Chapter Text
JULY 12, 2005
“What’re you doing on Friday?”
John breathes out a laugh at the insinuation of there being anything to do in their quiet suburb. He’s bored enough that he’s resorted to laying on the carpet of his best friend Curt’s room, counting the old and faded glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. The effort it takes to roll his head over to look at his friend is almost too much in the muggy summer heat, the small fan on the floor doing little to push the air around. Curt doesn’t laugh though, snapping his bubblegum between his teeth expectantly, propped up on his elbows over a magazine.
“Oh, y’know,” John plays along, gesturing vaguely. “Probably gonna hit up the mall, maybe go clubbing. Heard about a wild party, too.”
“Alright.” Curt rolls his eyes at his snark, crossing his ankles in the air behind himself and then seemingly regretting the sweaty skin-on-skin contact, stretching his legs back out on the carpet instead.
“Well, d’you wanna go somewhere with me?” he pushes on, flipping the page of his magazine nonchalantly. John is immediately suspicious.
“Feels like I’m walking into a trap here,” he squints. The way the corner of Curt’s mouth twitches up, paired with his refusal to meet his gaze, is all John needs to know.
“Oh, what?” he groans, draping his wrist over his eyes, waiting for Curt to present him with another one of his grandiose ideas of summer entertainment, as if he isn’t already well aware of how easy John is to rope into anything that’ll help him escape from his boredom.
“Okay, so, I’ve been talking to a guy.”
John uncovers his eyes so fast he gets flashbanged by the bright sun streaming through the window.
“What?” he gawks, and Curt looks quite smug at his successful subversion of expectations. “Like, talking, talking?”
“Yeah,” Curt nods, leaning his cheek in his palm to look at him.
John raises his eyebrows, equal parts surprised and impressed, though not because Curt isn’t pretty enough to steal hearts. There was a reason John had been smitten with him when they met years back at the start of high school, and it hadn’t been the greasy swooped fringe or the messy smudged charcoal around his eyes that John still refuses to let him live down.
No. He’s thrown off because as far as he knows, Curt’s the only other queer he’s met in all of Manitowoc. He knows logically there’ve gotta be others, but he sure hadn’t been made aware of any all through high school, or the two gap years both he and Curt have been spending working at the lively hotel downtown.
“Where’d you meet him?” He leans on his side, watching Curt close his magazine giddily.
“In Spencer’s,” Curt grins, and it seems like John’s going to have to pry every detail from him, but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s being nosy.
“At our mall?” he presses, trying to picture the encounter.
“Uh-huh,” Curt nods, rolling onto his side as well. John narrows his eyes then.
“And what were you up to in Spencer’s, Curtis?” He tilts his head, and Curt’s grin turns cat-like.
“Oh, just having a casual browse of the back wall,” he hums, and John’s eyes go a bit wide again.
“He talked to you back there?” he gapes, picturing the rows of packaged adult toys with obscene imagery plastered over them that, even at twenty, he has trouble walking past with a straight face
“Kinda,” Curt pushes his gum into the corner of his cheek, and John sighs, exasperated.
“C’mon, this is like pulling teeth.”
Curt laughs then, relenting.
“Okay, well, I was in the back,” he shoves his hair out of his face, setting the stage for his captive audience. “You were at your grandma’s house, and I was bored, alright? So I was just killing time.”
“You waited three days to fill me in?” John does the math, putting on a show of being hurt with a hand placed dramatically over his chest.
“Well, I wanted to make sure, y’know? Didn’t wanna get my hopes up,” Curt says, nodding at his own reasoning. “So I was perusing, and I kinda felt like there was someone watching me, and so I glanced to the side after a minute, and god, John,” Curt’s cheeks are a little pink now, “he was so pretty.”
“What’d he look like?” John urges, eating up every word. Years of the two of them yearning to experience something like this make the story all the more thrilling. Curt smiles, flopping onto his back, draping his arms above his head.
“Like Jude Law,” he says dreamily, and John smacks his elbow.
“Shuddup.”
“I’m serious!” Curt insists, lolling his head to the side to look at him. “Dark blond curls, blue eyes, the works.”
“I hate you so much right now,” John groans. “So then?”
“Well, he glanced over at me too, and he smiled a little, and,” Curt lowers his voice. His eyes flick over to his bedroom door as if his mom might somehow hear him over the television noisily blasting MTV’s top music videos in the living room downstairs. “He gave me, like, a real once-over, like—”
Curt drags his eyes down the length of John’s body and then back up in demonstration. As jealous as he is that Curt got to experience such a monumental encounter, he’s pretty certain he’d have been leaving the mall in the back of a hearse had it happened to him, so it’s probably best he’s only hearing about it second-hand.
“Jesus,” he breathes out, fully invested.
“I must’a looked terrified at the attention, because he eased up real quick.”
John snorts, picturing Curt’s classic deer-in-the-headlights expression, one he’s been privy to far too many times to count with the amount of dumb shit the two of them have been caught doing over the years.
“I thought I might’ve accidentally made him think I wasn’t interested, but then he told me he liked my shirt—the Green Day one you got me for my birthday,” Curt cuts him off as soon as he opens his mouth to ask. John smiles, satisfied his gift had played a small role in their meeting.
“We got to talking about music, and then he asked for my number so we could swap song recs, and we’ve been texting every day since,” Curt finishes, still smiling as he clearly fondly thinks over those text conversations.
“So how do you know he’s, y’know,” John looks at him pointedly, sure Curt wouldn’t leap to such a big conclusion after just an up-and-down, albeit what sounds like a pretty deliberate one.
“I asked him,” Curt says matter-of-factly, and John looks at him like he’s crazy.
“How?”
“He was being real flirty over text, but, I dunno, some people are just like that, so I didn’t wanna assume and get my feelings hurt.” Curt picks at his nail, black polish so chipped it’s barely even there. “So I just asked if, like, he was flirting or just being friendly, told him it was fine either way.”
John stares, horrified at the thought of being so bold.
“I know.” Curt nods at his expression. “I was shitting bricks all evening. I had to stick my phone under my pillow.”
“But?”
“But he said he was flirting, ‘if that’s alright with me,’” Curt giggles. “I told him that was more than alright, so, that’s sorted.”
“You lucky motherfucker,” John says, in awe as he processes it all.
“Only took twenty-one years,” Curt says dryly. “You still have time to beat me.”
“Wow,” John feigns sadness, looking down. “I don’t count as your first?”
Curt scoffs. “That was called being horny teenagers and the only two queers in this shithole, John,” he chides, and John laughs, waving him off.
“Is he from here?” he pivots back to the mystery man, still not quite able to believe Curt’s luck at stumbling into someone this way.
“No, closer to Milwaukee,” Curt says regretfully, “but he’s gonna be starting college here in August, same as us, so he’s in town to check out some apartments with his friends.”
“Any of those friends swing the same way as him?” John pouts, half-joking, but Curt immediately perks up and reaches for his phone.
“I should ask!”
John hisses out a “do not” as he bats the phone out of Curt’s hands. Curt rolls his eyes, but he snaps the phone shut anyway.
“Fine, I’ll just ask another time.” He allows the threat to loom over him before smiling sweetly, setting his phone aside. “But anyway, I asked if you were doing anything on Friday, remember?”
John had forgotten, so wrapped up in Curt’s tale that the catalyst of it had slipped his mind. He nods.
“So, he asked me if I wanted to meet up at a pub on Friday because he’s driving back home this weekend,” Curt says cautiously, as if already anticipating a certain reaction. “And listen, I trust him, but it’s in the north end of town, so I don’t really wanna go alone.”
“Curt, I am not going to third-wheel you guys,” John immediately declares, rolling onto his back resolutely. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine.”
The statement is laughable when Curt looks like a strong gust of wind could pick him up and carry him away half the time, but he holds firm when Curt whines at him.
“I don’t wanna take the bus there alone!” he complains.
“Why don’t you ask him to pick you up?”
“That’s embarrassing,” Curt says, nudging John’s shin with his foot.
“He’s gonna find out you don’t have a car anyway when you show up,” John reasons.
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna ask for a ride after I already agreed to meeting there,” Curt pushes at his leg. “C’mon, you know you wouldn’t either if you were in my shoes.”
And he’s right, John wouldn’t, but he’s more stuck on the fact that Curt’s so confident in his ability to drag him into anything and everything that he’s already said yes to the date.
“You already agreed t—”
“And,” Curt cuts him off, “I know I trust him and all, but I’d feel a lot better knowing I had someone there with me just in case shit goes downhill.”
John goes quiet then, hating how quickly he’s being roped into a night of misery. Curt jumps on his silence, crawling over until his face pops into view and blocks out the stippled ceiling. Dark waves fall into his face as he hovers over John, already batting his lashes.
“Don’t you wanna make sure I don’t get murdered and thrown in the river?” he pouts, and John groans.
“That’s not fair,” he huffs, and he can tell Curt’s fighting back a victorious smile, knowing he’s already won.
“But you’re my best friend, so you won’t let me go alone?” Curt presses hopefully, shifting on his knees.
“What’d you say this guy’s name is?” John ignores him, as if he can find a reason to escape this situation based on that.
“I didn’t,” Curt says. “But his name is Ken.” John makes a face reflexively, like it’s not a perfectly normal name.
“Oh, please,” Curt snorts at his reaction, leaning back on his heels so John has to turn his head to look at him. “He’s real nice, promise.”
“Then why d’you need me to come be your lookout?” John points out.
“Well- safety first!” Curt insists, then sweetens, making his eyes all round and doe-like again. “John. Don’t you trust my judgement? Chose you, after all.”
“Yeah, for like, a summer,” John retorts. He’s being purposefully obtuse now, knows Curt’s referring to more than just their short-lived high school experimentation, but he’s running out of reasons to say no.
Curt retaliates by leaning over further and letting his gum slide to the front of his mouth, catching the very end of it with his teeth, the bright pink wad stretching out towards John’s face. John nearly gives himself rugburn on his bare shoulder with how fast he squirms away, shoving a giggling Curt back onto his ass.
“Does Ken know how gross you are?” he asks, but there’s no real bite to it, and the mention of the man only draws out another lovesick smile from Curt. It’s then that he’s struck with an unfortunate—for Curt, anyway—realization.
“Wait,” John says. “A pub?”
“Yes?”
“With alcohol.”
“God, I hope so,” Curt says. “I’m gonna need it.”
“Alright, genius, sure,” John nods. “Let me just waltz into a pub with my under-21 ID, I’m sure they’ll love that.”
“Oh,” Curt says, slumping a bit. He’s quiet in thought for so long that John starts to think he’s actually managed to get out of this, until Curt opens his mouth again.
“I’ll just get you a fake ID,” he says decidedly, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “The summer’s young, I can’t spend it ditching you every time I go out to drink. And it’s only a lie for like, a few more months.”
“You don’t know how to get a fake ID,” John says, more as a plea than a statement.
“Yeah I do,” Curt argues. With the older employees Curt hangs out with when he’s working the bar at the hotel, John’s inclined to believe him.
“How? Who are you gonna ask?” He tries one last time to trip him up anyway, a weak appeal for mercy, but Curt only grins, reaching a hand out to squish John’s cheeks between his thumb and fingers.
“Don’t you know? A lady never tells her secrets, John.”
So that’s how John ends up tucked away in a small booth in the corner of a pub that looks lost to the sixties, old signage and other vintage memorabilia lining the wooden walls, cheery neon LED graphics adorning the kegs behind the diner-style bar.
He hates to admit it to himself after spending the majority of the bus ride there lamenting to Curt about his impending suffering, but it’s actually a pretty decent place, not too fancy or busy but full of character nonetheless.
Curt had made him go in to hide himself away before Ken arrived, and it had taken a good while for the nervous jitters to dissipate after ordering a drink and finding the quiet corner he now occupies. The bartender had barely even glanced at his fake ID before serving him, so he’d worked himself into a paranoia on the way there for nothing. Part of the woman’s lack of concern probably had to do with the fact that he’d asked for a ginger ale, but regardless, he’s thankful to be left to his own devices, hunched over a book with a clear view of the whole room.
He slumps in his seat a bit further when the door swings open, hiding behind his book, and Curt walks in, his date holding the door for him. Alright, good start, John notes, as if he’s got a mental pros and cons list for this Ken guy, like he’s the final boss the unassuming man needs to defeat before winning Curt’s favour.
A couple tallies get added to the imaginary pros side when he gets a good look at Ken though, because Curt hadn’t been lying. He is pretty, with a warm smile and bright eyes, unruly blond curls loosely pushed back from his forehead. Well-dressed, a little taller than Curt—definitely his friend’s type.
When Curt does a quick discreet sweep of the room while Ken’s getting their drinks, John catches his eye and makes a face of approval, and Curt immediately turns to look away, the twist of his mouth clear as he fights to hold back a laugh. John looks back down at his book, grinning into it, relieved that Curt seems decently at ease, and that Ken doesn’t look like some scary axe-murderer.
It doesn’t take long for the two of them to be happily chatting away, looking more relaxed in each other’s company every time John peeks over the top of his book. He lets himself actually pay attention to the words on the page, surrendering himself to a long evening of waiting, already fantasizing about all of the favours he’s going to be able to guilt out of Curt for the foreseeable future.
As the bright sunlight fades to golden beams through the hazy windows near the entrance, warm-toned lamps and rustic ceiling bulbs flick on, painting the pub in a dim orange glow. The evening turns to night, and the neon sign outside that spells out The Stoplight in sprawling script casts an artificial red tint on the glass below it. It seems to be doing its job of luring patrons out of the humid summer air with the promise of cold drinks, couples trickling in here and there, groups beginning to take over the tables.
An hour passes quick enough with how drawn into his reading he is, almost forgetting the reason he’s there. The next time he glances up, Curt has migrated over to Ken’s side of the booth, a dopey smile stretched across his face, so John’s not concerned at all anymore. Really, he thinks he’d be fine to leave, if it weren’t for the fact that he doesn’t want Curt to have to take the bus home alone later. He debates texting him and casually asking how much longer he’s planning on hanging around for, but he doesn’t want to interrupt their conversation, and he’s distracted from that train of thought anyway a new sound.
A loud rumbling of engines drowns out the oldies music as the pub’s door swings open. A few men enter the building with all the confidence and ease of someone walking into their own home, suited up in jeans and matching leather jackets decorated with an array of patches, hair wind-tousled and wild. The sound of the motors dulls when the door shuts behind them.
They greet the pretty blonde bartender with a round of “Evenin’, Paulina,” and “How’s business, Paulie?” and she smiles in turn, pausing her work.
“Boys,” she dips her head in laid-back acknowledgement, thick accent standing out amidst the men’s midwest inflections. She leans her elbows on the bartop, rag thrown over her shoulder. “The usual?”
“Yes ma’am,” one of them nods. “Got more heading in, too.”
Their boots thud heavy on the wood floor as they walk towards John’s end of the room, and he lowers his eyes back to his book as they head for the big round booth a few feet to his right. The door opens again, and he glances up to see more leather jacket-clad men greet the woman like old friends before joining the others around the booth as well.
John’s not the judgemental type by any stretch, but he can’t help the way he cautiously looks over at Curt and Ken’s less than platonic sitting arrangement, and then back at the group, not sure what type of crowd these guys are. None of them seem to be paying anything else any mind, so he tries to relax, tucking his face back close to his book, but it’s hard to focus now with all the racket.
John sees the bartender—Paulina—out of the corner of his eye as she makes her way over to the large table with two trays full of drinks. The men thank her graciously, rowdy with their loud, gruff voices, and as she moves to return to the bar, she pauses next to John’s booth. He looks up from the page he’s reread three times now.
“You don’t want anything else to drink?” She smiles warmly at him, adjusting the empty trays in her hand, and John shakes his head, smiling back.
“I’m alright, thank you,” he says, and she nods, heading back to the kegs. He’ll tip well when he leaves, since he’s taking up a table and not spending much. With how rarely he drinks, he doesn’t feel like getting tipsy in this unfamiliar environment, especially when he’s meant to be there as a fallback for Curt.
When he curls back into his book, the busy table seems quieter, and it feels like he’s being watched. He doesn’t risk confirming that feeling, ears a bit hot at the perceived attention Paulina has drawn to him. He lets his eyes drag over lines of text without really reading them, waiting for conversation to start back up again.
And it does, voices raising and glasses clinking against wood, joining the growing bustle of the pub. John sinks back into his corner, all the noise blending together after a few minutes as he pulls himself back into his reading. Until—
“What’re you doin’ over there, baby-face?”
John doesn’t fully register that he’s being addressed, caught back up in the words of Damon Runyon, but another voice says, “Must be a real interesting book, huh?”
Then his head snaps up, and he turns to find the whole table looking at him, mild amusement on their faces.
John blinks at them owlishly. This is going to be Curt’s last day on this earth, he decides. And no, he will not sleep on that decision, because he’s already accepted it’s going to be his last, too.
“Got your nose so deep in there, it’s like you’re trying to climb in the book, kid,” the first guy says, lips curling into a half-smile, revealing a glimpse of gold as he chuckles at his own observation.
John can only stare, dry-mouthed, not sure what the guy’s angle is. He can’t figure out if he’s being jeered at or if they’re just shooting the shit.
“Go on then,” a man with raven hair gestures. “It’s not polite to keep secrets, aren’t you gonna tell us what book it is?”
Cautiously, feeling much like he’s being nudged into the proverbial lion’s den, John turns his book around to show the cover.
“Guys and Dolls,” he says, hesitant, as if there’s a wrong answer he can give. The men seem equally intrigued and humoured, good-natured smiles gracing each of their faces—save for one of them.
The man sitting at the far end of the table has stayed quiet through the exchange, regarding John with a slight tilt of his head, blue eyes not betraying anything he might be thinking. He’s the only one not nursing some sort of beer or hard liquor, hand wrapped around what looks to be a bottle of ginger beer instead. His rings catch the warm artificial lights, and blond hair curls at the base of his neck, nearly long enough to be a mullet.
Most of the men have shed their jackets to deal with the heat that’s building up in the crowded pub, exposing a few tattoos here and there, but the blond’s arms are littered with them. It’s all tanned skin and scattered ink as far as John can see before a loose muscle tank obscures his shoulders from view.
John squirms under his watchful gaze, averting his own, returning his attention to the man who had questioned him.
“Why?” A different man with a thick mustache joins in, and John’s eyes jump over to him. He’s becoming increasingly confused, and uneasy.
“What?”
“Well, s’not school reading, is it?” the man inquires, shrugging. “It’s July.”
John feels like he has been drinking, not grasping where all of this curiosity has come from. Is someone punking him? This was only meant to be a quiet evening spent diligently performing his best friend duties and keeping to himself.
“Uh…for fun?” he answers weakly, more of a question than a statement. Either this satisfies the man, or it bores him. Either way, he seems to ease off.
“Well, don’t let us keep you from it,” the man with the gold grill says. “God knows it’s better than how we spend our evenings.”
He raises a half-full glass in John’s direction before turning back to the others, and John’s left staring for a second longer as the group begins chatting away casual as ever, feeling hopelessly lost as to what’s just occurred. He can’t help but chance one more look at the man who hadn’t spoken a word, but the moment he does and sees those blue eyes still on him, almost analytical in their nature, heat creeps up his neck and he abruptly looks away.
His hands feel a bit sweaty, thrown off by the unexpected turn of events. He wipes his palms on his jeans and then pulls out his phone, flipping it open.
‘i’m going 2 kill u.’
John’s fingers aggressively fly over the keys as he texts Curt. He hits send, and watches Curt glance at where his phone has likely buzzed on the table. He narrows his eyes when Curt proceeds to ignore him. He returns to his phone, tapping away with renewed vigour.
‘curtis ihy’
Curt doesn’t even look at the phone this time, far too busy cozying up against Ken’s side, straw between his lips as he innocently bats his lashes at the blond. John scoffs, snapping his phone shut. He resigns himself to pretending he’s processing a single word in his book, rather than fighting the urge to flee the pub and escape the feeling of eyes on him. He’s not going to be taking a single dishwashing shift at the hotel for at least three weeks, he’s decided that much already, because he’s got all the ammunition needed to guilt Curt into swapping shifts with him for a good long while after tonight.
He reopens his book, leaning his temple against the wall and relishing the coolness of the bricks against his skin. He knows he’s not going to remember anything he’s reading, and he’s prepared to go back over half the damn book the next time he picks it up, but he’s still against the thought of leaving Curt alone in an unfamiliar area of town with a man he’s just met, so that leaves him with no choice but to tough it out.
As much as he’s going to bitch at Curt about it later, he knows Curt would put himself in this exact position for him any day, so he can’t actually bring himself to feel irritated, least of all when his friend seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. He doesn’t want to taint this experience for him, and he definitely doesn’t want to make Curt explain on a first date that he’s had his friend partaking in surveillance without Ken’s knowledge.
So he finds it in himself to have a little bit more patience, and the night crawls on.
There are a lot of comings and goings before the crowd eventually begins to thin out a little, patrons likely either making their way home or to a nearby club to end their Friday night with a bang. A couple of the men from the group next to John leave, but the majority stay, drinking jovially and blissfully letting John pretend he’s invisible.
At some point though, they get up, needing a smoke break by the sounds of things, and John hunches over his book and leans his cheek in his hand, waiting keenly for them to leave so he can let his guard down for a bit. He hasn’t wanted to risk looking up from his book more than necessary, as if the action might read like an invite to the chatty bunch. But the small text in the low light is starting to strain his eyes, so he listens carefully as the clunk of heavy boots retreats towards the door, and he relaxes his posture.
Then the glow that’s cast over his book suddenly dims, a shadow blanketing the pages. Two hands come into view, bracing on the edge of the table, rings clicking against the wood.
“You lost?”
John looks up and meets the steely blue eyes from earlier with his own wide ones. Broad arms flex where the man leans against the table, and he feels like he’s in trouble for something he’s unaware of, or like he’s being tested.
“Sorry?” he plays it safe, unable to mask his confusion. Tobacco and sweet-cedar cologne fill his nose and lungs when he inhales, hitting him like a fist to the face, making his head spin. The stranger seems to consider him for a moment.
“You’re in a pub, reading a book, sober,” he says, still revealing nothing with his enduring stare. John feels heat crawl up past the collar of his shirt. He itches to withdraw his gaze out of intimidation as much as he wants to let his eyes drag up those inked arms in appreciation.
He must take a second too long to decide as he fights with his warring urges, because the man shifts, taking a step away to give him space. John wants so pathetically to ask him to come back. But those ring-adorned hands raise in a placating gesture on either side of the man’s head, his features softening.
“Relax, kid,” he says, and John decides immediately he doesn’t like him calling him that, nearly wrinkling his nose at the implication of immaturity. “Just curious what brings you someplace like this.”
He feels the tension leave his spine just a bit, and he glances over at Curt’s booth. His friend is still glued to Ken’s side, locked in conversation and wholly unaware of his predicament.
“I’m, uh,” he looks back up at the man, sheepish. “I was playing lookout for my friend. He’s on a first date.”
He realizes the position he’s put Curt in just a moment too late, watching the stranger’s gaze turn to where his had been a second ago. His pulse quickens as he waits for a look of discomfort, or worse, anger at the sight of the two very brazen boys in the corner, but neither comes, only a look of recognition as the man turns back to face John.
“Need me to save him?” he asks. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s clearly aware that there are very few people who need less saving than Curt currently does, with the giddy love-drunk expression he wears as he hangs off of Ken’s every word.
John relaxes then, shoulders slumping.
“I’m the one who needs saving,” he grumbles, glancing over in time to watch Curt situate himself so close to Ken that he might as well just be in his lap.
The man nods, stretching idly and looking around the pub. John doesn’t give his eyes permission to roam over his biceps, but that doesn’t stop them, at least not until he’s granted with his attention again.
“Come sit,” the man suggests casually, then pauses. “I mean, unless your book is really that thrilling. Then by all means, don’t let me bother you.”
John feels his brain slowly begin to give up on figuring out what the hell his night has devolved into. He realizes it’s clearly calling it quits on self preservation as well when he finds himself considering the offer. He looks back at Curt, and then at the man, and decides that he’s bored and intrigued enough to risk it.
“Alright,” he says hesitantly, shutting his book and standing. It pulls the smallest smile out of the stoic man.
“Alright,” the man echoes. He gestures to the empty booth, letting John slide in first before he follows.
“The view okay, watchdog?” the man asks as he settles, tilting his head in Curt’s direction, and John huffs out a surprised laugh, not expecting the jest. It throws him off, the lighthearted way he talks despite how serious his demeanour is.
“Just fine,” John confirms, and the man nods.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asks as he drapes his arm over the back of the booth behind John, lounging comfortably. John hopes the warm night is enough to excuse the heat that settles back over his cheeks.
“John Egan,” he says, resisting the urge to follow it up with ‘or whatever you want it to be,’ because he feels like walking out of this pub without being hate-crimed. “You?”
“John Egan,” the man repeats, like he’s playing around with the sound of it, or maybe he’s amused by John’s formality. John feels a little bit embarrassed at the thought.
“Gale Cleven.”
Gale. John likes it. There’s something fitting about it—the juxtaposition of a gentler sounding name given to someone so visibly rough around the edges and hardened by the years. Exactly how many years though, John isn’t sure. He guesses the man’s at least a decade older than himself, but he also doesn’t really care, not when the warmth that seems to have taken up permanent residence on his cheeks is settling in over the rest of his body so nicely.
“Thirsty?” Gale nudges the large pitcher of beer towards him in offering.
“I’m good, thanks,” John answers with what he hopes comes off as nonchalance rather than evasion. Getting drunk (because he inevitably would, the lightweight he is) when he’s already feeling so nervous around this stranger is very low on his list of things he’d like to experience tonight. And oh, how quickly that list has formed in the back of his mind.
Gale accepts his reply with an unbothered nod, and they both lapse into silence. He seems content to people watch as he sips on his ginger beer, and John tries really hard not to stare at the sharp angles of his jaw and throat as he tips his head back.
He fights his leg’s urge to bounce restlessly, desperately looking for something to talk about. He hones in on Gale’s drink, and he realizes how hypocritical the man’s earlier comment on his own drinking habits—or lack thereof—had been.
“You’re not drinking?” he inquires. Gale studies him for a moment before replying.
“Pretty certain there’s liquid in this bottle,” he says evenly, and John scoffs at the non-answer.
“So pedantic. You’re not drinking alcohol,” he amends, letting the slightest bit of attitude slip, and he swears Gale nearly laughs.
“Neither are you,” Gale shoots back, casual, like he has all night to argue semantics. And maybe he does, with how late it’s getting. John has half the mind to wonder how late transit runs from this side of town to his own, but he doesn’t feel like stepping across the street to read the schedule on the sign, and it’s hard to convince himself it matters all that much right now.
He doesn’t have time to give Gale any more lip, because the pub door swings open and the others begin heading back in. He can’t control the way he stiffens. It’s one thing shooting the breeze with Gale alone, but a whole other thing trying to keep his head above water amidst the unpredictable group.
Gale must pick up on his nerves, because he brings his arm down from the back of the booth and drapes it over his shoulders instead, leaning in close.
“They don’t bite, I promise. They were just playin’ around earlier,” he murmurs. The ghost of warm breath against John’s ear draws goosebumps to the back of his neck, and he’s sidetracked from his feelings of apprehension. He nods, keeping his eyes on the napkin he’s toying with until there’s a loud exclamation.
“Well, look who it is.” The man with the gold mouthpiece drops down onto the seat of the booth with a grin. “Buck got the bookworm outta his trance? Scooch over.”
John immediately moves to do as he’s told, but Gale slides his arm lower to wrap it around his middle before he can, easily dragging him along as he shimmies down the bench until there’s enough space for all the men to cram back in. His heart patters aggressively behind his rib cage at the close proximity, his thigh pressed against Gale’s. A warm arm comes back up to rest over his shoulders again, keeping him in place against his side.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when Gale’s voice rumbles low through his bones. “Our friend John is gonna kill time with us for a bit.”
“You sure ‘our friend John’ is old enough to be in a pub, Buck?” one of the men asks, aviator sunglasses folded over the collar of his shirt, weighing the material down a bit. John would be more curious about this Buck thing, but he’s too busy bristling involuntarily at the insinuation.
“He’s in here, ain’t he?” Gale drawls, dragging his thumb through the condensation on his glass bottle.
“You a cop?” John surprises himself with his own snark, and he feels, rather than hears, Gale breathe out a laugh.
Aviator Glasses seems equally entertained. He leans back in the booth with a snicker.
“Easy, baby-face, only joking,” he relents, still grinning. “Feisty.”
“See, John?” The one with the mustache gets his attention, blue eyes creasing at the corners in amusement. “Buck’s a bad influence. Got you acting tough already.”
“Alright, Rosie,” Gale says, unimpressed. Rosie has kind eyes.
John catches his breath and finds his footing, eyeing the brunet and then tilting his head to look at Gale.
“Why Buck?” he asks. He then feels the familiar horror of his mouth moving faster than his brain can tell it to stop. “What kinda nickname is that?”
He sees Gale’s eyebrows raise microscopically at the same moment that a loud guffaw sounds from his other side, and a hand claps against his back.
“I like this one,” Gold Teeth announces, visibly thrilled.
John tries to ease back into Gale’s side, realizing how tense he is. He attempts to let himself be calmed by the fact that he’s still unscathed despite his traitorous mouth and his instincts to give as good as he gets. His face burns from the attention, and it’s not helping that he can feel Gale toying with the hem of his t-shirt sleeve where his hand hangs over his shoulder. It shouldn’t mess with his head this much.
“Alright, John. Buck used to be real fond of two things back in the day,” Rosie hooks him in, a smile younger than his years pulling at the corners of his mouth. “He was known for joyriding a little too wild, and for being a betting man. He’d take on any challenge for a buck. Darts, races, brawls—you hit him with ‘I bet a buck you won’t,’ and he’d be leaping into action.”
“What happened?” Raven Hair sighs wistfully in faux-disappointment, and Gold Teeth scoffs.
“He realized it was a shit nickname Cros, that’s what,” he ribs, and John feels Gale shift against him to look over at the man, leaning an elbow on the table.
“You sure you wanna start comparing origin stories, Hambone?”
John can’t help but laugh, but as the man launches into a hurried defense, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He discreetly pulls it out, flipping it open beneath the table. It’s a text from Curt.
‘lol wtf r u doing?’
John looks up, catching the back of Ken as he retreats down the hall to the pub’s bathroom. Then he spots Curt, who’s twisted around in his seat to look at him. He meets Curt’s questioning expression with a glare, dropping his eyes back down to his phone, channeling his nervous energy into the vigorous clicking of buttons. He can feel Gale’s eyes on him as he types. The group is busy arguing over who has the short end of the stick when it comes to monikers.
‘ur gonna wish ken had thrown u in the river buddy.’
Gale snorts under his breath. John’s head snaps up, and he finds the man shamelessly looking at his screen.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, not wanting to seem rude for texting, but Gale just shakes his head, gesturing for him to continue. His phone buzzes again.
‘do u need me to come save u?’
Gale looks away then, and John knows the bar is in hell, but his chest goes a little fuzzy at the courtesy, at being given the space to answer honestly.
‘not anymore :|’
He looks up, watching as Curt starts to type out a response, but then Ken returns and slides back into the booth, and Curt’s phone is temporarily forgotten, much to John’s dismay. He turns his attention back to the conversation happening around the table. The guys kindly grant him the leisure of spectating after the stress of being an active participant, though John is pretty sure the grace is only due to the ongoing heated debate.
“Okay, Crosby,” Hambone is retorting. “You’re lucky we didn’t start calling you Bing. ‘Oh, there goes Biker Bing!’”
“That’s not even half bad,” Crosby objects.
“Yeah? You want us to roll with Bing now?” Sunglasses teases.
“Yeah, actually, I’d love that, DeMarco,” Crosby says exaggeratedly.
Buzz.
John looks back down at his phone, frowning at the ominous message awaiting him.
‘john. i love u so u can’t be mad at me pls’
He glances up and waits impatiently as he watches Curt continue to type.
‘he wants to drive me home :D’
Absolutely not.
‘curtis.’
‘if you love me too you will not steal this car makeout from me :)’
John glares at the back of Curt’s head before sending him an ‘i hate you so much.’
‘ask one of your new friends to drive you home? <3’
John huffs quietly, shaking his head to himself, but he can’t bring himself to rob Curt of such a formative experience.
‘i hope u guys get t-boned otw back i’m so srs’
He sees Curt lean over and say something to Ken before turning back to his phone. John wonders if Ken is aware of Curt’s personal spy yet, or if Curt’s made up some excuse to be texting.
‘THX JOHN ilu text me as soon as ur home pls <333’
‘die’
Curt pouts when he looks at the text as he slides out of the booth, and John rolls his eyes.
‘fine. u better text me too’
As an afterthought—
‘if u get murdered can i have ur cd collection tho’
“Everything alright?” Gale murmurs, and John almost jumps again.
“Yeah,” he nods, making a face at Curt when he smiles shyly as he and Ken pass their table, heading for the door. Gale watches them go as well, and John pockets his phone after checking the time, shifting nervously.
“I gotta get going soon,” he turns to Gale. For all his eagerness the whole night to get out of here, he feels a little reluctant now. It’s probably wishful thinking on his end, but he thinks he maybe sees a flicker of disappointment on Gale’s face too.
“You got a ride?” Gale asks, and John shrugs.
“I was gonna go check the bus schedule,” he says, though truthfully he doesn’t have much confidence in any of the lines running to his neighbourhood near midnight.
“You know this area well?” Gale seems hesitant, and John shakes his head.
“It’s not a great place to be hanging around bus stops late at night,” Gale says carefully, then pauses. John feels like his eyes are searching for something as he looks at him, but he doesn’t know what.
“Let me give you a ride.”
And really, John should’ve foreseen his night ending in some entirely unpredictable fashion like this, but retrospection has always been a much bigger strength than his foresight.
“Are you sure?” He feels shy again, playing with the frayed string of his bracelet. “I’m all the way on the south end.”
Gale nods, removing his arm from his shoulders. John misses the weight as soon as it’s gone.
“Fine with me,” Gale assures him, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a twenty and tucking it under a coaster on the table.
“Gonna head out, boys,” Gale addresses the group as he slides out of the booth. John follows close behind.
“So soon?” Crosby asks. The others join in on his protests, and Gale waves them off.
“It’s late. I’ll see you Monday, Rosie.” Gale gives a lazy salute.
“Come back sometime, John,” DeMarco insists, smiling playfully. “Beer’s on me.”
“Maybe,” John says with a smile. Something tells him he’ll end up back in the pub sooner than he expects.
Gale bids Paulina a good evening as they pass by the bar, and John follows him out into the night after dropping some cash into her tip jar. The concrete lot is illuminated by a few light posts and the flickering neon sign above, and the parking spaces are mostly empty, save for a couple cars and a row of motorbikes. He’s not surprised in the slightest when that’s where Gale leads him, and a little thrill runs through him at the thought of getting to ride one for the first time.
As they’re crossing the lot, Gale turns to look him up and down. John stares back, suddenly self conscious under his gaze. But then Gale grabs his leather jacket where it’s slung over his shoulder, holding it out expectantly. John blinks at him and takes it slowly, confused.
“Might not feel cold right now, but the wind’ll hit you when we get going,” Gale says, pulling out his keys.
Oh.
John thanks him meekly, pulling on the jacket while Gale settles himself on his bike. Warmth rises to his cheeks as he’s drowned in the overwhelming smell of cigarettes and gasoline and cologne and man. His gut twists in a way he’s never felt before.
He relays his address when Gale asks, then he watches him start the bike up. The ground rumbles beneath his sneakers, and he contemplates whether he’s really about to trust this man. He imagines if he were in one of those Big Happy Family Sitcoms that play on the old box TV at home, he’d hear his mother’s voice in his head, chiding him for his decisions.
Gale glances over his shoulder, waiting, and John doesn’t hear his mother at all.
His body moves of its own accord. He nervously throws a leg over the seat and straddles the bike, stabilizing himself. He holds his breath, resting his hands on his thighs. He feels so incredibly in over his head.
Gale shifts, then nudges him.
“You tryin’a make it home in one piece?” he asks over the sound of the engine.
“...yeah?” John responds, lost. Gale reaches back and feels around, grabbing his hands. He pulls him forward against his back, situating his arms around his middle. John’s face flares red-hot. His heart thumps so hard he’s scared Gale’s gonna feel it through his shirt, and his mouth goes dry at the feeling of the man’s body heat seeping through his own clothes.
“Gonna have to hold on a little better, then,” Gale teases, patting his hand, and John’s glad he reverses the bike when he does, because he comes embarrassingly close to giggling.
Gale drives slow out of the lot, cautious as he turns onto the intersection, looking over his shoulder at John.
‘Okay?’ he mouths.
John smiles at him, nodding, and Gale smiles back before he turns back around. John’s stomach flips from that as much as it does from the way the bike suddenly accelerates. He lets out a noise of surprise and reflexively grabs onto the front of Gale’s shirt, squeezing his arms tighter around his middle, pressing the side of his face to Gale’s shoulder to hide away from the wind that whips around them.
The streets are dead at the late hour, no other vehicles around to slow their speed. John watches the street lamps blur until his eyes hurt from the dry air, and then he feels the lights strobe against his closed eyelids, grateful for Gale’s jacket as the breeze tugs at his hair.
He feels like he’s going to buzz out of his skin, the rumble of the motor beneath him shaking his bones, only spurring on all the electric sensations. He imagines it’s the closest thing to flying. He’s never given much thought to motorcycles, but he thinks he gets the appeal now. He can’t wipe the smile off his face.
It’s like being in a wind tunnel, everything else blocked out by their velocity. His head goes quiet until all he can hear is the motor and his own heartbeat, and it feels far too soon that they’re slowing down as Gale pulls onto his street. He opens his eyes blearily, letting his cheek rest on Gale’s shoulder for a few moments longer before regretfully lifting his head as his house comes into view. Gale brings them to a stop at the sidewalk when John relinquishes his grip on his shirt.
His legs feel a little wobbly as he climbs off the bike, and he has to steady himself with a hand on Gale’s shoulder for a moment. Gale waits patiently, expression soft.
“All good?” he asks, running a hand through light hair made wild by the wind. John nods, trying not to think about how crazy his own curls must look. His cheeks still hurting from smiling.
“Yeah,” he assures him. “Thanks for the ride, and for saving me from dying of boredom tonight.”
Gale smiles, eyes warm.
“John Egan lives to see another day.”
“He does,” John agrees, then straightens. “Oh.”
He bashfully shrugs the jacket off, reluctantly handing it over. Gale is slow to take it, but he does, pulling it on himself.
It feels like neither of them really knows what to say in parting. Everything about their meeting was so unconventional and unexpected. Gale adjusts his hand on his bike, giving him a small nod.
“I’ll wait till you get inside,” he says, and warmth blooms in John’s chest regardless of his efforts to stamp it out.
“Thanks,” John says timidly, stepping onto the sidewalk. “Have a good night.”
“You too. See you ‘round, John.”
John is hyperaware of every movement as he walks up his driveway, the engine purring low behind him. He pulls out his keys and quietly unlocks the front door, and mercifully, he doesn’t hear the bike roar off until the door is shut behind him. He carefully slips his shoes off before tiptoeing down the hall.
He heads for the kitchen for some water, but as he passes by the living room he hears the clink of glass. He holds his breath, reaching for the fridge.
“John,” a low voice calls from the couch. He swears under his breath and walks over, abruptly very aware of the way the residual smell of smoke and cologne clings to his shirt where it had been covered by Gale’s jacket.
“Where were you?” his father asks when John stops next to the couch.
“Out with Curt,” he says, voice steady only because it’s mostly the truth. The man tilts his beer bottle back, not looking at him as he drinks. John shifts his weight nervously, not sure whether he’s been dismissed.
“Curt get a bike?” His father turns then, watching him in the dim lamplight.
“No sir,” John tries to keep his tone light, neutral. “He left before me, so a friend we were with offered me a ride home.”
His father watches him for a moment longer, and John barely moves. He feels like he’s being picked apart.
Then he turns away, lifting his beer.
“I don’t want you bein’ out this late,” his father says, almost as an afterthought before taking another swig. John nearly opens his mouth to ask why, to reflexively argue that he’s an adult, but the years have taught him to hold his tongue. Nothing good ever comes from engaging more than necessary. It’s not like staying out this late is a common occurrence for him anyway, so it’s not worth getting into it.
“Yes sir,” he says instead. When he doesn’t get a response, he deems it safe to creep back to his room, deciding not to risk making any noise in the kitchen. He pokes his head into the cracked-open door of his parents’ room to check on his mom, and he finds her already slumped on her side, asleep with the light still on. He reaches around the door frame and carefully finds the switch, plunging the room into darkness, and then he continues on down the hall to his own room.
He takes his phone out once his bedroom door is closed behind him, typing out a quick text to let Curt know he’s made it home, and then he gets undressed for bed. Despite the way it makes him flush with embarrassment, he lets himself press the back of his shirt to his face for a minute after he pulls it over his head, breathing in the smell until his head spins. It takes genuine restraint to not bring it into bed with him, because that would mean having to think about what all of these feelings imply. He drapes it over the back of his chair instead and looks at it longingly as he finishes getting ready to go to sleep.
It’s only when he finally collapses into bed that he realizes his book is still at the pub.