Higschool!AU Chapter One (Part 1)
Chapter One
Joey very nearly made Davey late to his very first day of high school by forgetting to set his alarm clock.
"How did that boy manage to make it seventeen years and not get himself killed?" Davey's mother muttered, pulling two trays of muffins out of the oven, setting aside enough for the three of them. Davey grabbed his while her back was turned, arranging the rest on a tray.
"Not my fault," he said, juggling his breakfast between his hands, waiting for it to cool off. "You gave birth to him, not me."
"Alarm clocks are in my genetic code," Mary said, turning around. "Davey, don't eat -" but it was too late, Davey had already stuffed the top of his muffin in his mouth and let out a yelp, swallowing hard and fanning desperately at his mouth.
"Bur' ma mouf," Davey said regretfully, stuffing more of the still-steaming muffin in his mouth. "Bu' i's really goo', Mom."
"I think there was a mistake at the hospital with both of you," Mary said, ruffling Davey's hair fondly before heading up the back stairs to their apartment above the cafe. "Joseph O'Brian, what on earth are you doing in that shower?" Davey could hear her bellowing as she slammed into the apartment, and he dimly heard Joey reply. He just hoped he hadn't honestly told her what he was really doing in the shower, which was probably not G-rated and was likely to mean that Joey would be killed, and Davey needed him to drive. He sighed, trying to scrape as many crumbs off of the muffin liner as possible. This, he decided, boded poorly for his future high school career.
- - -
Freddy wasn't one for first days.
The alarm clock had been set wrong and went off two hours before he wanted to get up, and then Freddy couldn't get back to sleep. His clothes were all wrong too. Regina - (he felt silly calling her Grandma, so for the past few months it had become 'Grandpa and Regina'. She called it a 'phase' but he swore up and down he'd stop if she'd make Grandpa stop calling him Junior instead of Freddy) - had ironed his jeans while he showered. He’d spent a half-hour trying to convince her that no one ironed jeans any more, spent another twenty minutes trying frantically to beat out the creases that she'd put into them when finally he realized he was going to be late and went running for his keys. The drive, which normally took ten minutes maximum, stretched into fifteen. The music was wrong, the mix he had carefully assembled last night was left on his bedside table, and he had to settle for the radio.
School always felt wrong. A boring first period class (English, with Whitten) stretched into a boring second period, a boring third. It felt like years before band - the only class worth anything - finally rolled around. Other teachers didn't like Freddy for a multitude of reasons he was sure were probably justifiable - for cutting class, sleeping in lectures, handing in assignments weeks after due dates with only no excuse except for a sheepish grin. But Mr. Jones always liked him. Freddy knew that that class was meant for him the second he walked in freshman year, and saw a poster of his god, Chet Baker, staring down at him from the front wall. Band was home.
- - -
Davey, over years of living with Joey, had developed a talent of always being able to spot the hugest asshole in any given room. Sometimes they were tricky. Sometimes they seemed nice and quiet but were just waiting for any possible sign of weakness before they lashed out. Sometimes they needed to appear weak before they reared their ugly head. But Davey, given ten minutes, could tell you without fail who the largest ass in the room was.
Currently, he thought, stretching out his legs and glancing around the room, the winner was a bored-looking blonde in the percussion section, twirling his drumstick and surveying the room as if it was his own personal empire. He had hair that had probably taken him a least an hour to get artfully stuck up that morning, but by now it was wilting and sticky looking. And it did nothing to disguise a piggy nose, or bad acne under his chin he probably thought he had masterfully covered under some scraggly blonde hair under his chin which Davey assumed was supposed to be a gross interpretation of a soul patch. It really looked like he'd taken some hair from the shower drain and glued it there in an attempt to make himself look cooler. From the way the girls in the flute sectional were twittering to themselves, it appeared to be working on one gender, at the very least.
There you go, Davey thought dispassionately. And the largest asshole in the room, ladies and gentlemen, is...
His thoughts were interrupted by an almighty clatter and a string of loud curses as someone (a rather large someone) tripped over the leg he'd left outstretched. "God dammit," Davey heard the guy who had tripped over him say. His back was still to Davey, so he couldn't see who it was, but the guy was pretty tall and broad - probably a senior. He was currently cradling his trumpet to his body like it was a grievously injured child. Davey had the brief, fleeting thought that perhaps he ought to quit band right then as he was either going to get beat up or, by time he was this guy's age, go completely off his nut.
"Sorry!" Davey said. "I didn't realize anyone was walking around back here."
"Yeah, well, I was," the guy muttered ruefully, turning around to glare at Davey and oh my god, Davey thought helplessly, because this guy was probably the hottest person he’d seen in his entire life. (Or, well, all day - Davey had had high hopes coming in to high school.) And Davey lived with Joey, who wasn't bad looking, and all of Joey's jock friends, who he could probably take pictures of while they were passed out on his couch shirtless and then sell to gay men on the internet and make some serious money. But this guy was inexplicably ten million times more gorgeous than all of them put together. Well, maybe not as gorgeous as, say, James Franco, but one couldn't be picky. Especially in high school, especially in band practice of all places.
Tall, dark, and swoonworthy seemed to be in a state of shock, though if it was because he was worried about his trumpet (which he was still cradling to his chest like it was his child) or because he was speechless in the face of Davey’s audacity was unclear. Slowly, he blinked a few times before giving Davey a once-over and smiled slowly. It was the kind of smile that was ridiculously hot and promised a great deal of carnal pleasure, but had the adverse effect of revealing the person giving it as a pretty big creep.
They never were nearly as perfect as they looked.
"Not a problem, just don't do it again," the unnamed guy said.
"Right, okay, got it." Davey said tightly.
Unnamed guy opened his mouth to say something, but Asshole Drummer went "Kennedy, you douche, hurry up!" and Kennedy (looked up at the unnamed asshole and beamed adoringly.
Davey watched, apparently completely forgotten, while Kennedy and Douchebag greeted each other, which involved a lot of hooting and fist pounding and ass-slapping. Douchebag seemed totally at ease, but Kennedy seemed almost shy, his hands and eyes lingering in a way that suggested that he was harboring a pretty big crush. It made some of the glamor wear off Kennedy, if his taste was really that bad.
"So, any hot new meat?" Douchebag said when the manly grunting and pounding was over. Kennedy shrugged.
"Eh, none worth noting. A few chicks in the hall, though."
"The ones whose tits grew faster than their brains?"
"With the totally tiny shirts? Yeah man, you see them?"
"Fuck yeah I saw them," Douchebag said, holding up his hand, which Kennedy practically leapt at the chance to high five.
"Atta boy, dude," Kennedy said, grinning, but the smile was strained. There were a few seconds of awkward silence which should have been Davey's cue to turn away, but he couldn't help himself.
"Dude, Fred," Douchebag finally said (wasn't his name Kennedy? Davey was really confused), "saw you take a wipe-out over that freshman."
"Yeah, whatever," Kennedy/Fred said, shrugging. "Bit of a change, you know? Usually they're tripping over themselves."
"Why's that?" Douchebag asked, scratching under his soul patch to pop a pimple.
"Tripping over themselves to get in my pants, that’s what," Kennedy shouted, and Douchebag bellowed laughter like this was the greatest thing he had ever heard, and the pounding and hooting started all over again.
Davey rolled his eyes and turned around. In this room, he thought, assholes apparently came in twos.
- - -
Nathan jabbed Freddy back with his drumsticks all throughout Mr. Jones' yearly “let's cut the bullshit” lecture. Freddy managed to get halfway through before grabbing the sticks at the base, glaring at him. "Dude, stop poking me so hard."
“That’s not what your mom said,” Nathan stage-whispered back, which caused Freddy, and about half of the trumpet sectional, to burst out into laughter, which earned them a glare from Mr. Jones for interrupting his tried-and-true monologue. It was the same speech he gave every year about the Grand and Serious undertaking of Band. Every year, he almost the same speech verbatim to his music theory class (the Grand and Serious undertaking of music theory), to his Jazz Lab I and II semester courses (jazz was also Grand and Serious), and to all of his composition classes.
Having passed through many of them, Freddy tuned out and looked over the crowd of students seated on the floor. There was that freshman that tripped him in the clarinet section - undoubtedly so, only a freshman would bother to listen to Mr. Jones' first day speech. He was nice looking. A little on the short side, skinny, like he hadn’t grown quite yet. He had fine features, still a little babyish, a dusting of freckles, and floppy sandy-brown hair. And Freddy was half-sure that Freshman was checking him out when he was tripped. He hadn’t even seemed phased by Freddy’s winking. He got instantly filed away under 'potentially gay and potentially attractive', before Freddy moved on to the next section of still-enraptured newbies.
Mr. Jones finished his lecture- then there was warming up, practice scales, and the bell. Nathan followed Freddy outside and hit him playfully on the side. "Thanks for that, Kennedy. Just like you to get me in trouble, before the day's half through."
Freddy hit him back on the shoulder. "Yeah, you had to make the joke. Now I've got to go through the rest of the day followed by the memory of you fucking my dead mother."
Nathan rolled his eyes. Freddy felt a sudden twist of affection in his stomach, hot and feral. "What've you got the rest of the day?"
"Whitten. McDonald. Sterling." Nathan rattled off a series of names. Freddy shook his head. Nothing in common. They both made the same show of disappointment before Nathan clapped him on the back and left.
Lunch was fast. He met up with old friends, made fun of the cafeteria food (inedible, always inedible) discussed plans with Chris for illegal off-grounds food runs. At some point his old girlfriend Elizabeth had even shown up, and miracles of miracles, decided to stop being a psycho bitch over the circumstances of their breakup, which, even to Freddy, were drastically convoluted. The second half of the day after the end of lunch went better than the first. Advanced Composition with Jones and then Music Appreciation (he hadn't bagged Jones again, but the class was taught by a sweet old lady which helped, all older women just reminded him of Regina).
But the end of the day was by far, the best part of Freddy's day. Joseph O'Brian was standing by his car, parked three over from Freddy’s, and all alone, without his circle of jock friends for protection.
He slammed the school door shut behind him happily. "Well, hello, O'Brian."
Joey looked almost disgusted as he inclined his head. "Kennedy."
Freddy snorted. "I missed you too, Joey. Tell me, which sports are you doing this year? I need to know which teams I should be turning. Or, you know, switching teams. Get it?” Joey never appreciated a joke. “But why even choose a team?" Freddy said, as if he hadn’t spent all summer planning exactly whose sexual crisis would frustrate Joey the most. "Maybe I'll just start with all your friends. That wouldn't be too hard, do you think? I've had so many already."
And that made get Joey get angry. His back was tense, and he’d pulled himself up to his full height, towering a little over Freddy. They stared at each other, playing a game of visual chicken until a voice broke their stare-down.
"Hi, Joey," it said brightly, as if Joey wasn’t calculating which side of Freddy’s nose he’d like to break. "Ready to go...oh." Kennedy risked sliding his gaze away to look behind Joey and see who was talking. Band Freshman.
"Davey," Joey said, his voice tight, "what's wrong?"
"Davey, huh?" Freddy said. "You two know each other?"
"This is my little brother," Joey said tightly side-stepping to block his brother’s curious gaze, which only resulted in him side-stepping to see around Joey. "Why, you know him?"
"We're in band together," Joey’s brother said, fidgeting under Freddy’s stare.
"Should have thought to warn you," Joey said, his hand clenching back into a fist.
"Oh, don't be so uptight, O'Brian," Kennedy said, "What, you think I'm going to turn your baby brother?"
"Turn me what?" He whispered to Joey.
"Shut up, Davey, you're encouraging him," Joey hissed back.
"He thinks I'm going to make you gay," Freddy supplied helpfully. The idea had merit, too. O’Brian wasn’t a complete lost cause, then.
"Told you not to encourage him," Joey said, sounding resigned.
"But I am gay," his brother said and oh, this was too good.
"Davey," Joey began, but Freddy cut in,
"Oh, really, so you don't mind when it's your brother, just your friends.”
"They're not already gay, Davey is."
"Your friends are gay?" Davey asked.
"No, that's the point, Davey. He hooks up with them just to annoy me." Which, Freddy thought, was true, but did Joey have to make it sound like that? It was mutually beneficial. Freddy got off, and they got off, because what high school guy would turn down a free blowjob or hand job? Plus, it drove Joey crazy.
"Why, does he have a crush on you or something?"
"Oh my god," Joey said, turning to Freddy, "do you have a fucking crush on me? Is that it?"
Freddy scoffed. "You wish, O'Brian."
Joey rolled his eyes. "I really don't. Don't you have somewhere else to be, anyway? Other people to bother?"
Freddy paused. Chris was in the background, looking ready to jump in the fray. He waved him off towards his car. No need for reinforcements at the moment. Instead of answering, he ignored Joey and turned his attention to the Freshman - Davey. He was cuter than Freddy had first noticed, now that he was looking at him face to face, not below from the band room carpet. Pretty dark brown eyes, thickly surrounded by dark lashes. Thin, very pink, mischievous mouth. Although it wasn't immediately apparent that he was Joey's brother, he could tell that they were related - the long nose, the dusting of freckles, matter-of-fact attitude, hell, how had he missed the surname? Mr. Jones must have called attendance at some point.
Freddy stuck out his hand (kid was short, felt as if he had to bend almost into two to do it) and smiled. "Hiya, Joey's gay brother. I'm Freddy."
"Davey," Davey said, shaking Freddy's hand. He had a nice, warm hands, strangely strong for a little guy. "Wait, I thought your name was Kennedy."
"That's his last name, Davey," Joey said, as if from a great distance.
"Oh," Davey said, still shaking Freddy's hand. "Freddy Kennedy. That makes sense."
"So does Davey O'Brian," Freddy said.
"It's David, really, but everyone calls me Davey." Davey made a move to pull his hand away, but Freddy gripped it tight. He liked the way it fit in his. Just a little smaller (the kid had mitts on him, for someone his size), fingertips strangely smooth. He also liked how Joey’s eyes got dark and angry.
"Yeah, well I'm really Frederick, but no one calls me that, either."
"I'll remember that," Davey said.
"Wonderful," Joey said, crossing his arms. "That's just fantastic. Want to let go of each other now?"
"Oh, right," Davey said, dropping Freddy's hand as if it was burning him. "Well, uh, nice to meet you."
"No, it was not nice," Joey corrected him.
"I didn't ask you," Davey said, "and I thought it was nice."
"No you didn't."
"Don't tell me what to think!"
"Nice seeing both of you," Freddy said, his smile just this side of evil. He gave Davey a wink and made sure to hit his shoulder against Joey's as he walked past. Joey sighed.
"Well, first rule, avoid that asshole at all costs," Freddy heard Joey say as he walked away, unlocking the car, "Now come on, it's the first day and I've already got a shitload of homework to do."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Davey said, still, before getting in his side and slamming the door.
Chris was waiting next to his Freddy’s car, pretending like he hadn’t just been eavesdropping. Freddy gave Chris a thin smile when he saw him. "Find your own damned ride home."
Chris raised his hands defensively. "Just wanted to let you know that I've got practice in a half-hour. I don't need the ride. Besides, who says I want to ride with you anyway, you always want to play that old shit with whathisname-"
"His name is Chet Baker," Freddy said, affronted, climbing into the front seat. "And be careful what you say about him or I'll never give you a ride anywhere ever again."
Chris rolled his eyes. "See ya, Kennedy."
Freddy waved as he pulled out. It wasn't until the third stoplight from home that the full effect of what had happened hit him, like a sledgehammer.
Joey had a little brother. Joey had a little brother in band, which everyone knew was Kennedy territory, and he was gay. How could he not go for it? Joey had a little brother, David-but-not-really with floppy hair and a funny little mouth and wide, trusting eyes who tripped people over and shook their hands in a funny, polite sort of way…
He shook himself out of his happy daze when the car behind him angrily honked. Since when had the light turned green? He accelerated abruptly, causing his backpack to jump furiously off the front seat while something else clattered behind him (probably his trumpet case, poor baby), and headed home, whistling tunelessly.
- - -
Davey was able to say, after a month of high school, that it sucked, and he wanted to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible. "I don't see what's wrong with dropping out and joining the circus," he grumbled to his mother, poking his oatmeal despondently as she kneaded the bread dough.
"The circus is not hiring 15-year-olds," his mother said severely. “And if they are, the word 'circus' is a euphemism.”
"What about those fancy private schools that were bugging you?" Davey asked. Surely, one of them would stop trying to make him learn about trigonometric functions and let him play the piano all day.
"Unless you have illegal drug money, we can't afford them," his mother said, "and that was not a suggestion. Eat your oatmeal."
Obediently, Davey tucked in.
If you had asked Davey to predict why he'd be so miserable in high school, Davey would have guessed, based on every teen movie he had ever watched (and he'd watched a lot of them), that he would be repeatedly shoved into lockers or given wedgies or would have had his lunch money stolen. Not that he had lunch money - his mother packed the best lunches on the entire planet, and he wasn't giving that up no matter how dorky it was. Since Joey refused to give up his mother's brown-bagged specialties and little notes (that always seemed to say just the right things while reminding them to go see the teacher about the thing and get the form for the field trip), well, Davey certainly wasn't going to plead too-cool for the best chicken salad in the universe.
No, Davey was suddenly finding himself lonely.
He'd never been precisely popular in middle school, but he'd gotten by. Gotten asked to dances and invited to slumber parties and such. But now, his social life had completely dried up. Davey had given up the whole straight-and-shy ruse for bust once he hit high school. It was stupid and tired and honestly, he'd thought people had known. Because when he told Joey, he'd said "fucking duh" and then "get out of my room, fagface", which had gotten him grounded for a week and been totally worth it. His mom had just smiled and nodded and said she had guessed and was glad Davey felt brave enough to tell her. But apparently it really had been a secret from everyone else, because all those invitations out vanished. He'd thought he was invited to those girly slumber parties to make Tina or Kelly or Suu Chin feel like they had someone to talk to, but apparently he'd been set up on dates and not even known about it. And once Davey stopped having an in with the girls, the guys no longer needed him to spy for them. Plus, it seemed over the summer everyone had made a pact and decided they were so over slumber parties and too old for that now (which Davey had decided years ago and applauded wholeheartedly). Instead, the new thing seemed to be going to concerts for bad bands and then hooking up afterwards, only to come in the next day and talk about how totally high you had been. It was, if possible, even stupider than slumber parties.
Oh, sure, everyone was still nice to him in school. He went over to people's houses for school projects and always had someone who wanted to partner with him in class, but he was starting to feel, for the first time in his life, that maybe he should really have an actual friend. Someone who he could talk to about things. Because for the first time in his life, he felt like he had things to talk about. Or really, a thing - named Freddy Kennedy.
The thing was, Kennedy seemed to have this sort of obsession with Joey, which meant Kennedy had an obsession with Davey. He stared at him all through band practice like if he stopped looking, Davey would magically evaporate or fall over and die. Davey had tried to shoot him dirty looks, but every time he did Kennedy grinned slow and dirty like the world's lewdest invitation and winked.
And yes, Freddy was hot. Freddy was gorgeous. But Freddy was a jerk. And if he was starting to replace James Franco or Jake Gyllenhaal in Davey's recurring dreams where they ate cupcakes off of each other or rolled around kissing naked while Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band played in the background, well, that was only because he was always there.
So Davey had decided the only way to get through high school was to hide from it. He ate his lunch in back hallways and spent his free time hiding in a library carrel or finding a piano and composing, because it was only when he was alone, without fake-nice people or Freddy's eyes on him like a hawk's, that he felt anywhere near happy. And even that wasn't enough to stop him from needing to come home every day and change immediately into his pajamas, curl up with Harry Potter, his cat Mog, and a fresh brownie from the bakery downstairs, and read until dinner time, wishing beyond anything that a Hogwarts letter would come four years late for him and take him to Hogwarts, because there was no way Hogwarts wouldn't be a million times better than high school.
- - -
This year was already going to be amazing. Freddy could feel it in his bones. He had more music classes in his schedule than ever before, more classes he actually cared enough to study for, which meant better grades and Grandpa off of his back. He had his friends and his car. And all right, there were a few dents in his happiness but besides those, the future stretched out grandly in front of Freddy.
Nathan was a large dent. Being around him in band made Freddy uneasy. Last week they had made plans to see some movie with Chris, only Chris dropped out at the last minute, so it was just them together - Nathan with his large mouth and slow smile sitting in the dark theater beside him, laughing too loudly at every joke. He dropped Freddy off after, left him at his doorstep after giving him a warm slap on the back and asked him "Why haven't we done this more often?", like he didn’t already know the answer. Freddy had fought the urge to roll his eyes and shrugged instead, keeping up the act.
The second dent, or dents, were his grandparents. He loved them, because they accepted him into their house without questions, let him live in the basement and never complained when he went out all night and slept all afternoon the next day. He loved that, with the exception of one horrible moment when Grandpa tried to teach him about contraceptives, they never asked him awkward or hard questions, like how does all of this make you feel or why must you sleep with strange boys (and sometimes girls) all the time. But they were frustrating him, because they were worrying over him again. Freddy hadn't a clue what about, but something was up. He would enter in the kitchen to find them hunched over, whispering over the sink in hushed voices. Or he would come home after a long day and Regina would softly place a plate of warm cookies in front of him without saying anything at all. Or he'd be sitting on the couch between them, indulgently watching Jeopardy and getting all the music questions when his Grandpa would clear his throat and look at Freddy as if he wanted to say something, only to look back again.
Freddy wanted to shake them by the shoulders, tell them I'm all right, really but that opened the floor for more questions like is that really how all of this makes you feel? or then why do you sleep with so many strange boys (and sometimes girls)? so he said nothing, and fought the dreaded feeling that there was a long talk coming up.
The third, and largest dent by far, was David-but-actually-Davey O'Brian. Freddy was entirely obsessed with him, with his long, smooth fingers and gloriously rumpled hair. The staring was really getting to be unseemly and just uncool, but he couldn't help it, not when Davey's pale neck faced him day after day, the smooth bump of his backbone disappearing mysteriously under his shirt, teasing.
This in itself was not a problem, but that Davey appeared to be immune to Freddy's charms was. He tried all the usual tricks, giving Davey a sweet sheepish well, you caught me gaze every time Davey saw him looking; but Davey never responded, just turned faithfully back to Mr. Jones. He even tried looking for Davey in the cafeteria once (it was the perfect ruse, an untimely bump, a ruined lunch on the floor, an offer to go fetch something edible off grounds) only to find out a week later that Davey brought his lunches and avoided the cafeteria at all costs.
The straw finally broke two weeks later, when Freddy signed up by chance for music room practice.
He was just about to start - the trumpet was to his lips when heard music coming in from the adjacent room. Piano playing. He tiptoed to the next room, looking through the door frame, expecting to see some exchange student with coke bottle glasses, but it was Davey. His eyes were shut like he was playing in his sleep or lost somewhere far away, a minuscule bead of sweat working down his forehead, fingers moving as if they were a separate and magical entity. He was playing something- well, something angry sounding, filled with more emotion than Freddy could imagine being in so small a person. His mouth fell open with a soft gasp and he suddenly felt dizzy when he realized that instead of a printed sheet of music on the stand, there was a worn score book with a small pencil. Davey wasn't playing, he was composing.
Davey pounded out a few more chords before his fingers dropped and he sighed, crossing out a few marks in his notebook and scratching the back of his neck. He looked tired, like something had been forcibly pulled out of him. He cracked his knuckles and shook out his shoulders, and then, just as he was cracking his neck, he looked up to see Freddy who was still standing in the doorway, probably looking like he'd been hit by a two by four.
Well, shit.
"Uh, hi," Davey said meekly. "Was I being too loud or something?"
Freddy had his own stack of neatly penciled music at home. And then there was his grand project sophomore year, a sprawling trumpet solo he'd written furiously for almost six months, that Mr. Jones called "something special," looking over it slowly while scratching his very neat mustache. But Freddy had long since acknowledged that composition class for him was just another place to play trumpet, another place to be around music. He didn't have the talent for making things out of the air like others (Mr. Jones' called it "the furniture of the mind", Freddy pictured his as something like the inside of a seedy motel) or for fitting melodies together. Everything he composed sounded somehow crude and inelegant. He was good enough, though to tell that Davey really was something special. Way better than just good, way better than any of the pint-sized freshmen that pounded their pieces out in class in ten minutes flat while everyone else was still humming their way through melodies and sketching tonal maps on bits of paper. This kid's a genius, he thought to himself, with no small amount of admiration.
Freddy leaned heavily into the frame of the doorway. "Too loud? You weren't being too loud. Say, do you do that often?" He made a wiggling motion with his fingers that was meant to imitate Davey playing the piano. "Compose stuff like that? It sounded amazing."
"What?" Davey asked, confused. "No, no, that was crap. That was, like, awful. That was like, I don't know... really, really bad. Like, random noises pounding together bad. Okay, no, no, that can't be all you hear of mine, wait," he bent over and rustled in his bag desperately, knocking over his bagged lunch, a couple of pencils, and a bunch of ripped-out notebook paper with squiggling doodles before pulling out another, more battered notebook. "Okay, this one isn't crap, at least, it's for my mom's birthday in a few months, you can tell me if it sucks or not." He cracked open the spine of his composition book and then his knuckles, again, for good measure, before settling down to play.
The second piece was better, Freddy thought. More restrained, although no less emotional. It was a simple piece - maybe two minutes long. It was sweet and almost crystalline in quality, delicate long broken chords that sounded dusty and golden, like an old photograph or a Sunday afternoon. Davey had nice hands, smooth with tapered fingers that moved quickly over the keys. He got into playing the piano too, looking utterly absorbed and unselfconscious, in a way that was nice to watch but not at all showy. Plus, Freddy thought, it was kind of hot. It was easy to zoom out, watching at him play, letting the music wash over him until Davey was done and looking up at him with a sheepish expression on his face. There was awkward silence when Davey finished that made Freddy uncomfortable. What was he supposed to say when someone played you something like that?
"So yeah," Davey said, affecting an air of nonchalance, like he hadn't just played a staggering work of genius. But then, Freddy was biased. "It's, you know, whatever. Not, like, important. Or, you know, um," he shrugged. "Whatever."
"Oh god," Freddy said, eyes widening. He moved from his perch against the door frame and plopped heavily beside Davey beside on the piano bench. He was completely bowled over by phrases ‘like that was crap’ and ‘it's for my mom's birthday’, sentences that painted a quaint and self-effacing image of Davey that Freddy had never considered. Quietly, he considered Davey’s face, which suddenly seemed older. Wiser, certainly. More knowing than he’d first given Davey credit for, but still so very fragile and insecure. "You really meant that, didn't you? The part about me telling you whether it sucks or not." He snorted. "If I could play like that I'd always be saying things like that, so that whenever I did play they'd be even more shocked. Like how doctors in shit movies are always telling cripples they won't ever walk again. But lo and behold, an hour into the future, they do. But you," he jabbed an accusatory finger at Davey's arm, "actually believe that. I didn't think people like you existed," he marveled. "You're a funny one."
"Wait, what?" Davey asked. "What does this have to do with cripples?"
"It's like, no one expects it, is my point."
"What, like the Spanish Inquisition?"
Freddy couldn’t help but burst into full-on, genuine laughter - shoulders thrown back, chest heaving - laughter. Quietly, Davey eventually joined him, giggling nervously.
"You sure you're related to O'Brian?" Freddy finally asked, squinting at him. "'Cause you've got things he doesn't, like, I dunno, a sense of humor and stuff."
"It's...what they tell me?" Davey said, confused. "I mean, we share the same last name, so I suppose I must be."
"Well, I share the same last name with a dead president," Freddy said, waving his hand. "That doesn't really mean anything."
"What, do you want DNA testing?"
"For a start," Freddy said, eyes gleaming as he leaned forward. Davey involuntarily leaned back, cowed. "But only if I get to collect your DNA the fun way."
"What, skin scraping?" Davey babbled. "Because that doesn't sound very fun, but neither does, you know, pulling hairs out. Unless you meant swabbing my mouth. You could swab my mouth. Did you mean swabbing my mouth?"
"Not really, no, I meant more..." Freddy trailed off and quirked an eyebrow in a way so suggestive that his meaning suddenly seemed to hit Davey like oncoming traffic.
"Oh!" he said. "You mean semen."
"Uh, I guess that's one way of putting it," Freddy said, disappointed that Davey didn't seem suitably impressed or turned on by his lewd suggestion, but instead was babbling over him.
"I don't know, I mean, doesn't that only carry half of your genetic data? Because I thought that an egg had the other half."
"I, uh, I mean, it works in crime shows," Freddy said.
"Wait a minute," Davey said, snapping his fingers, "you'd need a DNA sample from Joey, too! Oh my god, you're just, you do have a crush on Joey, don't you? Because you, you have a straight guy thing, like, you have to turn all of them, right, because you can't turn Nathan, and Joey's, like, the straightest straight guy ever. Hah! I totally got you." Davey crossed his arms righteously, looking immensely pleased with himself. "Well, it won't work," he said brightly, "because seducing me won't get you any closer to Joey's sperm."
Freddy crossed his arms and frowned. It was maddeningly hard to tell if Davey really was as obtuse as he acted, or if he was just pretending to be in order to frustrate him, and it was made even more annoying but the juxtaposition to his previously undiscovered genius. Either way, Freddy felt like he was on the losing side. "What the fuck are you talking about," he said, disgusted. “I wouldn't touch O'Brian on the shoulder with a pair of latex gloves. His semen's probably got all sorts of things crawling in it. No offense," he added hastily. "I'm sure yours is fine. I'm positive yours is fine. But that whole thing last year with his friends, that was just a joke. I don't have a straight guy thing," he said with apparently unconvincing calm, since Davey shot him a doubting look. Freddy poked him in the side and shrugged, then leaned against the wall, propping his feet up across the bench. "See, now you've offended me. I don't think I'll ever forgive you. Unless, of course, that is banana bread I see sticking out of your bag, in which case I think some sort of arrangement can be made."
"Yeah, okay, whatever," Davey grumbled, throwing the banana bread at Freddy's face. It actually hit him with satisfying thwack.
"Did you just hit me in the face with banana bread?" Freddy asked incredulously.
"Yup."
"Are you going to apologize?"
"Nope. You're stealing my banana bread, so I get to hit you."
Freddy tilted his head and unwrapped it, taking a bite and making an almost pornographic moan. Sure, the bread was a little stale, but it was good, cinnamon-y (no one ever put in the proper amount of cinnamon, or any cinnamon at all, which was such a pity) and soft, crumbly without being overly moist, light and gentle and, well, it tasted like how Davey's last song would taste, if it were banana bread, and in Freddy's mouth. And it was delicious.
"Oh my god," Freddy moaned in ecstasy, "I fucking love this banana bread. I'm going to fucking marry this fucking banana bread and I'm going to fuck, no, no, I am going to make sweet sexy, sexy love to this banana bread."
"Why would you do that to banana bread?" Davey asked, a little wild-eyed
"This banana bread," Freddy explained through a mouthful, "is classy, okay, it deserves to be wooed. I would light candles and play Cole Porter for this banana bread."
"That is a terrible idea."
"It's an awesome idea."
"You can't seduce someone, or, or, something with Cole Porter!" Davey said, waving his hands in the air. "Like, who would go 'oh god, Brush Up Your Shakespeare! Do me!'?"
"No no," Freddy said, waggling his eyebrows, "you tell them to blow, Gabriel, blow."
"Oh my god," Davey squeaked.
"Oh, Gabriel!" Freddy said in a ridiculous falsetto, "that's right, blow! Blow, Gabriel! Blow!"
"I am never going to be able to eat my mother's banana bread ever again," Davey said sadly, shaking his head and staring longingly at the quarter that Freddy still was savoring.
"Your mother made this?" Freddy said eagerly.
"Yeah, she owns the Little Lamb Bakery? You know, two blocks down?"
"Oh, huh," Freddy said, "guess I'll have to start going there, won't I?"
"Not if you react like that," Davey said primly, stuffing his music in his bag as the bell rang. "It's a family establishment."
"I'll keep that in mind," Freddy said, stuffing the last of his banana bread in his mouth, brushing off his fingers before jamming them in his pockets and winking. "I'll only give the performance full-on if it's just you watching."
"Oh my god," Davey said, mostly to himself. Freddy could feel Davey’s eyes burning on his back and refrained from letting out a victorious whoop as he sauntered out of the practice room.
- - -
That night, Davey dreamt Freddy was naked on the bakery floor with him, kissing his wrists and sucking on his fingers while Too Darn Hot played in the background. He kept looking up at Davey though his lashes wickedly until he couldn't stand it and tackled Freddy to the floor, which melted beneath them as they rolled around in an empty, soft space that smelled of bananas.
- - -
Part Two
Joey very nearly made Davey late to his very first day of high school by forgetting to set his alarm clock.
"How did that boy manage to make it seventeen years and not get himself killed?" Davey's mother muttered, pulling two trays of muffins out of the oven, setting aside enough for the three of them. Davey grabbed his while her back was turned, arranging the rest on a tray.
"Not my fault," he said, juggling his breakfast between his hands, waiting for it to cool off. "You gave birth to him, not me."
"Alarm clocks are in my genetic code," Mary said, turning around. "Davey, don't eat -" but it was too late, Davey had already stuffed the top of his muffin in his mouth and let out a yelp, swallowing hard and fanning desperately at his mouth.
"Bur' ma mouf," Davey said regretfully, stuffing more of the still-steaming muffin in his mouth. "Bu' i's really goo', Mom."
"I think there was a mistake at the hospital with both of you," Mary said, ruffling Davey's hair fondly before heading up the back stairs to their apartment above the cafe. "Joseph O'Brian, what on earth are you doing in that shower?" Davey could hear her bellowing as she slammed into the apartment, and he dimly heard Joey reply. He just hoped he hadn't honestly told her what he was really doing in the shower, which was probably not G-rated and was likely to mean that Joey would be killed, and Davey needed him to drive. He sighed, trying to scrape as many crumbs off of the muffin liner as possible. This, he decided, boded poorly for his future high school career.
- - -
Freddy wasn't one for first days.
The alarm clock had been set wrong and went off two hours before he wanted to get up, and then Freddy couldn't get back to sleep. His clothes were all wrong too. Regina - (he felt silly calling her Grandma, so for the past few months it had become 'Grandpa and Regina'. She called it a 'phase' but he swore up and down he'd stop if she'd make Grandpa stop calling him Junior instead of Freddy) - had ironed his jeans while he showered. He’d spent a half-hour trying to convince her that no one ironed jeans any more, spent another twenty minutes trying frantically to beat out the creases that she'd put into them when finally he realized he was going to be late and went running for his keys. The drive, which normally took ten minutes maximum, stretched into fifteen. The music was wrong, the mix he had carefully assembled last night was left on his bedside table, and he had to settle for the radio.
School always felt wrong. A boring first period class (English, with Whitten) stretched into a boring second period, a boring third. It felt like years before band - the only class worth anything - finally rolled around. Other teachers didn't like Freddy for a multitude of reasons he was sure were probably justifiable - for cutting class, sleeping in lectures, handing in assignments weeks after due dates with only no excuse except for a sheepish grin. But Mr. Jones always liked him. Freddy knew that that class was meant for him the second he walked in freshman year, and saw a poster of his god, Chet Baker, staring down at him from the front wall. Band was home.
- - -
Davey, over years of living with Joey, had developed a talent of always being able to spot the hugest asshole in any given room. Sometimes they were tricky. Sometimes they seemed nice and quiet but were just waiting for any possible sign of weakness before they lashed out. Sometimes they needed to appear weak before they reared their ugly head. But Davey, given ten minutes, could tell you without fail who the largest ass in the room was.
Currently, he thought, stretching out his legs and glancing around the room, the winner was a bored-looking blonde in the percussion section, twirling his drumstick and surveying the room as if it was his own personal empire. He had hair that had probably taken him a least an hour to get artfully stuck up that morning, but by now it was wilting and sticky looking. And it did nothing to disguise a piggy nose, or bad acne under his chin he probably thought he had masterfully covered under some scraggly blonde hair under his chin which Davey assumed was supposed to be a gross interpretation of a soul patch. It really looked like he'd taken some hair from the shower drain and glued it there in an attempt to make himself look cooler. From the way the girls in the flute sectional were twittering to themselves, it appeared to be working on one gender, at the very least.
There you go, Davey thought dispassionately. And the largest asshole in the room, ladies and gentlemen, is...
His thoughts were interrupted by an almighty clatter and a string of loud curses as someone (a rather large someone) tripped over the leg he'd left outstretched. "God dammit," Davey heard the guy who had tripped over him say. His back was still to Davey, so he couldn't see who it was, but the guy was pretty tall and broad - probably a senior. He was currently cradling his trumpet to his body like it was a grievously injured child. Davey had the brief, fleeting thought that perhaps he ought to quit band right then as he was either going to get beat up or, by time he was this guy's age, go completely off his nut.
"Sorry!" Davey said. "I didn't realize anyone was walking around back here."
"Yeah, well, I was," the guy muttered ruefully, turning around to glare at Davey and oh my god, Davey thought helplessly, because this guy was probably the hottest person he’d seen in his entire life. (Or, well, all day - Davey had had high hopes coming in to high school.) And Davey lived with Joey, who wasn't bad looking, and all of Joey's jock friends, who he could probably take pictures of while they were passed out on his couch shirtless and then sell to gay men on the internet and make some serious money. But this guy was inexplicably ten million times more gorgeous than all of them put together. Well, maybe not as gorgeous as, say, James Franco, but one couldn't be picky. Especially in high school, especially in band practice of all places.
Tall, dark, and swoonworthy seemed to be in a state of shock, though if it was because he was worried about his trumpet (which he was still cradling to his chest like it was his child) or because he was speechless in the face of Davey’s audacity was unclear. Slowly, he blinked a few times before giving Davey a once-over and smiled slowly. It was the kind of smile that was ridiculously hot and promised a great deal of carnal pleasure, but had the adverse effect of revealing the person giving it as a pretty big creep.
They never were nearly as perfect as they looked.
"Not a problem, just don't do it again," the unnamed guy said.
"Right, okay, got it." Davey said tightly.
Unnamed guy opened his mouth to say something, but Asshole Drummer went "Kennedy, you douche, hurry up!" and Kennedy (looked up at the unnamed asshole and beamed adoringly.
Davey watched, apparently completely forgotten, while Kennedy and Douchebag greeted each other, which involved a lot of hooting and fist pounding and ass-slapping. Douchebag seemed totally at ease, but Kennedy seemed almost shy, his hands and eyes lingering in a way that suggested that he was harboring a pretty big crush. It made some of the glamor wear off Kennedy, if his taste was really that bad.
"So, any hot new meat?" Douchebag said when the manly grunting and pounding was over. Kennedy shrugged.
"Eh, none worth noting. A few chicks in the hall, though."
"The ones whose tits grew faster than their brains?"
"With the totally tiny shirts? Yeah man, you see them?"
"Fuck yeah I saw them," Douchebag said, holding up his hand, which Kennedy practically leapt at the chance to high five.
"Atta boy, dude," Kennedy said, grinning, but the smile was strained. There were a few seconds of awkward silence which should have been Davey's cue to turn away, but he couldn't help himself.
"Dude, Fred," Douchebag finally said (wasn't his name Kennedy? Davey was really confused), "saw you take a wipe-out over that freshman."
"Yeah, whatever," Kennedy/Fred said, shrugging. "Bit of a change, you know? Usually they're tripping over themselves."
"Why's that?" Douchebag asked, scratching under his soul patch to pop a pimple.
"Tripping over themselves to get in my pants, that’s what," Kennedy shouted, and Douchebag bellowed laughter like this was the greatest thing he had ever heard, and the pounding and hooting started all over again.
Davey rolled his eyes and turned around. In this room, he thought, assholes apparently came in twos.
- - -
Nathan jabbed Freddy back with his drumsticks all throughout Mr. Jones' yearly “let's cut the bullshit” lecture. Freddy managed to get halfway through before grabbing the sticks at the base, glaring at him. "Dude, stop poking me so hard."
“That’s not what your mom said,” Nathan stage-whispered back, which caused Freddy, and about half of the trumpet sectional, to burst out into laughter, which earned them a glare from Mr. Jones for interrupting his tried-and-true monologue. It was the same speech he gave every year about the Grand and Serious undertaking of Band. Every year, he almost the same speech verbatim to his music theory class (the Grand and Serious undertaking of music theory), to his Jazz Lab I and II semester courses (jazz was also Grand and Serious), and to all of his composition classes.
Having passed through many of them, Freddy tuned out and looked over the crowd of students seated on the floor. There was that freshman that tripped him in the clarinet section - undoubtedly so, only a freshman would bother to listen to Mr. Jones' first day speech. He was nice looking. A little on the short side, skinny, like he hadn’t grown quite yet. He had fine features, still a little babyish, a dusting of freckles, and floppy sandy-brown hair. And Freddy was half-sure that Freshman was checking him out when he was tripped. He hadn’t even seemed phased by Freddy’s winking. He got instantly filed away under 'potentially gay and potentially attractive', before Freddy moved on to the next section of still-enraptured newbies.
Mr. Jones finished his lecture- then there was warming up, practice scales, and the bell. Nathan followed Freddy outside and hit him playfully on the side. "Thanks for that, Kennedy. Just like you to get me in trouble, before the day's half through."
Freddy hit him back on the shoulder. "Yeah, you had to make the joke. Now I've got to go through the rest of the day followed by the memory of you fucking my dead mother."
Nathan rolled his eyes. Freddy felt a sudden twist of affection in his stomach, hot and feral. "What've you got the rest of the day?"
"Whitten. McDonald. Sterling." Nathan rattled off a series of names. Freddy shook his head. Nothing in common. They both made the same show of disappointment before Nathan clapped him on the back and left.
Lunch was fast. He met up with old friends, made fun of the cafeteria food (inedible, always inedible) discussed plans with Chris for illegal off-grounds food runs. At some point his old girlfriend Elizabeth had even shown up, and miracles of miracles, decided to stop being a psycho bitch over the circumstances of their breakup, which, even to Freddy, were drastically convoluted. The second half of the day after the end of lunch went better than the first. Advanced Composition with Jones and then Music Appreciation (he hadn't bagged Jones again, but the class was taught by a sweet old lady which helped, all older women just reminded him of Regina).
But the end of the day was by far, the best part of Freddy's day. Joseph O'Brian was standing by his car, parked three over from Freddy’s, and all alone, without his circle of jock friends for protection.
He slammed the school door shut behind him happily. "Well, hello, O'Brian."
Joey looked almost disgusted as he inclined his head. "Kennedy."
Freddy snorted. "I missed you too, Joey. Tell me, which sports are you doing this year? I need to know which teams I should be turning. Or, you know, switching teams. Get it?” Joey never appreciated a joke. “But why even choose a team?" Freddy said, as if he hadn’t spent all summer planning exactly whose sexual crisis would frustrate Joey the most. "Maybe I'll just start with all your friends. That wouldn't be too hard, do you think? I've had so many already."
And that made get Joey get angry. His back was tense, and he’d pulled himself up to his full height, towering a little over Freddy. They stared at each other, playing a game of visual chicken until a voice broke their stare-down.
"Hi, Joey," it said brightly, as if Joey wasn’t calculating which side of Freddy’s nose he’d like to break. "Ready to go...oh." Kennedy risked sliding his gaze away to look behind Joey and see who was talking. Band Freshman.
"Davey," Joey said, his voice tight, "what's wrong?"
"Davey, huh?" Freddy said. "You two know each other?"
"This is my little brother," Joey said tightly side-stepping to block his brother’s curious gaze, which only resulted in him side-stepping to see around Joey. "Why, you know him?"
"We're in band together," Joey’s brother said, fidgeting under Freddy’s stare.
"Should have thought to warn you," Joey said, his hand clenching back into a fist.
"Oh, don't be so uptight, O'Brian," Kennedy said, "What, you think I'm going to turn your baby brother?"
"Turn me what?" He whispered to Joey.
"Shut up, Davey, you're encouraging him," Joey hissed back.
"He thinks I'm going to make you gay," Freddy supplied helpfully. The idea had merit, too. O’Brian wasn’t a complete lost cause, then.
"Told you not to encourage him," Joey said, sounding resigned.
"But I am gay," his brother said and oh, this was too good.
"Davey," Joey began, but Freddy cut in,
"Oh, really, so you don't mind when it's your brother, just your friends.”
"They're not already gay, Davey is."
"Your friends are gay?" Davey asked.
"No, that's the point, Davey. He hooks up with them just to annoy me." Which, Freddy thought, was true, but did Joey have to make it sound like that? It was mutually beneficial. Freddy got off, and they got off, because what high school guy would turn down a free blowjob or hand job? Plus, it drove Joey crazy.
"Why, does he have a crush on you or something?"
"Oh my god," Joey said, turning to Freddy, "do you have a fucking crush on me? Is that it?"
Freddy scoffed. "You wish, O'Brian."
Joey rolled his eyes. "I really don't. Don't you have somewhere else to be, anyway? Other people to bother?"
Freddy paused. Chris was in the background, looking ready to jump in the fray. He waved him off towards his car. No need for reinforcements at the moment. Instead of answering, he ignored Joey and turned his attention to the Freshman - Davey. He was cuter than Freddy had first noticed, now that he was looking at him face to face, not below from the band room carpet. Pretty dark brown eyes, thickly surrounded by dark lashes. Thin, very pink, mischievous mouth. Although it wasn't immediately apparent that he was Joey's brother, he could tell that they were related - the long nose, the dusting of freckles, matter-of-fact attitude, hell, how had he missed the surname? Mr. Jones must have called attendance at some point.
Freddy stuck out his hand (kid was short, felt as if he had to bend almost into two to do it) and smiled. "Hiya, Joey's gay brother. I'm Freddy."
"Davey," Davey said, shaking Freddy's hand. He had a nice, warm hands, strangely strong for a little guy. "Wait, I thought your name was Kennedy."
"That's his last name, Davey," Joey said, as if from a great distance.
"Oh," Davey said, still shaking Freddy's hand. "Freddy Kennedy. That makes sense."
"So does Davey O'Brian," Freddy said.
"It's David, really, but everyone calls me Davey." Davey made a move to pull his hand away, but Freddy gripped it tight. He liked the way it fit in his. Just a little smaller (the kid had mitts on him, for someone his size), fingertips strangely smooth. He also liked how Joey’s eyes got dark and angry.
"Yeah, well I'm really Frederick, but no one calls me that, either."
"I'll remember that," Davey said.
"Wonderful," Joey said, crossing his arms. "That's just fantastic. Want to let go of each other now?"
"Oh, right," Davey said, dropping Freddy's hand as if it was burning him. "Well, uh, nice to meet you."
"No, it was not nice," Joey corrected him.
"I didn't ask you," Davey said, "and I thought it was nice."
"No you didn't."
"Don't tell me what to think!"
"Nice seeing both of you," Freddy said, his smile just this side of evil. He gave Davey a wink and made sure to hit his shoulder against Joey's as he walked past. Joey sighed.
"Well, first rule, avoid that asshole at all costs," Freddy heard Joey say as he walked away, unlocking the car, "Now come on, it's the first day and I've already got a shitload of homework to do."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Davey said, still, before getting in his side and slamming the door.
Chris was waiting next to his Freddy’s car, pretending like he hadn’t just been eavesdropping. Freddy gave Chris a thin smile when he saw him. "Find your own damned ride home."
Chris raised his hands defensively. "Just wanted to let you know that I've got practice in a half-hour. I don't need the ride. Besides, who says I want to ride with you anyway, you always want to play that old shit with whathisname-"
"His name is Chet Baker," Freddy said, affronted, climbing into the front seat. "And be careful what you say about him or I'll never give you a ride anywhere ever again."
Chris rolled his eyes. "See ya, Kennedy."
Freddy waved as he pulled out. It wasn't until the third stoplight from home that the full effect of what had happened hit him, like a sledgehammer.
Joey had a little brother. Joey had a little brother in band, which everyone knew was Kennedy territory, and he was gay. How could he not go for it? Joey had a little brother, David-but-not-really with floppy hair and a funny little mouth and wide, trusting eyes who tripped people over and shook their hands in a funny, polite sort of way…
He shook himself out of his happy daze when the car behind him angrily honked. Since when had the light turned green? He accelerated abruptly, causing his backpack to jump furiously off the front seat while something else clattered behind him (probably his trumpet case, poor baby), and headed home, whistling tunelessly.
- - -
Davey was able to say, after a month of high school, that it sucked, and he wanted to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible. "I don't see what's wrong with dropping out and joining the circus," he grumbled to his mother, poking his oatmeal despondently as she kneaded the bread dough.
"The circus is not hiring 15-year-olds," his mother said severely. “And if they are, the word 'circus' is a euphemism.”
"What about those fancy private schools that were bugging you?" Davey asked. Surely, one of them would stop trying to make him learn about trigonometric functions and let him play the piano all day.
"Unless you have illegal drug money, we can't afford them," his mother said, "and that was not a suggestion. Eat your oatmeal."
Obediently, Davey tucked in.
If you had asked Davey to predict why he'd be so miserable in high school, Davey would have guessed, based on every teen movie he had ever watched (and he'd watched a lot of them), that he would be repeatedly shoved into lockers or given wedgies or would have had his lunch money stolen. Not that he had lunch money - his mother packed the best lunches on the entire planet, and he wasn't giving that up no matter how dorky it was. Since Joey refused to give up his mother's brown-bagged specialties and little notes (that always seemed to say just the right things while reminding them to go see the teacher about the thing and get the form for the field trip), well, Davey certainly wasn't going to plead too-cool for the best chicken salad in the universe.
No, Davey was suddenly finding himself lonely.
He'd never been precisely popular in middle school, but he'd gotten by. Gotten asked to dances and invited to slumber parties and such. But now, his social life had completely dried up. Davey had given up the whole straight-and-shy ruse for bust once he hit high school. It was stupid and tired and honestly, he'd thought people had known. Because when he told Joey, he'd said "fucking duh" and then "get out of my room, fagface", which had gotten him grounded for a week and been totally worth it. His mom had just smiled and nodded and said she had guessed and was glad Davey felt brave enough to tell her. But apparently it really had been a secret from everyone else, because all those invitations out vanished. He'd thought he was invited to those girly slumber parties to make Tina or Kelly or Suu Chin feel like they had someone to talk to, but apparently he'd been set up on dates and not even known about it. And once Davey stopped having an in with the girls, the guys no longer needed him to spy for them. Plus, it seemed over the summer everyone had made a pact and decided they were so over slumber parties and too old for that now (which Davey had decided years ago and applauded wholeheartedly). Instead, the new thing seemed to be going to concerts for bad bands and then hooking up afterwards, only to come in the next day and talk about how totally high you had been. It was, if possible, even stupider than slumber parties.
Oh, sure, everyone was still nice to him in school. He went over to people's houses for school projects and always had someone who wanted to partner with him in class, but he was starting to feel, for the first time in his life, that maybe he should really have an actual friend. Someone who he could talk to about things. Because for the first time in his life, he felt like he had things to talk about. Or really, a thing - named Freddy Kennedy.
The thing was, Kennedy seemed to have this sort of obsession with Joey, which meant Kennedy had an obsession with Davey. He stared at him all through band practice like if he stopped looking, Davey would magically evaporate or fall over and die. Davey had tried to shoot him dirty looks, but every time he did Kennedy grinned slow and dirty like the world's lewdest invitation and winked.
And yes, Freddy was hot. Freddy was gorgeous. But Freddy was a jerk. And if he was starting to replace James Franco or Jake Gyllenhaal in Davey's recurring dreams where they ate cupcakes off of each other or rolled around kissing naked while Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band played in the background, well, that was only because he was always there.
So Davey had decided the only way to get through high school was to hide from it. He ate his lunch in back hallways and spent his free time hiding in a library carrel or finding a piano and composing, because it was only when he was alone, without fake-nice people or Freddy's eyes on him like a hawk's, that he felt anywhere near happy. And even that wasn't enough to stop him from needing to come home every day and change immediately into his pajamas, curl up with Harry Potter, his cat Mog, and a fresh brownie from the bakery downstairs, and read until dinner time, wishing beyond anything that a Hogwarts letter would come four years late for him and take him to Hogwarts, because there was no way Hogwarts wouldn't be a million times better than high school.
- - -
This year was already going to be amazing. Freddy could feel it in his bones. He had more music classes in his schedule than ever before, more classes he actually cared enough to study for, which meant better grades and Grandpa off of his back. He had his friends and his car. And all right, there were a few dents in his happiness but besides those, the future stretched out grandly in front of Freddy.
Nathan was a large dent. Being around him in band made Freddy uneasy. Last week they had made plans to see some movie with Chris, only Chris dropped out at the last minute, so it was just them together - Nathan with his large mouth and slow smile sitting in the dark theater beside him, laughing too loudly at every joke. He dropped Freddy off after, left him at his doorstep after giving him a warm slap on the back and asked him "Why haven't we done this more often?", like he didn’t already know the answer. Freddy had fought the urge to roll his eyes and shrugged instead, keeping up the act.
The second dent, or dents, were his grandparents. He loved them, because they accepted him into their house without questions, let him live in the basement and never complained when he went out all night and slept all afternoon the next day. He loved that, with the exception of one horrible moment when Grandpa tried to teach him about contraceptives, they never asked him awkward or hard questions, like how does all of this make you feel or why must you sleep with strange boys (and sometimes girls) all the time. But they were frustrating him, because they were worrying over him again. Freddy hadn't a clue what about, but something was up. He would enter in the kitchen to find them hunched over, whispering over the sink in hushed voices. Or he would come home after a long day and Regina would softly place a plate of warm cookies in front of him without saying anything at all. Or he'd be sitting on the couch between them, indulgently watching Jeopardy and getting all the music questions when his Grandpa would clear his throat and look at Freddy as if he wanted to say something, only to look back again.
Freddy wanted to shake them by the shoulders, tell them I'm all right, really but that opened the floor for more questions like is that really how all of this makes you feel? or then why do you sleep with so many strange boys (and sometimes girls)? so he said nothing, and fought the dreaded feeling that there was a long talk coming up.
The third, and largest dent by far, was David-but-actually-Davey O'Brian. Freddy was entirely obsessed with him, with his long, smooth fingers and gloriously rumpled hair. The staring was really getting to be unseemly and just uncool, but he couldn't help it, not when Davey's pale neck faced him day after day, the smooth bump of his backbone disappearing mysteriously under his shirt, teasing.
This in itself was not a problem, but that Davey appeared to be immune to Freddy's charms was. He tried all the usual tricks, giving Davey a sweet sheepish well, you caught me gaze every time Davey saw him looking; but Davey never responded, just turned faithfully back to Mr. Jones. He even tried looking for Davey in the cafeteria once (it was the perfect ruse, an untimely bump, a ruined lunch on the floor, an offer to go fetch something edible off grounds) only to find out a week later that Davey brought his lunches and avoided the cafeteria at all costs.
The straw finally broke two weeks later, when Freddy signed up by chance for music room practice.
He was just about to start - the trumpet was to his lips when heard music coming in from the adjacent room. Piano playing. He tiptoed to the next room, looking through the door frame, expecting to see some exchange student with coke bottle glasses, but it was Davey. His eyes were shut like he was playing in his sleep or lost somewhere far away, a minuscule bead of sweat working down his forehead, fingers moving as if they were a separate and magical entity. He was playing something- well, something angry sounding, filled with more emotion than Freddy could imagine being in so small a person. His mouth fell open with a soft gasp and he suddenly felt dizzy when he realized that instead of a printed sheet of music on the stand, there was a worn score book with a small pencil. Davey wasn't playing, he was composing.
Davey pounded out a few more chords before his fingers dropped and he sighed, crossing out a few marks in his notebook and scratching the back of his neck. He looked tired, like something had been forcibly pulled out of him. He cracked his knuckles and shook out his shoulders, and then, just as he was cracking his neck, he looked up to see Freddy who was still standing in the doorway, probably looking like he'd been hit by a two by four.
Well, shit.
"Uh, hi," Davey said meekly. "Was I being too loud or something?"
Freddy had his own stack of neatly penciled music at home. And then there was his grand project sophomore year, a sprawling trumpet solo he'd written furiously for almost six months, that Mr. Jones called "something special," looking over it slowly while scratching his very neat mustache. But Freddy had long since acknowledged that composition class for him was just another place to play trumpet, another place to be around music. He didn't have the talent for making things out of the air like others (Mr. Jones' called it "the furniture of the mind", Freddy pictured his as something like the inside of a seedy motel) or for fitting melodies together. Everything he composed sounded somehow crude and inelegant. He was good enough, though to tell that Davey really was something special. Way better than just good, way better than any of the pint-sized freshmen that pounded their pieces out in class in ten minutes flat while everyone else was still humming their way through melodies and sketching tonal maps on bits of paper. This kid's a genius, he thought to himself, with no small amount of admiration.
Freddy leaned heavily into the frame of the doorway. "Too loud? You weren't being too loud. Say, do you do that often?" He made a wiggling motion with his fingers that was meant to imitate Davey playing the piano. "Compose stuff like that? It sounded amazing."
"What?" Davey asked, confused. "No, no, that was crap. That was, like, awful. That was like, I don't know... really, really bad. Like, random noises pounding together bad. Okay, no, no, that can't be all you hear of mine, wait," he bent over and rustled in his bag desperately, knocking over his bagged lunch, a couple of pencils, and a bunch of ripped-out notebook paper with squiggling doodles before pulling out another, more battered notebook. "Okay, this one isn't crap, at least, it's for my mom's birthday in a few months, you can tell me if it sucks or not." He cracked open the spine of his composition book and then his knuckles, again, for good measure, before settling down to play.
The second piece was better, Freddy thought. More restrained, although no less emotional. It was a simple piece - maybe two minutes long. It was sweet and almost crystalline in quality, delicate long broken chords that sounded dusty and golden, like an old photograph or a Sunday afternoon. Davey had nice hands, smooth with tapered fingers that moved quickly over the keys. He got into playing the piano too, looking utterly absorbed and unselfconscious, in a way that was nice to watch but not at all showy. Plus, Freddy thought, it was kind of hot. It was easy to zoom out, watching at him play, letting the music wash over him until Davey was done and looking up at him with a sheepish expression on his face. There was awkward silence when Davey finished that made Freddy uncomfortable. What was he supposed to say when someone played you something like that?
"So yeah," Davey said, affecting an air of nonchalance, like he hadn't just played a staggering work of genius. But then, Freddy was biased. "It's, you know, whatever. Not, like, important. Or, you know, um," he shrugged. "Whatever."
"Oh god," Freddy said, eyes widening. He moved from his perch against the door frame and plopped heavily beside Davey beside on the piano bench. He was completely bowled over by phrases ‘like that was crap’ and ‘it's for my mom's birthday’, sentences that painted a quaint and self-effacing image of Davey that Freddy had never considered. Quietly, he considered Davey’s face, which suddenly seemed older. Wiser, certainly. More knowing than he’d first given Davey credit for, but still so very fragile and insecure. "You really meant that, didn't you? The part about me telling you whether it sucks or not." He snorted. "If I could play like that I'd always be saying things like that, so that whenever I did play they'd be even more shocked. Like how doctors in shit movies are always telling cripples they won't ever walk again. But lo and behold, an hour into the future, they do. But you," he jabbed an accusatory finger at Davey's arm, "actually believe that. I didn't think people like you existed," he marveled. "You're a funny one."
"Wait, what?" Davey asked. "What does this have to do with cripples?"
"It's like, no one expects it, is my point."
"What, like the Spanish Inquisition?"
Freddy couldn’t help but burst into full-on, genuine laughter - shoulders thrown back, chest heaving - laughter. Quietly, Davey eventually joined him, giggling nervously.
"You sure you're related to O'Brian?" Freddy finally asked, squinting at him. "'Cause you've got things he doesn't, like, I dunno, a sense of humor and stuff."
"It's...what they tell me?" Davey said, confused. "I mean, we share the same last name, so I suppose I must be."
"Well, I share the same last name with a dead president," Freddy said, waving his hand. "That doesn't really mean anything."
"What, do you want DNA testing?"
"For a start," Freddy said, eyes gleaming as he leaned forward. Davey involuntarily leaned back, cowed. "But only if I get to collect your DNA the fun way."
"What, skin scraping?" Davey babbled. "Because that doesn't sound very fun, but neither does, you know, pulling hairs out. Unless you meant swabbing my mouth. You could swab my mouth. Did you mean swabbing my mouth?"
"Not really, no, I meant more..." Freddy trailed off and quirked an eyebrow in a way so suggestive that his meaning suddenly seemed to hit Davey like oncoming traffic.
"Oh!" he said. "You mean semen."
"Uh, I guess that's one way of putting it," Freddy said, disappointed that Davey didn't seem suitably impressed or turned on by his lewd suggestion, but instead was babbling over him.
"I don't know, I mean, doesn't that only carry half of your genetic data? Because I thought that an egg had the other half."
"I, uh, I mean, it works in crime shows," Freddy said.
"Wait a minute," Davey said, snapping his fingers, "you'd need a DNA sample from Joey, too! Oh my god, you're just, you do have a crush on Joey, don't you? Because you, you have a straight guy thing, like, you have to turn all of them, right, because you can't turn Nathan, and Joey's, like, the straightest straight guy ever. Hah! I totally got you." Davey crossed his arms righteously, looking immensely pleased with himself. "Well, it won't work," he said brightly, "because seducing me won't get you any closer to Joey's sperm."
Freddy crossed his arms and frowned. It was maddeningly hard to tell if Davey really was as obtuse as he acted, or if he was just pretending to be in order to frustrate him, and it was made even more annoying but the juxtaposition to his previously undiscovered genius. Either way, Freddy felt like he was on the losing side. "What the fuck are you talking about," he said, disgusted. “I wouldn't touch O'Brian on the shoulder with a pair of latex gloves. His semen's probably got all sorts of things crawling in it. No offense," he added hastily. "I'm sure yours is fine. I'm positive yours is fine. But that whole thing last year with his friends, that was just a joke. I don't have a straight guy thing," he said with apparently unconvincing calm, since Davey shot him a doubting look. Freddy poked him in the side and shrugged, then leaned against the wall, propping his feet up across the bench. "See, now you've offended me. I don't think I'll ever forgive you. Unless, of course, that is banana bread I see sticking out of your bag, in which case I think some sort of arrangement can be made."
"Yeah, okay, whatever," Davey grumbled, throwing the banana bread at Freddy's face. It actually hit him with satisfying thwack.
"Did you just hit me in the face with banana bread?" Freddy asked incredulously.
"Yup."
"Are you going to apologize?"
"Nope. You're stealing my banana bread, so I get to hit you."
Freddy tilted his head and unwrapped it, taking a bite and making an almost pornographic moan. Sure, the bread was a little stale, but it was good, cinnamon-y (no one ever put in the proper amount of cinnamon, or any cinnamon at all, which was such a pity) and soft, crumbly without being overly moist, light and gentle and, well, it tasted like how Davey's last song would taste, if it were banana bread, and in Freddy's mouth. And it was delicious.
"Oh my god," Freddy moaned in ecstasy, "I fucking love this banana bread. I'm going to fucking marry this fucking banana bread and I'm going to fuck, no, no, I am going to make sweet sexy, sexy love to this banana bread."
"Why would you do that to banana bread?" Davey asked, a little wild-eyed
"This banana bread," Freddy explained through a mouthful, "is classy, okay, it deserves to be wooed. I would light candles and play Cole Porter for this banana bread."
"That is a terrible idea."
"It's an awesome idea."
"You can't seduce someone, or, or, something with Cole Porter!" Davey said, waving his hands in the air. "Like, who would go 'oh god, Brush Up Your Shakespeare! Do me!'?"
"No no," Freddy said, waggling his eyebrows, "you tell them to blow, Gabriel, blow."
"Oh my god," Davey squeaked.
"Oh, Gabriel!" Freddy said in a ridiculous falsetto, "that's right, blow! Blow, Gabriel! Blow!"
"I am never going to be able to eat my mother's banana bread ever again," Davey said sadly, shaking his head and staring longingly at the quarter that Freddy still was savoring.
"Your mother made this?" Freddy said eagerly.
"Yeah, she owns the Little Lamb Bakery? You know, two blocks down?"
"Oh, huh," Freddy said, "guess I'll have to start going there, won't I?"
"Not if you react like that," Davey said primly, stuffing his music in his bag as the bell rang. "It's a family establishment."
"I'll keep that in mind," Freddy said, stuffing the last of his banana bread in his mouth, brushing off his fingers before jamming them in his pockets and winking. "I'll only give the performance full-on if it's just you watching."
"Oh my god," Davey said, mostly to himself. Freddy could feel Davey’s eyes burning on his back and refrained from letting out a victorious whoop as he sauntered out of the practice room.
- - -
That night, Davey dreamt Freddy was naked on the bakery floor with him, kissing his wrists and sucking on his fingers while Too Darn Hot played in the background. He kept looking up at Davey though his lashes wickedly until he couldn't stand it and tackled Freddy to the floor, which melted beneath them as they rolled around in an empty, soft space that smelled of bananas.
- - -
Part Two