one in my mouth, and handed him a piece. “Tell me about yourself, Jaime…what was it? P-something?”
“Preciado,” I grin, not looking directly at him, but enjoying the feel of his eyes on me. “I dunno. I'm not that interesting. Lived in L.A. my whole life. Parents hardly speak English, although my stepdad is your average white yuppie piece of shit. I used to want to be an astronaut. That stopped when I was twelve and I first heard The Ramones.” I scratch the back of my head. “Um, Tony and I met at school when I was eleven 'cause he moved in from Santa Barbara. We learned guitar when we were thirteen, and tried to start a band at fifteen, but turns out we suck.” I shrug. “That's about it.”
“Guitar is hard,” he admits. “I play, but really only for writing songs and shit. It's so much more fun to be onstage with only a microphone, y’know? Makes it easier to let loose. Go crazy.”
“Your energy was really cool,” I tell him. He peeks up at me while he smiles and says nothing save for a small 'thanks' for a few moments. Then, he speaks up again.
“I've got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Is Tony really your best friend or is he your boyfriend?”
My heart leaps to my throat. “B-boyfriend? Why the hell would he be my boyfriend?”
He gives me a look verging on patronizing. “Jaime, you're obviously gay.”
“What?” I laugh incredulously. “I-I'm not a faggot.”
Okay, so I’ve been entertaining the idea all night that maybe Vic is gay and maybe he’s into me. But as the minutes have gone by and the whiskey has started leaving my brain, I’ve accepted that it’s just a stupid fantasy. Punks aren’t gay. I can’t let anyone know that I am. I’m not stupid.
“Uh huh,” he smirks. “Well, either you're lying, or you're waist-deep in denial. Which is it?”
“Dude, I said I'm not a queer,” I reinforce desperately. Vic just chuckles.
“Take a chill pill. I'm gay too.”
Oh.
What?
Vic is…gay? No, come on, he can’t be. He’s just kidding around. No God, even one I only half-believe in, would ever let me meet another gay person. Not one as goddamn sexy as Vic.
“You,” I declare, “are messing with me.”
“Well, be grateful it's me and not some skinhead who figured you out,” he retorts. “Why would I lie about being gay? How do you think I have such a good gaydar?”
“Gaydar?”
“You know, like radar.”
“Oh.”
Vic laughs. “So is Tony your boyfriend or not?”
“God, no,” I shudder. Tony would kick my ass if I came on to him. Anyway, he’s like a brother to me. After a second, I add, “And I never said I was gay.”
“But you are, aren't you?”
I’ve been caught. There’s no use lying now. “Maybe, yeah.”
Vic smiles triumphantly. “I goddamn called it.”
“Well, at least I don't look as gay as you.”
“Tell me something I don't know, sweetheart.”
I know he’s just joking around, but when Vic calls me 'sweetheart,' I blush a little. By now, I'm feeling almost brave enough to look at him, so I sneak a glance. For once, he's looking straight ahead. Our shoulders and thighs are still touching. He's not grinning, exactly, but he looks content. Satisfied.
It can't be that cold, but it feels like it to our SoCal blood, so his cheeks are red with life and his lips look plump and smooth. Maybe I want to kiss him. I won't do it, but I want to.
There's a settling silence for a few moments. A few moments and he asks, “Have you ever done anything with a guy?”
It's a surprising question, one I've never been asked before, and I find myself avoiding eye contact, avoiding answering and instead responding, “Have you?”
Vic takes his time to blow a large bubble with his gum. It pops and he sucks it back into his mouth. Then, he says simply, “Yep.”
He's still not looking at me. What's more is that he gave me a one-word response. He hasn’t shut up all goddamn night, and now he decides to be vague. I prod, “Like what?” He half-smiles at me.
“I…,” he hums, “have kissed a boy. I have gone down on a boy. I have fucked a boy. I have gotten fucked by a boy.”
“All the same one?” I can't help but ask.
“Nope. Kissed three. Blew and fucked one. Got fucked by two others.”
“Hmm.” It seems strange to think that there are other gay people. That not everybody is disgusted by a dick going near another dick. The fact that Vic was able to find what sounds like five or six fellow homos is even more astounding.
And then I realize what he's done, and I imagine him on his knees, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes and one hand on my thigh; the other hand, well….
“What about you, Himes?” he asks, pulling me out of my daydream and eliciting a blush on my cheeks. Nope, I was not just thinking about Vic blowing me. Not at all.
If he could read minds, I'd be fucked.
Once I can manage to process his question, my stomach flips over at the nickname, then flips back at what he asked me. No one likes to admit they're a virgin. I confess, “I haven't done much, besides making out with a few girls.”
“Girls, huh?” he snickers. “Let me guess: Little Jaime wasn't up for it?”
“Do you have to call my penis that?” I groan, but a chuckle threatens to escape my lips just because he's cute. He smiles inoffensively and boasts, “I'm right, though, aren't I?”
I shrug, “Maybe,” turning away to draw less attention to the burn on my cheeks. Vic bumps his knee into mine.
“It's alright. I tried to have sex with a girl once. Not only did I fail to get it up; I almost vomited.”
I sputter out a laugh. “You almost vomited?” He grins in a weirdly proud way.
“Yeah, turns out their genitals look like nightmare shit.”
“You're afraid of vaginas?”
“Didn't the fact that I'm flaming tip you off?”
“I didn't think you were flaming. You could pass as straight.”
“Please, Jaime. I was eye-fucking you from the moment I saw you.”
He stands suddenly, wanders to the edge of the roof, and spits his gum over the edge. I watch him yawn and stretch his arms, revealing a small sliver of smooth, tanned skin above his waistline as his jacket rides up. Then, he turns around and sits back down, pressed up against me even closer than he was before.
I'm acutely aware of his warmth next to me compared to the chilly, fresh-after-rain feeling on my left. I'm acutely aware of his hair spilling onto his shoulder and mine. I'm acutely aware of what the hell he just said to me, and how it sort of makes me want to squeal like a valley girl.
“You're awful at taking compliments,” he notes. “I basically invited you to kiss me and you're just sitting there.”
My jaw practically drops. “You…oh. You…want to kiss me?”
He laughs. “Duh. This isn't some shitty romance novel. I'm not about to compare thee to a summer's day.”
“Sorry, I just…this is new.”
He turns toward me and grins, bringing a hand up to my cheek. “You talk too much.”
And then I have a pair of full, soft lips gingerly pressing against my mouth.
After I get over the shock, I realize that this is real, and Vic is kissing me, and a boy is kissing me, and I'm supposed to kiss back. So, I inelegantly reach for his neck and reciprocate the mouth work.
It's brief, but it warms my insides, and Vic pulls back and says softly, “I think I like this.”
And before I can say anything to make it awkward, he leans back in and kisses me a little harder—still gently, though. Just as he drags his tongue across my lower lip, a voice from the ground calls his name, and he detaches from me with a sigh.
“It's Will,” he says apologetically, letting his fingers graze my cheek as he lets go of my face. “I've got to go.”
“You sure?” I breathe, desperately wanting to reconnect our lips. He chuckles quietly.
“Can't make out all night, as much fun as that would be.”
“Can I see you again?” I ask, knowing full-well how eager I sound, but hell, it's not every day I meet a stunning guy who wants to kiss me.
Vic laughs a little and responds, “Sure. I have a gig here in four days. You want to meet me afterwards?”
“Okay.” He stands up and stretches again, his tight-fitting shirt riding up just slightly, this time teasing me with a glimpse of his happy trail. Then, he starts for the fire escape. Just as he begins to descend it, I blurt out, “It's my birthday.” I don't have a reason for saying it, I just do. Vic takes it casually.
“Mondo. Happy birthday. How old are you?”
I lie, “Eighteen.”
“Barely legal, huh? I'm twenty.” He smiles one last time before saying, “Later, Jaime.”
I'm a second too late when I reply, “Bye, Vic.”
It's cold when he's gone. I hear his voice, muted slightly, utter a few things on the ground to Will until a loud car starts and he drives away.
Vic. Vic Fuentes.
I goddamn kissed him.
Happened so fast, I didn’t even have a chance to spit out my gum.