Because I Like You
"It's kinda dumb. I'm all . . . " He makes frustrated little gestures with his hands.
"Twirly?" You smile, and he moans and drops his head into the cradle of his arms. "It's cool, man. I liked it."
"You're a sick, sad bastard then. Twirly. God." He peeks up at you, then thuds his head back down. "The storyboards they showed me looked really bad-ass, but it just ended up really . . . "
"Twirly," you repeat.
"Twirly," he agrees. "Bono wouldn't twirl. Bono would, like, jump really high at the 'on your knees' part. He's against the grain like that." Without lifting his head, he pulls his Coke to him and contorts the straw into his mouth. "This has to be the least cool way to jumpstart a career, like, ever," he mumbles.
"It's no 21 Jump Street," you admit. "But I guess your hair kinda looks like Johnny Depp's. Sorta. If you squint."
"Gee, thanks." He straightens up, stretches, and you feel your stomach clench just a bit . . . just a bit. "A year or two, man, serious, we gotta get ourselves out to California." It isn't the first time he's mentioned California, and it isn't the first time he's automatically included you like that, but whoa, there goes your stomach again. You would never, never say so, but yeah. You'd get on your knees for him. In a heartbeat.
"Don't knock the Mouse, man," you say instead. "It's a hell of a lot better than nothing."
"I know," he sighs. "We're lucky, really." He sips from his straw again, and you just love his mouth, and you think he's way better-looking than Johnny Depp, and what the hell, Lucca, pipe dreams much?
"C'mon man, break's gotta be up," you say loudly, enthusiastically, and he sticks out his tongue at you and grins. You don't, no you don't, no you don't want to kiss him, so you pull at his arm instead, and drag him out of the commissary. He laughs, and you laugh back at him, and it's back to business as usual.
"Tony," he whispers, and you like the sound of your name all hushed on his lips, you like the way his eyes fall closed as you lean in, you like the way his chin is trembling as he fights to keep himself still.
"Just . . . let me . . . " Your words are soft, but his mouth is softer, and you know for a fact that he's never kissed a boy before, and your heart isn't big enough for the sweeping hope that this won't be the first and only time.
It's tentative and it's precious, and you just want to freeze the moment forever, when your best friend's breath is warm against your tongue, and this is better than any duet you've ever sung with him, and you want to tell him, but his hands are shaking on your shoulders, and he's pulling back, oh, and his eyes are confused and unfocused and kind, and his hair is falling in his face, and you want him so much, and there's no bitter in this sweet, none at all.
"Can I -" He ducks his head and he licks his lips, and you're not breathing when he looks back up at you, because his eyes are focused now, and they're focused on you. "Can we . . .?"
"We'd better," you tell him, and you steady his hands, and it's firmer this time, more confident, his tongue swiping your lips, and he tastes like Coke and half-written lyrics, and your hand's on his face, and he feels like the soft Florida sand, and you're not kissing him, he's not kissing you, you're just kissing, and it's new, and it's good, and it's all the things you wanted, and you know this is the best memory you'll have of him, just because he wanted to give it to you.