xxx Keith’s POV xxx

I fall asleep at two am, long after Cam has slunk into the darkness at the back of the van, long after Phil’s snores have begun to drift quietly around us. Coy puts a CD in and plays it low to lull me to sleep: soft electronica-folk sort of stuff, mostly instrumental, so soothing. I try to fall asleep soon after the incident, but I can’t slow my brain down enough to let me drop off.

What is Cam doing? How can he go from being completely infatuated with one boy to claiming he loves another? He didn’t specifically say that, but he apologized, and anyone who knows Cam knows that saying sorry is worth just as much, if not more, than saying ‘I love you.’ I don’t understand what he’s trying to do ... Unless, of course, he’s being honest. Then it makes sense: He wanted Shelf for the sole purpose of sex – now that he’s gone, it’s a little easier for me to admit that he was good looking – but all the while, the guilt of Phil and his existence was eating his away. Now, Shelf leaves because of Phil, so he clues in and tries to redeem himself. Did he think Phil would react how he did? That surprised me. But what if Cam’s serious this time, and Phil’s just making a mistake?

I can’t think anymore, and I fall asleep.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx
When I wake up, the van isn’t moving. I had my face smushed into the cold window and now it's red; I rub at it as I blink sleep from my eyes and I look around. The sky is cloudless, nothing more than a spectacular void of blue. We’re parked on the side of the road next to a trench, under a leafy yellow-green tree. Three yellow-headed blackbirds perch on shrubs beyond the trench, chirping and cawing towards us, the shiny red machine that’s invaded their home. I sit up and look over at Coy, smiling. He’s fallen asleep – but being the responsible boy he is, it was after he’d parked, by the looks of it. He’s curled up with his knees near his chest, his bare feet pushed up against the steering wheel, his head tipped to the side. Him and his poor black eye, and his cut eyebrow. They look to be getting a bit better, but it might just be my imagination.

It’s a little cold, so I move carefully to the back seat towards my suitcase only to find Cam in my way. He’s got his head on it, and he may or may not be drooling. I scowl, shivering, and grab one of Coy’s v-neck sweaters from his un-Cameron’d suitcase, and then on an impulse, I don’t go back to my seat. I sit down infront of Cam, crossing my legs and burying my freezing feet into the backs of my knees. I stare at him. He’s got his arms drawn up to his chest, fingers loosely clasped. He’s facing me, and Phil, who's behind me. He’s so ugly, even asleep. His nose is too long. His eyelashes are too short. His lips are thin and pale, his eyebrows are close to nonexistent. His adam’s apple sticks out too much, and so do his ears. He could hold a day’s rain in his collarbone. The hair on his arms is too dark. His freckles look like some kind of disease.

And I still feel so bad for him.

He is, without a doubt, the biggest jerk in the universe. He’s arrogant, cruel, nosy, rude, and inconsiderate beyond ALL reason ... but I still feel bad, even though I know I shouldn’t. Below all that, somewhere, is a very scared, sick, messed up boy, lost in hormones. That’s what Coy says, anyways, and I’m inclined to believe him.

I reach out and touch his hair that falls over his neck and pools on the floor, and I grimace. It’s greasy. I assume he followed Shelf with the not-showering trend, so I add ‘he smells’ to the list of things wrong with him. I brush his hair back off his face but he squirms and wrinkles his nose in sleep, so I stop and stand, stepping over the slumbering form of Phil to get back to my seat.

I sit there for a while, the only one awake, counting the threads in the sweater I’m wearing. The sun is slowly climbing the sky, unhindered by clouds, but I don’t know what time it is. I don’t own a watch, and the time isn't displayed since the van isn’t started up. Phil is the next to wake up, moaning sleepily and rolling over on the floor of the van. I hope it doesn’t hurt his back, sleeping like that. I know I’ve got a few cricks in my neck thanks to being all curled up.

He props himself up and looks around as I choose to say nothing, waiting for him to notice that I’m awake. When he does, he gives me a sleepy little wave and a smile that is somehow embarrassed. I mouth the words “outside” until he understands and unlocks one of the back doors, sliding it open just enough to fit through. He’s trying not to make any noise.

We’re outside, looking into the black-bird bushes across the trench, and we say nothing, just standing next to each other, shivering. Summer or not, it’s definitely chilly, so I guess it’s pretty early in the morning. Phil looks over at me. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, all curious and cute. I smile.

“Pretty good, actually. You?”

He sighs and rubs his hair, showing the inexplicable blonde roots beneath. “Took me a while to fall asleep, that’s for sure.”

He shivers some more, so I shuffle closer and link our arms together. He goes red, but doesn’t move away. “I can see why ... What do you think?” At his confused look, I add, “About what happened ... Cam and everything ... you don’t have to answer, I mean, I -”

“No, no, no, ...” Another sigh, more laborious than the last. “Maybe I need to talk about this.”

I squeeze his arm, feeling how cold it is. He’s just wearing a t-shirt and shorts. “I’m willing to listen.”

It takes him a while to say anything after that, but I still want forgiveness since I made him slap me in the hallway yesterday. I feel terrible about it, and I really hope he isn’t still mad at me. I don’t think he is, he’s clearly not the kind to hold a grudge. When he decides to talk, I listen. “I think he’s lying,” he says with certainty. “I know he’s lying. He’s really good at it, he lies all the time. He could lie so easily now -” He’s talking fast. “- and he is, I know he is, he’s just fucking with me now that Shelf’s gone, he’s mad that I kissed you and he wants to get back at me by ruining my life!”

His face is red. I coo and pull him into me, hugging him close, letting his chin fall to my shoulder. He makes me feel tall. “You’re right,” I tell him, feeling his arms move, winding hesitantly around my waist. “Well, you’re probably right, but -” I hold him at arms length now, my hands on his shoulders. “- do you love him?”

He opens his mouth then closes it, looking down, blushing. His arms fall limply to his sides. “That doesn’t matter.”

The sun beats down on us, yet to thaw the earth. It shines a halo around Phil’s hair and casts dark shadows over his face as he stands silently, idly sucking at his braces. How is he saying that? That love doesn’t matter. How has Cam ruined him so badly that he could ever say that, that love doesn’t matter in any kind of relationship? “What if you’re wrong?” I say suddenly, apparently startling him. “What if Cam’s being honest?”

“That’ll be a first.”

“That’s not that point.” I let him go, walking to the trench’s edge with my back to him. I look down into it, and see that its bottom is mucky and shallow and dirty, long yellow grass stuck together with leaves and twigs and mud. I don’t want to fall in. “What if he isn’t lying, and that was a real apology?”

“It wasn’t.”

“You aren’t listening,” I say without turning to look at him. “What. If. He. Isn’t. Lying?”

“Then ... I don’t know.”

“Would you take him back?”

When he doesn’t answer for a half-minute, I turn around. He’s chewing his bottom lip, staring at his scuffed brown shoes. “I dunno.”

The black birds have long since scattered, gone from the bushes and the tree. They must not like us. “Do you want it to be sincere? What he said?” I ask quietly, unsure if I'm pushing this too far.

It doesn’t take him long to answer this time, but I don’t know why. “Yeah, I think I do.” His voice is shaking, cracking slightly. I put my hand on his arm, and he ignores it. “Oh, dammit,” he laughs, looking up at the void of a sky. “I still love him.”

He just keeps laughing.


xxx Super Special Cameron Cameo xxx
I didn’t know that I drooled while I slept, that’s a little disturbing. For a (blissful) second, I forget where I am, but when I go to see if I drooled on my pillow and it turns out that my pillow is a suitcase, it all comes back with startling clarity. I feel sick, and I don’t move for a while, worried that I’ll throw up. Vomit is the last thing I need right now.

I hear quiet, muffled voices from somewhere outside, but I can’t tell whose they are. Looking around, Phil isn’t curled up between the seats and Keith isn’t there either, but I can see Coy’s arms and legs. I try to listen for what they’re saying, but I can't make out anything other than my own name, briefly mentioned. I knew they’d talk this over, they’re like little schoolgirls, can’t handle anything on their own. I sit up too quickly and nearly puke, nausea knocking me back on my ass. I sigh angrily and shove my hands into my eyes, so pathetically close to crying. It’s just everything at once. I’m fucking exhausted. I miss Shelf. I miss people that aren’t these assholes. I miss walking, I miss my room, I miss not being a second from vomiting every minute of the day. I miss my parents. I miss Laur. I miss Phil.

Sitting up veeeery slowly, my hands behind me, I look out at the windows in hopes of seeing them. They’re just outside the van, linking arms. I grind my teeth together, staring, staying perfectly quiet to hear what they’re saying. My stomach hurts. Why do they look so chummy? They better not have been screwing around again, or I swear to god I’ll snap all three of them in half. Well, not three of them. Just the two.

Keith’s voice is muffled, but audible. Tinted windows stop them from realizing that I’m awake. “How can you tell?”

“I can’t,” Phil says, this weird smile on his face. “I honestly have no idea, whatsoever. It’s killing me.”

What’s killing him? My body’s tired, but my mind is intent on listening. I press my nose to the glass, using that to support my weight. It’s kind of cold.

“I imagine it would,” Keith says, sounding like a condescending dickweed. I don’t know how – or why – Phil hangs around him. Or why they insist on having their arms linked right now. “So ... What are you going to do?” His voice is awkward and unsure, like a bad guidance counselor. I should know, I’ve had my share of those.

“Nothing, I guess.” Phil sighs, the smile on his face having faded into a tired frown. “No way of knowing what he’s thinking, if he’s serious or not. Nothing I can do, then, not without making a fool of myself.”

They’re quiet now. I sit back down, stretching my arms above my head, and I grin.


xxx Keith’s POV xxx
In a half hour, Coy wakes up. Phil and I are still outside, leaning against the van, saying nothing past idle chitchat. Cam and his lies and truths and motives have becomes a dead, depressing topic at the end of their conversational rope: The bottom line is that there is nothing more Phil can do, since Cam is probably lying. Phil said he was considering dating a friend of his from school who asked him out last spring. He declined at the time, but that was only because he had a crush on Cam back then, before all this mess. Even now, he says he’ll only date this guy in the hopes of getting his mind off Cam.

So anyways, Coy wakes up, shirt and hair in disarray, jaw graced with sticky stubble. He walks lazily around the hood of the van to where Phil and I lean against the right-hand back door. “Good morning!” I chirp, thinking of how lovely his hair looks when it’s contrasted against the bluest-of-blue skies. God, he’s beautiful. I like him with something of a beard. Not like Brandon’s, but just dark enough to be visible.

“Mornin’, lover,” he says lowly, sauntering in close without breaking his stride. He grabs my face in his hands and lifts it to his, kissing me slow with a sense of shrouded passion, his tongue darting in bold strokes against my own. I’m left wobbly and airheaded when he leans back, keeping his fingers playing around my face and ears. “I had a fun dream about you,” he murmurs, looking distinctly devious. “We were in the van, and you were bent over the -”

“Excuse me!” I put my finger to his lips. “Company!” and I jerk my head in Phil’s direction to where he stands next to me, looking straight ahead with the most mortified expression of all time.

“Oh, sorry, Phil,” Coy grins, combing his hair with his fingers. God, he’s really good looking. I get this dull ache between my legs just watching him. “Anyways, I swear I pulled over before I fell asleep.”

I chuckle and clap him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you did.”

“I did!” he insists, so I guess I sounded sarcastic. “I knew you wouldn’t want me, y’know, killing you, so I pulled over!” He stomps his foot like a tantrum-ing child. “Be proud!”

I laugh and put my arms around his neck, swaying back and forth, soothing him like you would to a baby. “I am proud!” I giggle. “Very proud! I thank god every day that you don’t kill me! So thank you, my knight in shining armor,” and I kiss the tip of his nose to make him laugh.

“Don’t thank god, thank me! He isn’t he one that didn’t fall asleep at the wheel!”

“Right, right, my bad.” I kiss him on the nose again, desperately wanting to kiss him on the lips, but due to Phil, I don’t. I don’t want to be rude or anything. “Thank Coy you didn’t fall asleep.”

He laughs, the sun glinting off his hair.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx
When we start driving, Cam wakes up, instantly bitching about being hungry. I throw him some gravol and tell him to eat it, so he growls at me. I smile and – knowing full well that I’m being arrogant – I pet Phil’s hair from where he sits on the floor next to us, singing along to the stereo. He seems pretty happy, he’s even being a bit snarky if you’re really paying attention; he’s talking about the boy he’s considering dating from his school, and sounding relatively excited about it, too. He goes on about his hair and his eyes and how funny he is and whenever I look back at Cam, he’s all scowly. I doubt that Phil is honestly happy about dating someone that isn’t Cam, but he puts on a good show.

Once our stomachs are growling loud enough to wake the dead, we stop at a dinky diner in the middle of nowhere, eager for any kind of breakfast. The door opens as we step through and there’s a bored waitress behind the bar, beckoning us to take a seat. This place is empty as well – of course, when Cam decides to scream out my darkest secrets, it’s at the busiest restaurant we’ll go to in days – so the four of us sit on stools at the bar. I note with some interest that Cam sits next to Phil. We eat some greasy potatoes and eggs that sit in lumps in our stomachs, but at least we’re full. Cam is sticking to Phil like glue, never saying a word. He walks next to him but doesn’t smile or acknowledge him. Just stands close enough to make their forearms touch, his still donned with raised red cuts.

The day is uneventful. Coy drives faster than legal, needing to get home as much as I do. If I had to sum this day up in one word, I would use ... a struggle. I want to fuck Coy because he looks absolutely amazing, but I can’t. I want to be at home, sleeping in my own bed, but I can’t be. I want a lot of things I can’t have, especially Coy. He hasn’t shaved, and has no intention to. He looks fuckin’ edible. It’s driving me nuts.

Interesting business happens between Phil and Cameron. Nothing epic, but certainly interesting. Since going to the diner, Phil has changed seating positions. He isn’t sitting between the front seats anymore, but back a little ways to his original spot behind my seat, notably closer to Cam.

I do a crossword puzzle. I read some of my book, which makes me feel sick, so I take anti-nausea meds and try to nap, unsuccessfully. I talk with Coy about upcoming university things. I put my hand out the window and fly it in the wind. The day is still clear and sunny, getting warmer. It’s a nice day, but something is off and odd, an unsettling air of not-quite-rightness. I can’t tell why.

It’s five in the evening when it happens. The sky is still bright since summer is in the air, but an orange glow shines over the countryside around us. It’s beautiful. Cam is in the back, drawing, and Phil is behind my seat still, or somewhere else where I can’t see him. Coy is singing to a lovely song that’s playing. The sun is bright and makes me squint, but that doesn’t make the landscape less lovely. Cam is moving around in the back, a rare occurrence since he took his pills and hour ago. I turn around to look; Cam doesn’t look back, doesn’t say a word to me. Not even a glare. That’s when I know something is up.

He grabs Phil’s arm, which makes me unbuckle my seatbelt, turning around completely. He had better not hurt him, or I’ll be on him so fast.

He doesn’t hurt him. Well, not physically. He grabs both his arms and (in the future, I will never be sure of his motives) he pulls him forward, towards him, out from behind the seat. Phil scrunches his face up, twisting away, bracing himself for a punch to the face. He instead gets a mouth. Cam’s. Cam kisses Phil with desperation he can’t hide, fingers digging into his t-shirt, pulling him closer and closer until their chests are pressed against each others. Phil ... gives in. For a few long moments he sinks into him, lets his eyes close, lets his eyebrows climb. He kisses him back. After that, his senses recover from the pleasant shock of lips on his and he wrenches out of Cam’s hands, pushing him back. “What are you doing?” He barely sounds angry, just confused and breathless. His lips are shining and wet. Cam’s face is red, which is almost more startling than the kiss itself.

Now, what comes next is heartbreaking. Completely, completely heartbreaking. It makes me question everything I ever thought I knew: Cam looks down, then up, then down again. He looks to me, sees that I’m watching, and says nothing, looking back down. Without looking up another time, he takes both Phil’s hands in his, previously lying haphazardly in his lap, and he brings them to his mouth. He closes his hands around Phil’s, tanned skin lost in snow white fingers. He closes his eyes and kisses Phil’s knuckles, so desperate with a backglow of horror. He lets a long breath out through his nose and squeezes his fingers around Phil’s clasped ones and kisses them again, leaving his lips pressed against them.

“... Cam ...” Phil says nothing else. He looks seconds from crying, face as red as a beet, blue-yellow eyes wide, just looking. Cam’s hair slips from where it was held behind his ear and arcs beautifully across his freckled shoulder. Phil doesn’t move, can’t move. Cam, with grace previously unknown to him, lets Phil’s hands drop down, and he twists at the waist to turn behind him, lifting his sketchbook from where it lies on his backpack. Phil eyes it suspiciously. The cover is closed. Cam rests it upright on his knees, hesitates, then presses it into Phil’s hands. Phil takes it and looks at its front cover where ‘Cameron Fath’ is scrawled in thick black marker. “What ...?”

“Page six,” Cam croaks, lacing his fingers together, held between his knees. Phil flips the cover back, and from where I’m sitting I can see; Coy, however, cannot, and continues to drive. The pages are smudged with pencil. Phil flips through the first few sheets. Drawings of willowy men, sitting, standing, anatomy practice. None are recognizable as actual people, but through the next few pages I think I catch a glimpse of Shelf’s unruly hair. They’re all amazing, every drawing, so realistic and perfectly shaded and blended. Incredible detail on simple things like pop cans or his watch or the back of his own hand. Like I said, he’s as good an artist as he is a jerk.

Page six. Phil stops flipping. His mouth falls open just a fraction, a string of spit trailing from his top lip to his bottom lip. I lean forwards to see the paper and my eyebrows shoot up. Phil. About five or six drawings of Phil, unmistakably him. In one, he’s reading his book, his surroundings faded in as the front seat of the van. In another, he’s behind my seat, his head down, his headphones on. Phil looks up at Cam, wide eyed. “What -”

“Turn the page,” Cam tells him. He doesn’t look up. Phil gingerly flips the page, the rustling of paper so loud in all this silence since Coy turned the stereo off. On that page, there are more drawings of Phil. Phil on a motel bed. Phil sleeping, bunches of Phil sleeping; close-ups, focused on his hand, his throat, the notches of his spine. Each captured brilliantly, no worse than any black and white photograph. Phil turns the page without having been asked, where he finds more drawings of himself. Plenty of him in the van, in the front seat, seen from ¾ view behind. Right where Cam has been sitting. Each of these drawings has something scrawled underneath it, tiny writing that I can’t read. Phil turns the page again, shaking. More drawings, ones of him asleep. One, I recognize myself in. It must have been just this morning; Phil and I are linking arms, standing outside the van. It’s drawn from what is clearly the inside of the van. Cam’s point of view. It doesn’t look quite finished.

“Cam ...” Phil shakes his head, looking down, going back a few pages to a drawing of his throat and open mouth, as if he’s snoring. Asleep. “... Cam, I don’t know what to ... I can’t ...” It’s as if he’s come up with different things to say, but he can’t choose one, so he’s using them all.

“I hate myself,” Cam croaks abruptly, moving his hair slightly, making his hair fall across his face. I can’t see him anymore. He grabs Phil’s hands again, cradling them in his own, kissing his fingers. The sketchbook lays forgotten on their legs. “If you let me,” Cam whispers, so quietly. I can barely hear him. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making these last few weeks up to you.”

His voice is so sincere, so gentle. I’m having trouble not believing him, he has to be honest, tell me he means this. If he’s acting, I have lost all my faith in humanity. I can’t not watch them. How is this so heartbreaking? Oh god, Cam, please. Don’t fuck this up.

“I ... can’t.” Phil’s crying. Sun glints off the tears in his eyes. “You’re messing me with me, just stop it.” His voice is cracking.

“I’m not lying,” he finally says, letting Phil’s hands fall. “I feel sick constantly because of guilt, because of what I did to you. You have no idea how sorry I am ...”

Too rehearsed, I think?

“You feel sick because you have AIDS and you just got dumped. That’s nothing to do with me,” even though he so wants it be him. I know he’s begging in his head, silently begging Cam to be telling the truth.

“It has everything to do with you,” Cam whispers. “I can never explain what happened or why I did what I did ... I’m a fucking idiot, and I know you agree with that, but we’ve been friends since we were ten goddamn years old and I don’t want to ruin that now.” He shudders, but I don’t know if he’s crying. I almost am. This is unbelievable, it’s heartbreaking, and I think the Cameron that went missing last month is beginning to return. “I love you,” he mumbles.

Phil cries, gently. He looks at his hands held so tightly in Cam’s and he doesn’t pull them away. “You said that before, too.” His voice is ... different. “You said that the same day you went and had sex with those guys, the night you got sick.” He says ‘got sick,’ refusing to call it what it is because what it is is ultimately a shorter life for Cam. “How do I know today won’t be the same?”

Cam says nothing at first. He looks up and his eyes look tired and sick, red around the rims, glassy. He looks hideous, but somehow pure. He lowers Phil’s hand again, then takes his own and touches Phil’s cheek, slipping his fingers into his hair, over his ear. Both sides. He brings Phil closer, their faces just inches apart, and tears slip down onto Cam’s palms. Phil’s mouth is open, shaking, expectant, terrified. One of his hands closes around Cam’s wrist, but he doesn’t pull it away. “Do you remember ...” Cam whispers. “... The day I moved away, when we were ten, and we stood on your driveway in the wind and you told me you loved me?”

Phil goes beet red, looks down. Nods so slowly.

“I don’t know how you meant it,” Cam continues, hushed tones nearly lost in the sound of the highway. “as friends or as more, but either way, I never said it back and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He takes one of his hands off Phil (who flinches at the loss) and then he puts it back after he wipes at his eyes. “I wanted to tell you every day after that, but I knew it would be weird and we were only ten, right, I didn’t know how to act.” He moves closer, his knees right up against Phil’s cross-legged shins. “I’m older now. I should know how to act. But I don’t, I keep making stupid fucking mistakes and after every one I know you’re going to leave me, but you don’t.” He’s crying now, I can hear it in his voice, even if his hair is hiding his face. “Why won’t you leave me?”

Phil leans in, tightens his grip on Cam’s wrist. His other hand lands on his knee. He’s practically shivering. He brushes his lips against Cam’s cheek in something of a kiss, but more of a touch. “I don’t know,” Phil whispers. “I have no fucking idea, I kept hoping you’d still love me somewhere in there, but even when I was sure you didn’t, I couldn’t hate you ...”

Cam kisses his nose just briefly, closing his eyes. “Every day this week, I wanted to apologize,” he confesses. “I’m so stubborn and I’m sorry, I am so, so, sorry.” He pauses, rubs his fingers through Phil’s hair. Phil shudders. “You have to forgive me, please. Phil. I need you ...”

Phil sobs out loud now, closing his eyes, sniffing. “This is your last chance,” he says through tears. “I swear to god this is your last fucking chance.” He kisses him. Their noses crush and Phil sucks Cam’s bottom lip and cries the whole time, Cam is humble and gentle and barely moves, just strokes his thumbs across Phil’s cheeks. It’s beautiful, and has me crying and I look away, like I don’t have a right to watch.

I look to the driver’s seat and Coy looks back at me out of the corner of his eye, crying.


xxx Super Special Phil Cameo xxx
In the very depths of my heart, I know this is a mistake. He’ll just hurt me, he’ll do it again, he’ll cheat on me and leave me and laugh later because that’s who he is and I cant imagine him ever changing. But now ... it’s an hour later. He’s in my arms, his back against my chest, his forearms covering mine over his bony, concave stomach. I want to much to tell him that he needs to eat more, but nagging this soon can’t be a good idea.

His hair is swept over his right shoulder, leaving his left one bare, the column of his throat exposed. He has his head lolled back against my right shoulder, his greasy, beautiful hair against my cheek. He’s falling asleep, slowly. I don’t even care that he smells bad, I don’t care that his clothes are filthy and that he’s filthy, physically or otherwise. He’s apologized, he’s finally apologized. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I rest my chin on his shoulder, and I close my eyes.


xxx Coy’s POV xxx
I can barely keep driving straight with these tears in my eyes. I couldn’t see them but I could hear them, every crack in their voices, every sob and sniffle. Are they back together, then? I need to talk to one of them, Keith or Phil or maybe even Cam. I feel left out of the loop, but I’d feel even more left out if I crashed the car and died. I’ll talk later because I don’t want to stop driving. Getting home is still a priority.
I hope they’re back together. It sounds like it. I can’t believe they actually reconciled after all that bullshit, it’s too good to be true. I’ll break Cam in half if he’s lying again, though I don’t know why he would, seeing as Phil hasn’t said a word about having sex so far, implying that he has no intention to do so. That means that Cam must know that what he’s in for, which is a relationship that is more of a friendship than anything. I hope that’s what he wants.


xxx
Days pass. We backtrack through cities we’ve been in, seen in a new, happier light. Cam isn’t what I’d call cheery, but he certainly isn’t as whiny and cynical as he was before. He won’t let go of Phil. Everywhere we go, they hold hands, and if we’re in the van (which we often are) they’re sitting with each other or lying together or talking. They kiss a little, nowhere near as voraciously as Cameron was kissing Shelf. They're gentle kisses, happy ones. We sleep in the van some nights, and other we spend in motel rooms. The two of them share beds, close, but somehow they don’t have sex. I’m amazed that Cam has even held out this long, but I assume he’s jerking off any time we aren’t looking.

So, long story short, we get back home in about three days. We took a quicker route and made less stops, which severely cut our time down. When we’re back inside city limits, Keith is practically bouncing in excitement, giggling, leaping into the back seat to organize his suitcase. Phil and Cam were napping at the time – it was sweet, Cam actually looked like a boy, Phil’s head was on his chest and, oh, it was just so cute – but they wake up at Keith’s near-hysterical laughter before getting their own bags together.

I’m excited about being back too, all the familiar things we pass on the way through the city are suddenly amazing, things like gas stations and grocery stores are lovely, and then finally, our neighborhood. “Drop me off first?” Cam asks, almost polite.

“Sure. Where? Laur’s?” I ask, scanning streets for Cherrycreek Lane. I know it’s around here somewhere.

“Yup.” I look in the rearview mirror, tipping it down so I can get a good look at them. He’s sitting with Phil, their backs against the trunks, their hands linked. Cam turns towards him a little and starts mumbling something quietly.

Cherrycreek Lane arrives with its quaint white houses and I just thought of how Lauren never imagined her life like this, so conventional. That husband of hers certainly changed her mind. We pull up their driveway, but I just park, I don’t turn the engine off. Cam gets his backpack and swings it over his shoulder as he and Phil climb out one of the sliding doors. Keith and I, wanting to say a quick hello to Lauren, get out as well. Before we’re even at the front door it bursts open and Lauren rushes out.

“Oh, thank god!” she says, wrapping her arms around Cam, cupping the back of his head. Good thing he finally washed his hair this morning. “I was so worried, I thought you were dead!” Cam just stands there a little awkwardly. “You didn’t even call!” She shoves him back, grinning. Under that new polished face and that combed hair is the Lauren from when we were sixteen, she hasn’t changed. Just grown up.

“Sorry, been kinda busy.” Cam offers an explanation. All through that hug, he didn’t let Phil’s hand go, and now Laur sees that.

“So, what happened?” she asks, looking pointedly at their joined hands. “You look ... a lot happier.”

Cam smiles a little. “Good stuff, bad stuff, terrible stuff. I’ll tell you later,” and that sums it up so great. He turns to Phil. “Go get some sleep, or veggies, or something. I’ll call you tomorrow, ‘kay?” and they kiss so sweetly, hands clasped demurely between them. I rub at my eyes, not even believing that that’s Cam.

He looks at Keith and I, teetering on the edge of one of the cement steps, and he smirks, taking a few steps over to us. “So, you guys.” He lets his eyes roam over us, then he takes a deep breath and stiffly extends his hand towards me like some sort of prim businessman. “I’m not thanking you,” he tells me.

I grab his hand but instead of shaking it, I pull him into a hug that I swear he returns. “You don’t have to,” I tell him once we part. “I know you mean it.”

“Oh, I do not,” he snorts, then steps over to stand infront of Keith. He looks him over again. “Uhhh ...” he hesitates, tucking his hair behind his ear. Keith glares at him. “Your glasses look dorky,” he says, sticking his hand out again, smiling at the awkward silver frames perched on Keith’s nose since he broke his old ones.

Keith shakes his hand. “And you have tiny feet.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Cam says, then disappears inside. After a stifled laugh, Phil retreats to the van on wobbly love-stricken legs.

Lauren, Keith and I are left on the front steps and Lauren instantly turns to us, her long hair floating over her shoulder. “They’re back together?!”

“Mmmhhmm,” I hum. “A couple days ago, you should have seen it, it was beautiful. Cam cried and showed him all these drawings he’d done of him since we left and ohgod, it was heartbreaking.”

“Are you serious? You guys are miracle workers!”

Keith laughs. “Something like that.”

He goes to say something else, but Lauren cuts him off. “Oh jesus Coy, what happened to your eye?” She touches her carefully painted nails to my eyebrow, then right next to my eye. “You run into some doorknobs?”

With a snicker, I answer, “Your brother happened to my eye.”

“He hit you? I thought the trip went well, why would he hit you?!” she huffs, always hating when she isn’t informed about stuff.

“Oh no, the trip didn’t go well, where did you get that idea?” Keith says. “It was horrible. We didn’t get to shower much. Cam was a bitch. He told my personal secrets to everyone at an Ihop in Kingston, and ...” It’s then that I realize that Lauren doesn’t know about Brandon and Keith. Better not bring that up. “... Ask Cam about ‘Shelf,’ but be nice when you do.”

“What? Shelf? What do shelves have to do with anything?”

“Just ask him,” I smile. “I want to see if he’ll tell you.”

We exchanged a few short pleasantries on her front porch and with promises of going out for drinks and hugs all around, we’re back in the van, driving to Phil’s house.

“Hey, uh, Phil?” I ask tentatively, thinking that I should say this now, incase we don’t talk to them again, god forbid.

“Yeah?” Duffle bag at his side, he crawls up between the front seats.

“Are you guys really back together?”

“Turn left here,” he tells me, then smiles and shrugs. “I guess we are, for now. He’s really bent on redeeming himself, and even said that we don’t have to have sex ‘till I’m ready.”

“Wow. Are you serious? What a step.”

“I know, right?” He’s positively glowing, I’ve never seen him so happy. “I really hope this works out. I was serious about it being his last chance.”

Keith ruffles his hair. “I think he knows.”

“You’ll keep in touch with us, right?” I chirp, turning down the street that Phil points to.

“Sure! You guys live close to the school, we’ll just visit after school sometimes.”

“That’d be great,” Keith smiles. “You’re really an awesome kid, I wanna watch you grow up.”

Phil blushes a little and rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks? That’s not creepy at all.”

The two of us laugh as Phil tells me to turn again, then says his house is the third one on the left. It’s this nice big house that looks like it was just rooms stacked around each other like building blocks, with nice dark green wooden siding and white trim. There are two cars parked out front with a camper, in this frighteningly hidden driveway next to a big two-tiered lawn.

“Wow, you live here? Wicked!” Keith cheers.

“Very,” Phil smiles, heaving his bag onto his shoulder. “That little top room with the balcony is mine,” he says, pointing through the windshield.

“Awesome! You’re pretty lucky.”

“Yeah,” he stops for a moment, watching this flowery pink tree in his front yard as it blows in the wind. “I am.” He turns to me and without saying anything else he kisses me, just a couple seconds long, nothing like our previous and first kiss. “Thanks for everything,” he says quietly before turning to Keith, who he also kisses. “I mean it.”

“I know,” Keith murmurs. “Just stay safe, alright?”

“I will.” He opens the back door and climbs out, then appears at Keith’s window. Keith rolls it down. “Just remember to call sometimes, okay?”

“We will, I promise!” I wave to him, putting the van in reverse. “Bye!”

“Bye!”

And we’re off, heading home, finally. It isn’t sad, because I know we’ll see him again soon, we have to say friends. We don’t live all that far from Phil’s house, probably a five, maybe ten minute drive. Our beautiful apartment building with its dorky name, hidden under a canopy of tall trees, dark brown paint chipping off in plenty of places. It’s home, no matter what it looks like. I’ve never appreciated it more.

“Ooh, we get to see William Barnett! And Brandon! And Jeff!”

I park the car and before the engine is even turned off, Keith has leapt out and is trying to yank his suitcase out of the back seat. It’s heavy and he doesn’t get it far because he’s stretching to lean in and has no leverage, so with a chuckle I turn the van off and go around to where he is. “Oh, just leave it, we’ll get them when we take the van back to the rental place, let’s go.”

“Okay!” He slams the door shut and dashes up to the door of the lobby. In no time at all we’re at the end of our hallway upstairs – Keith wouldn’t take the elevator, he RAN up the fire escape stairs – and he’s trying to contain is excitement. Door number 217 appears and it seems so surreal, like our life before that stupid trip was just a story. Keith knocks like seven times and after a few seconds Jeff is there, absolutely beautiful after our nearly two week absence that seems like years. He grins and hugs both of us so tightly and babbles and beckons us in.

“Where’s WB?!” Keith asks frantically. Shouldn’t he be asking for Brandon? I’m assuming this is some kind of ... misguided love.

“On the coffee table, you loon. Coy, you poor thing, what happened to your eye?!” He looks down at me – how odd it is to meet someone taller – and cups my face as Keith kisses William Barnett’s bowl over and over again, cooing about how shiny he is and how clean his water looks. Jeff continues to worry over my black eye, and I'm so secretly grateful for the attention that I don’t tell him that it doesn’t hurt much anymore. I watch him. His glasses are the same, his eyes are the same, his hair is the same, his mouth is the same. I forget that we had sex, sometimes. The night that Keith and Brandon did, too. Jeff is just so laid back that I tend to take him for granted, but he’s really a great guy. I should get to know him better, I think.

Then, Brandon steps out of their bedroom, looking disheveled and sleepy and shocked. He isn’t wearing a shirt, just sweatpants and these big woolen Canadian-looking socks that make his feet seem huge. He’s even more gorgeous than I remember. His skin is dark and tanned (I’ll assume they went to the beach? It’s an all-over tan, meaning he must have been shirtless, I think?) peculiarly offset by his sandy blonde hair, bleached brighter by the summer sun. His stubble has grown into a full-on beard that creeps over his jaw and down his neck a little. He has a surprising amount of darkish-blonde chest hair, which I don’t remember being there before. Actually, I don’t remember ever having seen him shirtless. He’s skinny, but not sickeningly so, just that wiry stance that boys go nuts for; he looks strong somehow, even if he isn’t. He resembles Keith so much that it’s shocking, same eyes, same nose, same slightly sticky-outy ears.

He and Keith see each other and he stops dead as Keith stands up too quickly, coming close to knocking WB’s bowl over. “Hey,” Brandon says, barely blinking. Just staring. His voice is deep, a little thick. Engaging.

“Hi.” They stand there for a few more moment as Jeff, polite in not staring, goes to their kitchenette to get me needless ice for my eye. I want to tell him that it’s fine but I’m afraid to talk, not wanting to ruin this, even if I’m not sure of what I’m ruining. I just look at the two of them, curious. I try to understand Keith’s emotions without him saying a word; I can see both of them clearly from where I stand, but I don’t know quite what either of them is thinking. It’s rare for Keith to be a mystery to me, but he is now. Is he nervous? Ashamed? Excited? All of those? He can flip emotions as quickly as coins when he’s put under pressure.

Finally, he just breaks their impromptu staring contest and runs up to Brandon, leaping into his arms. He throws his arms around his neck and they hug so tightly that I don’t know how they’re still breathing, their faces buried into hair and shoulders. Keith’s hair is faded, almost a dull grey by now with nearly an inch of angel-blonde roots at his hairline, but Brandon doesn’t care or even notice, he just kisses the side of Keith’s neck and his scalp and digs his hands into his back, covered only by a flimsy white homecut t-shirt. “I missed you,” one of them mumbles; even their voices are alike. “I missed you so fucking much, you should have called ...”

“I know, I’m sorry, things were all messed up ...” Keith leans back and leaves his arms around Brandon’s neck, and it looks like they’re dancing. Their noses are close to touching and I watch Keith’s adam’s apple dip as he swallows. Jeff is now standing next to me with a drippy icepack in his hands. “I missed you too,” Keith admits.

Brandon hesitates, letting his eyes drop to Keith’s lips, then back up to his eyes, then to his lips again, so nervous about even looking at him. Keith looks towards me and I just freeze, then he turns back to Brandon and stretches his neck out, pressing their mouths together in a gentle, cute little kiss, though it becomes more than that quickly. Brandon squeezes his eyes shut fiercely tight as his hands clutch uselessly at Keith’s shoulderblades. Their lips slip together and apart, not quite lined up, gentle and awkward and so scared. Their tongues slip against one another's, bold and shy all at once, grazing against teeth. Keith lets his hands drift down his brother’s scalp and grab his face, thumbs pressing into the hollow under his jaw, bringing him closer and keeping him there like he never wants to let go.

He does. They pull away with several last nips of teeth and they just look at each other, breathless and slightly red in the face with their hands still holding each other all over. Keith opens his mouth, swallows, then tries to speak. He ends up apologizing, like it was some kind of unwanted ambush, like he wasn’t getting kissed back just as hard as he was giving it. “I’m sorr-”

“Shh, shut up, you’re so fucking stupid, don’t ruin it.” Brandon smiles and chuckles and slips his hand down Keith’s back to rest on his hips, making Keith smile too. “How was your trip?” he asks. The light streaming in from the window catches the shine of his wedding ring and it’s taunting.

Keith grins and looks over his shoulder at me, cheeky like a little kid with a secret. “Eventful,” he says, a note of finality ringing loudly in his voice.


xxx Seven Years Later xxx

xxx Keith’s POV xxx
Winter has come early this year. Coy’s twenty-eighth birthday was only last week, but there’s been snow on the ground for a few months already. Unlike the cold, dry, snowless winters of our childhood, winter months lately have been just covered in snow, feet of it. It’s a Tuesday afternoon now and the sky is white, sifting snow like icing sugar onto the city. The roads are slippery but our car isn’t bad with traction, so as long as I pay attention I’ll be fine. I’m driving alone through fairly empty streets – as I said, it’s a Tuesday afternoon, and who has anywhere to go then? – but it’s still a struggle to keep steady. I still have to get used to driving in the winter, normally Coy does it, but his absence is the reason I’m driving alone anyways.

For the first time since he got this new job of his, he’s letting me visit him at the restaurant where he works as head chef. Impressive, huh? I am so proud of him, it’s unbelievable. It’s this place downtown called Palermo's. I’ve been there, of course, but it was either while he was working so I couldn’t see him for long, or when he was with me, not during work hours. This time, since it is still the middle of the day and lunch isn’t too busy for them, he says I can come visit him and he’ll give me the ‘grand tour’ of the kitchen and staff. I can’t wait!

So, I park a few blocks away from the restaurant then get out, putting a few coins into the meter. It’s chilly and the sidewalks are snowy and wet, so I tighten my scarf around my neck and pull my coat shut. I’m just wearing sneakers due to all winter boots looking hideous, and my toes freeze as I trudge on. I wish my hair was a little longer, maybe it’d keep me warm.

Coy hasn’t changed much in the past seven years since ‘The Summer of Reconciliation,’ as he calls it. Physically, he and his twenty-one year old self are as different as night and day, but he’s still the same lovely boy underneath. Clumsy, sweet, over-protective, puppydog Coy. The same boy I met when we were six, fell in love with when we were sixteen, moved in with when we were nineteen, and he’ll be the same boy I'll marry when we’re twenty-nine. (Mum’s the word though, no one is supposed to know yet.) Our childish days of hair dying are gone: he’s a brunette and I’m a blonde. At twenty-three, he cut all his hair off and now has a charming tousled sort of short cut that suits him well. He doesn’t shave for days at a time, giving him this delightful rugged look that I adore.

I’m outside Palermo's, delighting in the scents of pasta and garlic wasting out, beside myself with glee at the thought of my fiancé inside, working there like such a grown up. I hope his staff likes him.

Bells jingle above the door as I step through, brushing the snow from my hair though it’s hard to see in the first place, what with it being such a bright blonde. A waiter greets me at the door and asks to take my coat, an offer I accept, but instead of being shown to a table, I tell him that I’m here to see Coy.

“Oh!” he says. He’s an older man, probably in his forties, with the best handlebar moustache of all time. “Yes, he’s expecting you, I’ll tell him you’re here, hold on please,” and he weaves between tables, disappearing through a doorway at the back. I look around, remembering the restaurant from my previous visits. Classy without being expensive, nice without being dull. Just like my Coy, I think with a smile. He was bouncing off the walls with excitement when he was offered this job by his previous boss, head lunchlady at the highschool cafeteria where he worked.

He pokes his head out of the kitchen, sees me, and beams. I wave politely, eyeing the customers seated at tables and booths around the big dining room. He walks over, wearing this white chef’s thing, no hat or hairnet. If he weren’t head chef, he would definitely not get away with his lack of hairnet or his guaged ears. “Hey, babe! You made it!” He kisses me briefly, cupping my chin. I smile at the engagement ring on his left hand, white gold, with just a small set of diamonds. I proposed to him.

“Of course I did, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I assure him. He smiles some more, looking oh-so-pleased with himself. He takes my hand, his blue eyes a-shine, prompting me to whisper, “Are we allowed to do this here?”

“Do what?” he asks. We’re almost at the kitchen.

“... Hold hands.” I’m nervous, what if they don’t like me? Or I knock something over?

“Oh, come on, of course we’re allowed,” he laughs. “I’ve told everyone all about you!” The kitchen doors are those cool two-way-swingy-ones, and they bang together when he opens them. “Front and center!” he almost yells. I jump. “Don’t be nervous, you loser,” he whispers to me, a reassuring hand on my back.

Suddenly, all sorts of people in white uniforms are making a semi-circle around us, probably a little over a dozen, including the waitresses. Some are middle aged, but most are young adults or teens. “’Kay, guys!” Coy announces, grinning like a dork. I should hit him, or something. “This is Keith, I’m sure you all remember me mentioning him.”

Nods all around, even a few quite mumbles of ‘Hi Keith.’ Coy continues. “He’s my fiancée, soon-to-be husband, and he’s here for a while today to look around the kitchen and everything, so I expect you guys to be friendly, okay?”

It’s so strange to see him ordering anyone but me around, he’s charismatic for such a young man. He’s greeted back with a chorus of ‘okay’ and ‘yessir.’

“Good! Go back to work now~” And they do. He turns to me, smiling, rolling back on his heels. “How cool was that?! And they always do that! Listen to me, I mean.”

“That’s very cool,” I laugh, touching my hand to his arm. “You’re so fancy here! I had no idea!”

“Maybe you’d better respect me a little more, huh?” He bends down just a bit – I’m 5’10” now, I think? - and kisses me politely. “But I’ll give you a tour in a minute, okay? I’ve got some stuff to do first, sorry.” He peers over my head. “Carlee? Adri? Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Yes?” Two ladyvoices answer in unison from behind me, arriving with the strong scent of fruity gum. I turn around to see four girls behind me, maybe in their early twenties. Two have blonde hair, one is a brunette, and one has black hair, clearly dyed. They’re all very pretty, dressed in identical dark cashmere sweaters and fluffy black skirts. Waitresses, I’ll assume?

“Can you girls keep Keith company for a little while? Mister Mario can man the podium, and I know you all have plenty to say.” He gives me a little nudge towards them with a cheeky smile. “I won’t be long, okay?”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, nuzzling my nose against his for a moment, instantly feeling dumb for it afterwards. However, it makes him smile, so it couldn’t have been all bad. He then turns on his heel, disappearing behind the big block of stoves that the kitchen seems to center around.

I turn to the ladies, all four just a little shorter than I am. “So,” I say, still awkward around women after twenty eight years of living on the same planet as them. “Who’s Mister Mario?” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

“You saw him,” one of the blonde ladies says. “The guy up front?”

“He looks just like Mario, doesn’t he? Super Mario Bros?” the other one says.

“Plus, aren’t you supposed to ask our names? It’s polite,” the black-haired one says, fortunately, with good nature.

I flounder, pulling at the neck of my sweater. “Oh, uh, sorry.” I rub my left ankle with my right. “What’re your names?”

They giggle, cheery, but not too airheaded. “Coy was right, you’re kind of dorky sometimes. Let’s go get drinks!” One of them suggests. I’m too nervous to refuse. They usher me into the dining room and we sit at a table near the kitchen doors. Though they work here, another waitress comes and takes our order on their request. I order a strawberry daiquiri.

“We’re buying,” the brunette says, smoothing her choppy brown hair down. “I’m Adri, by the way,” she tells me.

“I’m Carlee.” One of the blondes raises her hand.

“Cheyanne,” the black haired one shakes my hand.

“Sidney, nice to meet you.” The other blonde. She leans in, across the table. “So, you’re really getting married to Coy?”

I lean back, surprised. I half-expected them to call him Mr. Russel, though that’s completely retarded. “Uh ... Yeah, I am. In April.” I’m not quite sure what to say, it’s not every day that strangers take a personal interest in me.

“That is so sweet,” Adri giggles. “He talked about you his very first day here, and he hasn’t stopped since.”

“All the girls are wicked jealous,” Cheyanne tells me, swirling her index finger around on the table cloth. Her nails are painted a deep red. “We’ve been waiting to meet you to see if you’re all he brags about.”

I’m suddenly all nervous and self-conscious again. What if Coy made me out to seem all awesome and I suck? They’ll be disappointed! They could lose their faith in him! I decide to just be forward about it. “Sorry if I’m lamer than he said I was.”

They all laugh. One of the older waitresses arrive with a tray of our drinks and Carlee tells her to put it on their tab. I sip at my drink, alcohol bitter against my tongue. The glass is freezing cold. “Oh, don’t be silly,” one of them scoffs, touching my arm. “I’m sure you’re fantastic.”

If she wasn’t so sure that I was gay, I might think that was flirting. She’s just open, I suppose? Pfft, women. I don’t want to dwell on my being fantastic or not, so a question pops into my head. “What’s Coy like around here?” It’s a reasonable question, I think. “Does everyone like him?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Sidney answers after looks of consultation with the other girls. “He’s a really talented chef, right? S’hard not to like him!”

“And he puts CDs on when we’re cooking sometimes, it’s like being in high school again!”

“Plus, he is so cute,” Carlee gushes, winning nods and noises of agreement from the other girls.

“He is?” I ask, not really thinking.

“Of course! Tall, sinewy, scruffy – all the girls love him!”

“Wait, does that mean you don’t think he’s cute?” Adri teases, chewing on the lime segment left on the side of her glass, grinning. “That’s not a very high opinion of your own fiancé.”

“No!” I almost knock my glass over. “I didn’t mean that, I just – didn’t know other people thought he was cute too.” Calling him ‘cute’ kills me when I’d much rather call him ‘gorgeous’ or even ‘studly’ or something. “ ‘All the girls love him?’ ”

“Oh, well, I mean -” They sort of exchange these frightened looks, like I’ll be jealous or something. It seems I’ve been underestimated? “He’s really cool and stuff, but we, uh, don’t know too much about him, other than you.”

“What Cheyanne is trying to say is -” At this point, Carlee elbows Cheyanne, leaning forwards into me. “- How’s the sex?”

I cough, the taste of already-digested rum rising in my throat. The coughing fit passes quickly and I just sigh and shrug and blush, unsure of why I don’t want to discuss this with them. I mean, they’re strangers, but this sort of thing has never bothered me before, it shouldn’t now, right?

“Oh dammit, you pissed him off!” Adri scoffs and pushes her drink to the side. “We didn’t mean to pry, we’re just interested, take it as -”

“Pretty rough,” I tell them, pushing my lip ring back and forth with my teeth. Overcoming fears: another step to adulthood, as are spontaneous decisions, but that’s sort of a step in the wrong direction.

“Pardon?”

“The sex,” I clarify, pushing my glasses up, grinning crookedly. “is pretty rough.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sidney chortles into her drink. “What else?”

“Fancy,” I decide, sipping at my daiquiri. Mister Mario eyes us from near the podium. “Sort of dirty, too. That’s his doing, though, the r -”

“Keith, goddamn!” The kitchen doors swing open and Coy’s there, laughing, walking over to us. The girls instantly sit up straighter. I tip my head back to look at him upside-down – my seat is not facing the doors – and he’s smiling at me. “The first people I introduce you to, and you’re off telling them about our sex life?”

“Obviously.” I put my glass down and reach up, holding his face, bowing his face down over mine. His eyes are such a blue, they shine into mine, dulling them in comparison. “Hello there, are you done?”

“Yessir,” he laughs, brushing our lips together not long enough to be considered a kiss. “So, what do you want to see now? This place is kind of dull -” Noises of outrage come from the girls. “- but we can go for a walk, or something else nice?” He’s so sweet. I stand up and grab my drink, offering him what’s left of it. The ladies seated at the table watch us curiously, like we’re on the Discovery Channel. Even almost eleven years later, I’m reminded of our high school years, always being watched by almost everyone in the grades below us. I didn’t think we were so fascinating, but I guess anything out of the norm is fascinating to someone. “Ooh, thank you!” he says in response to the drink. He bites the straw and sucks it up between his teeth, looking thoughtful. “Hmm, not bad.”

The door jingles, the first person to arrive since I did. I’m caught in Coy’s eyes and the pucker of his pierced lips on the straw, so I just hear a few voices along with Mister Mario’s hilariously Italian voice and I just think, ohgod, he’s Italian too?

“Oh my god,” Coy says suddenly, loudly, letting the straw fall from his mouth. It tips out of the glass and falls to the ground near his shiny leather shoes, leaking pink daiquiri on the carpet. Somewhat alarmed, I whip around to look where he’s staring, unblinking. At the front door. At who’s just come in, and who’s getting their coats taken by Mister Mario.

Cam and Phil.

I don’t recognize Phil at first, because goddamn, has he grown up. Got a jawline, clear skin and a short haircut, dresses like he’s successful; a long dark coat with a blood red scarf, I see Mario putting it into the armoire. Next to him is a boy I recognize right away. Cameron. Same tired eyes, same sharp nose, same hunch and same stupid long hair, spilling over his shoulders, dotted with snow. He looks gorgeous, he looks sick, he looks like I haven’t seen him for like a year, which I haven’t. They’re both looking back at us, just as astonished as we are. I hope they recognize us, I think they might. I don’t know why I do what I do next, it’s just a wave of nostalgia and love and hate and annoyance because how are they even here, but I run up, dodging through tables, and I leap into Cam’s arms. Not Phil’s, Cam’s. He’s taller than me, that twig-legged fuck. His sweater is gone, hung up, and he’s just wearing a big baggy threadbare t-shirt, hot from being trapped under the sweater out in the cold. He smells like cologne and boy and sweat, and I can feel his heart beating against my cheek and why am I doing this, he’s a jerk and an asshole and he told everyone about Brandon and I and he hit Coy and he hit me but I miss him and I’m glad he’s here.

He doesn’t hug me back, he laughs, gravelly and nasal and deep in his throat. “Woah, boy, it hasn’t been that long.” His voice is so strong, he’s tall now, he makes me feel like a little kid. I step back, embarrassed, and I look up at him. What a pointed chin, a strong jaw, high cheekbones. He’s disgusting but he’s handsome, I don’t know how. He’s too thin and sick and he looks like he’d be sticky, but he’s definitely handsome. He’s five, six years younger than me? That makes him about twenty three now, depending on when his birthday is. He grins, showing off yellowing teeth.

Coy comes up behind me and he hugs Phil like he’s just a kid again, twirling him around; Phil is still absolutely tiny for a full grown man, probably reaching my chin, if that. Coy laughs and kisses his cheek and his nose and all over his face like an excited aunt, telling him how long it’s been and how he’s sorry for not calling, we’ve been busy, and oh, he looks great, he looks so grown up. Phil, brushing his hair out of his eyes, rights himself when he’s put down, smiling happily, cheeks red from the cold. “What the hell are you doing here?” Coy asks.

“Uh, it’s a restaurant,” Cam tells us. “People come here for dinner, drinks ...” He looks Coy over, a devilish, horny grin spreading across his face. “... job opportunities. I like you in uniform, d’you work here?”

Phil laughs and looks embarrassed, hitting Cam in the arm. I know he doesn’t mind the slight come-on, he’s been over this with me. Cam assures him that it’s just banter. “Yeah, head chef,” Coy says proudly. Behind us, the waitresses disperse, leaving their drinks behind.

“Hmm, not bad, not bad.” Cam is still looking at him. “You’re not lookin’ too shabby, Coy.”

“You aren’t either, apparently,” Coy laughs, nudging me in the side. I blush and rub at my nose, still in disbelief that I hugged him. “How’ve you been doing?”

“Oh, fine,” Cam shrugs, suddenly a bit more somber. We’re never sure if the ‘updates’ on Cam’s condition are accurate, because he never says more than ‘fine.’ He looks sick, that’s for sure. Sunken, sickly. Eight years, he’s had AIDS. Impressive, and so sad. We’re all praying for a cure, though Cam refuses any pity, and continues to get ornery when we give it, accidental or on purpose. “Hey, hey, hey,” he wrinkles his nose. “I know those looks, stoppit, I said I’m fine.”

Phil clucks his tongue and touches Cam’s hand. “They’re just being nice,” he convinces him.

I’m so glad they’re still together, not that I doubted they would be. It’s amazing how much Cam has shaped up in the last seven years. Still a loser, still an ass, but not to Phil. Never to Phil, nothing even remotely mean beyond friendly wise-cracks. Phil tells us – Cam will never talk about it, and will barely touch Phil around us, god only knows why – that he’s constantly just apologizing out of the blue, and Phil doesn’t even have to ask why anymore. He knows it’s for what happened when they were fifteen. Three, four times a day, he does this, every day. Whispers, yells, just says it. Random apologies, just ‘I’m really sorry’ while they’re eating dinner or watching TV or on the bus or having sex. Phil insists that all is forgiven, saying that the last few years have made up for it, but Cam, armed with low self esteem and a thick skull, refuses to agree.

“So, you’re here for dinner?” I ask, smiling at Phil. His eyes are still so mysteriously blue, part cyan, part yellow, but not green, because the colors are separate. I remember that it was his eyes that first astonished me when I saw him back when he was ten. Jesus, that was a long time ago. I can’t even imagine.

“And molestation, apparently.” Cam grins crookedly. He seems like he’s in a good mood? It’s hard to tell. At least he’s smiling, even if it’s at my expense.

“Oh, shut up, it’s been like a year since we saw you, don’t blame me.”

“Well, I haven’t seen you for just as long as you haven’t seen me,” he argues. “And you don’t see me all over you.”

“I wasn’t all over you, you’re so exaggerating.”

“And you’re so hot for me, but I’m too much of a gentleman to m-”

“Guys, seriously,” Phil steps in, eyebrows raised. “At least be civil, it’s been a while, right?”

“I guess,” Cam reluctantly agrees, unable to even argue with Phil. I wonder if Phil minds that Cam is sort of a pushover now, or at least on any subject that matters. “So, you guys are doing fine?” he asks, so simple.

I look at the two of them, standing close enough that their arms touch, but not their shoulders – the height difference between them is astonishing. They look ... very happy with eachother. No fights, just a lovely passive companionship. Isn’t that just what Phil always wanted? Some time last year when Phil came to visit us, probably more about ten months ago, the last time before now, he filled us in on everything Cameron. They have sex now, regularly. Abstinence ended at age sixteen, after ‘so much talking that Cam’s ears bled.’ They’re a normal, happy couple now, to an extent. I’m worried about Cam, I’m always worried about Cam (but I do not have the hots for him, he’s crazy), but he insists that he’s doing okay. That doesn’t mean any of us will stop being worried. For now, they’re happy. And that’s what we set out to do in the first place, right? “Yeah, we’re good.” I look up at Coy, who chews his lip and smiles back.