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The 2010s dubstep became a dull roar as Stebbins slammed the porch door shut, the flashing pink and blue lights of the party replaced by the fading yellow of the porch light. He didn’t know why he let Garraty and co. drag him to these things. What was there to enjoy about a sea of sweaty, gyrating bodies and music so loud you couldn’t even hear yourself think? At least the bass felt kind of nice, rumbling in his sternum. It grounded him until he could claw his way free from the hedonistic crowd, finding refuge in the quiet. He pulled out a packet of gum from his pocket, unwrapping one and popping it in his mouth. Stebbins couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief as the last bits of tension left his muscles, feeling calm for the first time since his friends had dragged them to this place.
“Not really a party person?”
Stebbins whipped his head around and saw Arthur Baker underneath the porch light, smiling like an angel as he walked over to the steps and took a seat next to the blonde boy.
“No,” Stebbins said, continuing to chew on his sugar free gum, “don’t know what anyone sees in these things.”
“Well, I for one, like moments like these,” Art said, fishing out a pack of Malboro’s from his pocket, “the secret corners, the quiet spots. Makes for some good conversation.”
“If you say so.”
“I do, I do say so,” Art said with a grin, pulling a lighter from his other pocket.
He put a cigarette between his teeth before turning to Stebbins, “I’m sorry, man, do ya mind? I know you got that lung thing or whatever–”
“It’s fine,” Stebbins said, surprised that Art remembered he had asthma. It had been a one off comment months ago, when Olson kept insisting that he join his smoke sessions to “unlodge the stick protruding from his asshole.” He thought Art was too busy rolling joints in the far corner of the dorm room to hear their conversation but apparently he did. And he remembered. Stebbins didn’t know why that thought stuck in his mind.
“Alright then. You lemme know if your lungs start hurtin.”
Stebbins resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not a child, you know.”
“Never said you were,” Art said easily, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “just didn’t want to have to carry you to the urgent care, is all.”
“You could do it,” Stebbins said without thinking, “you’re about 170. Most of that is muscle. I’m 164.5 so you should be able to soldier carry me the quarter mile to the Inspira building without too much issue.”
“Woah there, you have it all planned out and everything. Now, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you want me to smoke this cigarette just so I have to carry your sorry butt for a quarter mile.”
A soft chuckle punches its way out of Stebbins’ chest as Art leans into him, before playfully pushing him away. He’s deeply confused by his reactions to the other boy, especially since Stebbins tends to stick to the outside of the group, never getting super close with anyone.
Art was similar in that way, content to stay on the sidelines, watching the group shenanigans with a light in his eye that never seemed to dim. But Art was also kind in a way that Stebbins could never hope to be. He held Collie’s hair back when he drank too much, puking into the toilet. He took Hank’s side on whatever inane theory he was trying to peddle that day, laughing along with the ribbing he took because of it. He’d sneak Barkovitch snacks when he thought no one was looking, stuffing granola bars and chips into his backpack when Barkovitch kept spending their lunch hangouts nursing a glass of water.
And Stebbins knows this is who Art is. The one who heals the sick and clothes the naked and all that other scripture stuff. But it’s hard to stop the strange feeling in his stomach when those kind eyes are turned towards him, when he’s the sheep separated from the flock, lost in a moment of weakness. He’d been avoiding Art for this exact reason, Stebbins realized. Because Art is the only other person he’s ever met (besides himself) that could see right through any pretense or front and ponder the very marrow of your bones. And while Stebbins used this ability to protect himself, create distance, Art always did the opposite, his arms always open, his smile never faltering.
“You’re what my old Spanish teacher would call un bicho raro, Billy.”
Stebbins snapped his head up to meet Art’s gaze, the cigarette burning brightly between his teeth.
“A what?”
“Means ‘a strange bug.’ I like strange bugs, though. Always been my favorite.”
Favorite. The word hung heavy in the air, filled the darkness along with the early summer humidity and the chirping of crickets. He decided he wouldn’t focus on that right now, trying, nonsensically, to be on the “winning” side of the conversation.
“I didn’t know you knew Spanish,” he said, voice deceptively casual.
“Nah I don’t, not really,” Art replied, squashing the cigarette in the ashtray by the steps, “I just really liked learning languages back in high school. I already spoke some Creole and French growing up in Baton Rouge and I liked being able to switch up how I said things. I liked being able to talk to almost anybody.”
“You’re good at it.”
Something in Art’s expression shifted and Stebbins once again felt exposed, down to the marrow. But the fear of exposure was slowly being outweighed by the thrill of it, the release. It was terrifying to be known. But with Art’s dark eyes looking at him like that, Stebbins kind of wanted to find out what it was like.
“I used to collect bugs.”
“Yeah?”
Stebbins nodded once sharply. “My grandpa and I used to go out in the backyard with jars and magnifying glasses. He used to tell all these stories about them that I thought were true because I was five.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Stebbins said, barely suppressing a small chuckle at the memory, “we once saw a cicada on the ground. It screamed really loud, because it was a cicada, and I jumped back really far.”
Art held his chin in his hands, expression completely focused on Stebbins. It made the gum feel heavy in his mouth, the Jean jacket on his shoulders too heavy. But Stebbins never backed down from a challenge, so he continued.
“My grandpa said, ‘He’s screamin’ because he’s tryin’ ta tell you that he was a lil boy once. A lil boy who didn’t eat his vegetables.’ And I got so scared that at dinner I took the entire serving bowl of spinach and started eating from it.”
“That why you became a fitness nut?”
Art was laughing and Stebbins joined in, hesitantly, before shoving Art’s shoulders once again.
“Hey, fuck off,” Stebbins said, but that only made Art laugh harder.
Soon the two of them were in a seated wrestling match, grabbing on each others’ collars and trying to put the other in a head lock.
Eventually, their laughter died down, the air once more reduced to the sound of crickets. Stebbins gazed up at Art’s face, framed in the halo of the porch light, his hand still resting across the other man’s chest. Art still had his hand around Stebbin’s shoulder, not trapping or pulling. Just there, grounding and warm. It felt nice. It was terrifying to feel this nice.
Neither of them moved, as if afraid to break the moment, as they each caught their breath. That was before Art opened his mouth slightly, as if about to say something, before closing it and licking his lips. Stebbins felt crushed by the weight of want, so sudden and overwhelming that it felt like he had downed a shot, liquid fire spreading in his stomach.
But he was stone cold sober and knew in the back of his mind that he would come to his senses later and mentally beat himself up over this. But right now it was difficult for him to focus on anything other than getting closer to the source of heat and goodness and light that was Art Baker, of consuming until he was completely spent.
Art’s thumb brushed against his shoulder blade, and Stebbins prayed to whatever god was listening that the gasp he let out was swallowed into the night. By the way Art’s eyes darkened, Stebbins didn’t think it did.
“Billy,” he said, the sound rumbling underneath Stebbin’s fingers where they still rested on his chest. It was a question and an answer all at once and soon Art’s hands were moving upwards and Billy was scooting closer and—
The sound of the screen door being kicked open hit Stebbins like a bucket of ice water. Olson stumbled out onto the porch, tripping down the stairs like he was trapped in a pinball machine. He collapsed onto his hands and knees on the front lawn and proceeded to empty his stomach out on the grass. Before the door could close, Garraty kicked it open again, shouting after Olson and racing to his side, not even noticing the pair on the steps.
Baker, who had jumped to the opposite side of the staircase (like he was a cicada, Stebbins thought), looked at Olson, then Stebbins, his eyebrows furrowed in sympathy and…frustration? Could he be…upset that Olson had interrupted—
He cut off that line of thinking, trying to convince himself that there was nothing to interrupt. But he knew he was lying to himself, at least a little bit.
Eventually, Baker, ever the saint, got up from the porch and joined Olson and Garraty on the grass. Together, they helped Olson get into a seated position and Baker gently cupped his chin and held a water bottle to his lips. Stebbins remained rooted on the steps, the spot between his shoulder blades burning. He never thought he would ever want to be in Hank’s shoes before this moment, drunk and sniveling on the ground, but also graced with long, gentle fingers, soft encouragement to, “take a little more, bud, come on.”
“I gotta go,” Stebbins said, scrambling to stand up. Garraty and Baker’s eyes snapped up to him, while Hank’s head faced towards the ground.
“Oh, okay,” Garraty said, unsurprised by the blonde’s anti-social behavior. “See ya, Stebbins.”
As Stebbins double checked his pockets for his dorm key and wallet, Baker and Garraty had already hoisted Olson to his feet, his head lolling back towards the ground. Stebbins couldn’t help the judgement in the back of his mind, echoed with the sounds of glass shattering and a gruff, angry voice.
Baker never smelled of alcohol, at least not when hanging out with the group. In fact, he’d never seen the man even touch a bottle, preferring his cigarettes and an obscene amount of canned Coke. Maybe that’s part of the reason why all these intense emotions had wormed themselves out of his psyche. Baker was saint-like down to the smell lingering on his breath that ghosted over his lips, the ghost of “Billy” engraved into his lungs—
The three of them were making their way up the creaking porch staircase by the time Stebbins remembered that he was supposed to be leaving. He gave them a curt nod and ran down the stairs, slowing down once he hit the sidewalk. Something told him to look back and he did, seeing Baker meeting his eyes as he led Olson inside the house.
He knew those eyes had seen his weakness, his desperation clawing to be free from the surface. It was ugly and terrific and Billy couldn’t help staring right back at Art, trying to convey all the jumbled up emotions in his brain through his expression alone.
Art's eyes widened slightly, as if reading Stebbin’s mind, before softening into a slight smile and giving him a two finger salute. Billy stood on the sidewalk for a while after that, paralyzed by the feeling that he was known.
It was the kind of summer night where everything seemed unreal, everything seemed possible. The kind of night where Billy Stebbins could believe that he could be more than known, that he could be loved.