and that life-changing day you just felt afraid
informed consent
for beth and mara
It’s better when Crosby is drunk too. He doesn’t like to think about consequences or media attention or being distracted or any of the endless reasons why they can’t do this.
They can’t do this.
But when Crosby is as drunk as Rich was last night, Rich is nothing but a wet mouth and a pair of hands, a smooth back, a perfect shoulder to sink his teeth into. And it doesn’t matter then, because mouths are the same and so is everything else.
It’s got to stop. Rich only ever asks when he’s drunk, no matter what he said or what he believes. Rich only asks when he’s gone too far to get back, and Crosby is beginning to lose sight of the significance of that. Because Crosby thinks maybe sometimes in the light of day that he’d like to press Rich down and figure this out. And that’s not going to happen.
Crosby makes breakfast and Rich Harden is asleep down the hall with the door closed. They’ve been doing this for almost a year now, stupid bored kids making a wreck of what was given to them, and it’s got to stop.
He chases coffee with orange juice and studies the mark on the inside of his arm, the run of teeth in the crook of his elbow that he remembers clearly, because he wasn’t drunk and never will be again. Rich is becoming unimaginably important to him. That’s not okay.
So he goes down the hall and into Rich’s room and closes the door, locks it. Rich is upside down on the bed, his head at the foot, his feet pushing at the bedside table. The sheets are wrenched out of place and they hide nothing. Crosby follows the tan of Rich’s arms onto the pale skin of his chest and stomach, and Rich’s hands are twitching, little jerks against his sides. Crosby says his name until Rich wakes up, rolls his head and blinks at him.
“Fuck, Bobby.” Rich rubs his eyes, notices that he’s showing everything and snatches the sheets up, glaring balefully at Crosby. “The hell are you doing?”
Crosby tells him slowly, “You need to stop fucking around with me.”
Rich’s expression flashes, and they don’t talk about it, of course they don’t talk about it. Not now, with the morning bright as a comic book through the window and Rich Harden naked under the sheets.
“I don’t do anything you don’t want me to,” Harden says, a flush crawling up his neck. “I never hear you, like, fucking complaining.”
And Crosby could go over there and crawl on the bed and put his hand on Harden’s forehead and lever his chin up, lick his neck and make Harden see, get him to understand because this isn’t right. But wanting it is the problem.
“Don’t get drunk and come on to me again. Because I’ll say no.”
“No, you won’t.”
Crosby looks at him sharply, swallowing hard because it’s possible that’s true. He takes his time. “I’m asking you, man.”
Harden studies him for a long time, his mouth moving in the way that means he’s chewing on the inside of his lip. Crosby has to force himself back against the door, can’t go over there, can’t let this happen. A year, has it really been a year? Did he ever not know what this felt like?
“Fine,” Harden says. Crosby closes his eyes, because for some reason that hurts. “Won’t fuck with you anymore. And when you change your mind and come back-which you will, Bobby, you’ve never been able to stick to anything in your life-I’ll tell you no and then you can see how it feels.” He swipes his forearm across his mouth, his eyes brittle and cracked. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
Crosby goes.