Higschool!AU Chapter One (Part 2)
Freddy loved his car.
He first realized he needed a car around the same time that he realized that he liked getting guys naked. The first few excursions to gay clubs in the area had held a certain thrill of excitement; sneaking out, sneaking in; but after a while Freddy became convinced there was nothing more pathetic than taking the crosstown bus to home from the gay club. His few sexual experiences at that point had been vague, hurried affairs, but the possibility of actually taking someone home was leering frighteningly near. What was he supposed to do if he was ready and the right opportunity came up? Drag his partner to the nearest bus station?
If his grandparents guessed the reason behind Freddy's sudden loud and vocal desire for a car, they said nothing. Pops even offered to look into the policy for Freddy's insurance money from his parents - apparently there was some clause about such occasions - but he refused. It just didn't feel right, plundering his parents' will in order to get laid.
The car thus ended up being the fruit of weeks spent doing overtime at the record store, selling Christina Aguilera compilations (while barely holding back a scowl) to teenyboppers all day long. Evenings, he spent at Pops' carpentry workshop; cutting chair legs on the band saw, varnishing table tops and dressers over and over again until they glowed under the pale yellow lighting. It took him months to finally save up the money to buy something that was a (very few) steps above the prerequisite piece of shit station wagon favored by his classmates, sleek and pretty and his.
He loved it most because he didn't have to walk or take the bus, unlike the forlorn figure walking on the sidewalk with his worn messenger bag, slowly making his way up the hill. Freddy was opening his mouth to snicker at the sucker as he blasted by, when he caught a brief glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. It was Davey, studying his feet as he walked. He was frowning -apparently the pebble he'd been kicking along as he walked had sailed into the gutter.
Freddy threw the car into reverse, stopping a few feet ahead of Davey. He reached over and cranked down the passenger window, cursing himself that he didn't shell out the money to have an automated system put in. "Hey, O'Brian," he called out. "Need a ride?"
Davey looked up blinking owlishly at Freddy before he shifted his large pile of textbooks around awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure where to place them.
"Um, no thanks," Davey said uncomfortably. "Exercise is, you know, important,"
"It's not a problem," Freddy wheedled.
"I'm good," Davey said. "Really value, you know, sunburn."
"Have it your way," Freddy said, saluting and speeding off, Glenn Miller lingering in the air.
- - -
Freddy started following Davey home with his car every day Joey had practice and he walked. It would have been creepy, if Davey cared as much as he claimed to.
"It's windy!" Freddy tried one day, going at approximately five miles per hour in the breakdown lane while Davey purposefully stuffed his earbuds in. Freddy looked incredulous, like he’d never been ignored in his life when trying to lure people into his car, which was probably true. "Are you...blocking me out with earbuds?" He finally managed.
"Yes," Davey said, pointedly ignoring him as he scrolled through his albums. He generally found that silence got Freddy to go away the fastest, but this seemed to be the sort of thing that might have made Freddy leave. "It's clearly not working very well."
"Well of course not," Freddy spluttered. "The sound quality on those things is despicable. I'm insulted you're even using them."
"Goodbye, Freddy," Davey said calmly, cranking his iPod as loud as it would go. Maybe, if he went deaf, Freddy would stop following out of guilt for clearly driving Davey insane.
"IS THAT ELTON JOHN?" Freddy bellowed. "SERIOUSLY, HOW GAY ARE YOU?"
"HE PLAYS PIANO WELL," Davey yelled back angrily. "YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO HEAR HIM IF YOU LEFT ME ALONE, YOU KNOW."
"YOU CAN'T DETER ME THAT EASILY," Freddy said stubbornly.
Davey just flipped him off.
- - -
"Seriously, how can you stand this walk?" Freddy asked as Davey zipped his fleece up resolutely.
"It used to be so nice and quiet," Davey said wistfully, staring off into the distance. "Peaceful."
"It's uphill both ways," Freddy said. It was true. The bakery was two very long blocks from the school on main streets, which offered no shade from old growth trees and no shelter in the wind and rain. It was a quick zip of a drive, but walking it was long - both were nestled in valleys that rose steeply upwards soon after into one of the tallest hills in town. Not far enough for a bus to go, but just far enough to be obnoxious.
"It builds character," Davey said. "One day, when I have to tell off my kids, this story will increase my street cred."
"You don't know what street cred is," Freddy said. "You're a pianist."
"Right," Davey said. "Because all the kids these days are be-bopping to Miles Davis."
"You do not be-bop to Miles Davis," Freddy said. "The fact that you’re even suggesting that is both ridiculous and wildly offensive."
"So is you following me," Davey said. "How much gas are you wasting, by the way?"
"I'm trying to be nice," Freddy ground out.
"Be nicer to the ozone layer and leave me out of it," Davey said.
- - -
Freddy, ever persistent, tried for days on end, as if clearly time was the issue and soon enough Davey would just break down. But days stretched quickly into weeks, with no end in sight.
"This is getting old," he complained one day.
"I agree," replied Davey. "This is getting old."
"You know," Freddy pointed out, "You could just get in the goddamn car and let me move you a few blocks."
Davey sighed, and very pointedly pulled his iPod out of his back pocket to restart whatever it was he was listening to. "Or," he said, long-sufferingly. "You could just stop."
"Or," Freddy replied sulkily, lost for words. "…your face." Davey stared at him pointedly. “Right,” Freddy sulked, accelerating away.
The problem with wearing Davey down with patience was that Freddy had none to wear him down with.
- - -
One dreary day, the storm clouds that had been hanging around all morning finally let loose over seventh period with a torrential pour. Freddy seemed to be in an extremely bad mood, because by time Davey had walked up to the usual spot, Freddy was already waiting, sitting with a surly expression and tapping his fingers anxiously on the dashboard. When he saw Davey, his eyes darkened. He slammed the window down immediately. As much as one could slam a window down that still used a hand crank; it tended to look more ridiculous than dramatic.
"Don't say a word," Freddy said. "It is raining of biblical proportions right now. It is raining and thundering and there are bolts of lightning shooting from the sky. And I don't get how you can remember all those notes but not remember to bring something as basic as an umbrella..."
"Hey," Davey interjected, deciding not to mention the fact that it was not, in fact, thundering to Freddy when he was in this mood. "It's not my fault. I it left in Joey's car."
"Why didn't you get it back?"
"He was busy. With his girlfriend. You know," he made a complicated hand gesture that vaguely resembled the mating dance of an obscure breed of butterfly. “Busy. I’ve learned through painful experience not to interrupt."
Freddy groaned, his head sinking on the steering wheel. "Davey, if you actually are going to walk home like that, in the freezing rain, with no umbrella, and you without an ounce of body fat, I'm going to assume that you would actually rather die than let me give you a ride home."
Davey rolled his eyes.
"Or, at least you would rather have soggy underwear, which is almost as insulting. But that's not the point," he amended. "The point is that you are actually hurting my feelings by not getting in my warm and toasty car. So," he concluded, reaching over and opening the door. "Get in."
"Fine," Davey grumbled, ignoring the passenger’s seat and squelching into the back. Freddy raised his eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror.
"Shotgun." He said firmly.
"Why do you care?" Davey grumbled. "I'm in your freaking car."
"Shotgun," Freddy repeated. "Or so help me God, I will move you there myself."
"Fine," Davey ground out, clambering over the console and into the front, where he crossed his arms and glared daggers at Freddy, the effect ruined by the fact that he looked like nothing so much as a bedraggled puppy, impossibly young now that his hair was too wet to stick up in its normal cowlicks and had bowed down in inevitable soggy defeat. "Are you happy, control freak?"
"Deliriously," Freddy said dryly, pushing Davey's sopping hair out of his face. Davey stilled under his hand like a frightened animal, his eyes impossibly wide and brown. Freddy felt a warm thrill start in the base of his spine, the reckless fire that caused him to give blow jobs to the entire JV soccer team just to piss Joey off, the kind that made him cut class and start food fights in the cafeteria, only this time it was good. It felt right, not like a quick flare that would burn hot and die, leaving nothing but a hollow feeling inside. It felt like a slow smolder, instead, like a warm drink on a snowy day. Davey's lips were so pink, bitten and a little chapped from playing clarinet (not that he'd noticed, not at all), and so were his cheeks, a flush of hectic color from the central heat. His skin was delicate and baby-smooth under Freddy's hand, and Freddy would bet good money that while Davey couldn't grow a decent beard or even bit of stubble if he tried, he'd also never gotten a bad pimple in his life, so white from the cold that the circles under his eyes made him appear older, more tired, wiser than his years.
"You haven't moved your hand," Davey said in a strained-sounding whisper. "Also, you're staring at me."
"Maybe I like what I see," Freddy said, matching Davey's whisper and leaning in a little. Davey's eyelashes were almost black and thick, like a girl's. There was a drip of rainwater clinging to his funny little nose. Freddy wanted to taste it. He wanted to know what those lashes felt like, fluttering against his cheek.
"That's the stupidest line I've ever heard," Davey said, sounding a little more confident, but still hoarse. "And I live with Joey, so."
"Maybe I'm telling the truth," Freddy replied, brushing his thumb to catch some of the rain from Davey's bangs.
"Maybe you were dropped on your head as a child."
"Maybe I-" Freddy began, but he was cut off by the unnaturally loud blaring of his cell phone. Both he and Davey jumped out of their car seats as if shocked.
"Is that... In the Mood?" Davey asked weakly.
"BEE BEE DEE BEE BEEP, BEE DEEBY DEEBY DEEBY DEE!" The phone replied jauntily.
"I like it," Freddy said defensively. "Besides, it's fitting, because, you know," he waggled his eyebrows, "I'm always in the mood."
"This is why you shouldn't get in cars with strange men," Davey said. "All the after-school specials were true."
"I haven't even shown you my special present," Freddy said, leering. "It's like a puppy, only it doesn't bite. You can pet it, if you want."
"Oh my god, will you just answer your phone."
"Fine," Freddy said, flipping it open and pressing 'send', ignoring Davey as he mouthed the word 'rapist' at him. "Heya, Pops, what's up?"
"JUNIOR," a loud voice boomed through the phone after a pause. Freddy held the phone away from his ear. Try as he might, Freddy never could persuade Pops that one didn't need to yell into the phone in order to be heard. "JUNIOR, I NEED A FAVOR."
"What?"
"I NEED YOU TO PICK UP YOUR GRANDMOTHER FROM THE HAIR SALON." Some voices in the background. "WE'VE JUST GOT A SHIPMENT OF WOOD AND SUPPLIES IN. I CAN'T DO IT."
"Well, I can't do it either." He frowned. "I'm all tied up at the moment."
More noise. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T DO IT?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded uncertain. "CAN'T YOU GET OUT OF IT? I WAS SUPPOSED TO PICK HER UP AN HOUR AGO, AND IT'S GOTTEN SO RAINY--"
"Fine," Freddy interrupted huffily. "I'm heading there right now."
"THANKS, JUNIOR."
"Yeah." Freddy hung up with a snap. "We've got to go somewhere."
Davey looked at him doubtfully. "I thought you said you were going to take me home. No detours included."
"It's just around the corner. I'll have you home in no time." Freddy waved a hand dismissively. After a moment, he looked at Davey sideways and smiled. "Why, don't you trust me?"
"No," Davey replied flatly.
"Well, this won't take any time at all," he said, slowing at a stoplight. "It's practically on the way. And besides," Freddy stretched his free arm casually along the back of Davey's seat. "I want to savor this."
- - -
"I'm so glad to see you Frederick. I thought your grandfather was never going to pick me up- he's so awful about remembering these things. Oh," exclaimed Freddy's grandmother, scooting into the back seat "It's gone all wet back here." She pulled out a paisley handkerchief and wiped the seat gingerly.
Freddy hit the stop button on the CD player. Although Chet Baker singing My Funny Valentine was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard, it was all wrong - too croony and slinky. The type of music that was fine for Davey-and-Freddy but somehow wrong for Davey-Freddy-and-Grandmother. He would have preferred to ride in silence, but after the second soft ahem from his grandmother he caved. "Regina, this is Davey. Davey, my grandma."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Davey." She squeezed his shoulder warmly, as if being greeted by strange, soaking wet boys was an all-too-frequent occurrence. Freddy hit the accelerator with a special vengeance. The tires screeched against the pavement loudly.
"I wish you wouldn't drive so fast, Freddy. Be a dear and turn up the heat so your friend doesn't catch cold. He's soaked to the bone!"
"What? No, it's too warm in here already."
"Freddy."
"Are you even cold, Davey? I'm not cold at all."
"Freddy."
"Fine," Freddy said huffily, turning the dial up. He concentrated moodily on navigating the car throughout the streets as quickly as possible. The seductive atmosphere had successfully been evaporated. Much thanks, Pops. His grandmother sighed and opened her handbag with a snap. "I swear, this boy just can't tell temperature like a normal person," she whispered conspiratorially to Davey. "He was like that even as a baby, always throwing off his nappies so he'd be cooler. I don't think it wasn't until he was three that he stopped undressing in public. Anna used to call me at all hours worried about it. Thought she'd have to raise him a nudist. Ah, here we are."
She held a yellowed photograph out for Davey to see. A man in a nice suit was bending over in two, chasing a small child with a head of dark hair running towards the camera. Littered on the floor was a trail of clothes: a tiny pair of pants, a tiny oxford shirt, one small purple sock. Little Freddy was entirely naked, except for a purple sock oddly fixed in his hair, and a wide toothy smile. "Such a handsome baby," his grandmother clucked.
"Augh" Freddy wailed, snatching the photograph away. "Come on, no stories. No pictures." He shot his grandmother a hurt look through the rearview mirror."Since when has that ever, ever, been okay? Better yet,” he reached over and cranked up the radio, “no more talking. We're almost home. Christ."
"Eyes on the road," Davey said, snatching the picture as Freddy made a noise of helpless frustration. "I want to get home in one piece." He paused and considered the picture. "Look at you," he cooed to Freddy, "you were so cute."
"I was never cute," Freddy said stubbornly, his eyes remaining fixed on the road.
"Yes you were, and I have proof now," Davey crowed. "Look at your little thing!"
"It was never little." Freddy said, even louder.
"I'm so glad you like the picture," Freddy's grandmother said happily, "would you like to keep it?"
"No," Freddy said loudly. Sighing, Davey shook his head.
"Thanks lot, Mrs. Kennedy, but I couldn't possibly."
"Call me Regina, dear," she said fondly. "I just had a feeling you'd take very good care of it. I've got dozens like it at home, too, you'll have to come see them sometime."
"Davey is busy," Freddy said firmly. "Like, all the time, absolutely cannot look at naked baby pictures. Deadly allergic, actually. Makes him break out in hives."
"Sorry, Regina," Davey said regretfully, "but I think Junior here would kill me, and this whole ride-in-the-rain business is pretty useful."
"Well you'll just have to come over for cookies, sometime," Regina said, and then she looked out the rain-streaked window. "I didn't mean now, Freddy, why are we in front of the Little Lamb?"
"Oh, I live here," Davey said. "My mom owns it, we live upstairs.”
"Oh, really?" Regina cried. "Oh, isn't that nice, this is my favorite bakery! It's so homey, and the food's so good. I come here whenever I don't feel like baking, which isn't often, mind you, but I do make a point to come here."
"Oh, Freddy really likes it too," Davey said, with a glint in his eye. "He's really fond of the banana bread."
"Shut up, Davey," Freddy hissed, but Davey just grinned wickedly at him before turning back to his grandmother.
"You want to come in for coffee? On the house, of course." Davey pretended not to notice that Freddy had turned and was making large and imploring eyes that screamed if you have ever loved me you will shut the hell up and get me the hell out of here. It was probably karma for stalking Davey and then stroking him like a puppy, but really, this was bordering on mortifying.
"While I would just love to," Regina said, sending her grandson a stern look, "I've really got to get started on dinner, I've already been out much later than I thought I would."
"Yeah, how 'bout that," Freddy said. "Real shame."
"I can see you're all torn up," Davey said, getting out of the car. "Bye Freddy, bye Regina, thanks for the ride."
"So nice to meet you!" Freddy's (traitorous) grandmother called after him, waving like she might never get to see Davey again, even after he'd turned from the rain-streaked car and walked into the bakery.
"Are you done yet? Because I don't think he can see you anymore," Freddy said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"What a nice boy," Regina said, as if she hadn't heard him at all. "So polite and sweet."
"Yeah, a real charmer," Freddy muttered under his breath.
"And he seemed so fond of you, too!" Regina said.
"Oh, yeah," Freddy said dryly, pulling out. "We're bosom buds, old Davey and I."
"Well, I thought he seemed quite fond of you," Regina said placidly, folding her hands. "And he was really quite good-looking."
"Yeah, yeah."
"How do you know him?" She pressed on.
"Met him in band, he plays piano and clarinet. Some sort of whiz kid composer," Freddy ground out, knowing that the sooner he answered the questions she was inevitably going to ask, the quicker his grandmother would let it drop.
"And you really seemed to like him," Regina said, as if she had no idea that Freddy had wanted her to stop talking about five minutes ago. "Had your arm around him and everything."
"I did not," Freddy said, snatching his arm off the back of the passenger seat. "That's just how I drive."
"Well, I liked him," his grandmother went on, like she hadn't already made that point abundantly clear. "We should have him over sometime."
"We're really not that close," Freddy said. "Don't be weird, Regina."
"The question isn't how close you are now, Freddy, it's if you want to be closer. Don't act like you couldn't if you didn't want to."
"Not with him, I couldn't."
"Why, is he not...gay?"
"No, he's gay, just not...receptive."
"Well, I don't see why not," Regina said. "You're funny and handsome and charming."
"I'm kind of a jerk."
"Well," his grandmother said, with an air of finality. "Perhaps you should make an effort not to be."
- - -
After that, Davey gave in and started accepting rides. It was turning to November, after all, and it was getting really too cold to be walking comfortably. Also, Freddy had started waiting for him in the parking lot and asking politely, rather than stalking him and demanding Davey do as he said.
Besides, it was comfortable. Freddy wasn't half the ass he'd initially appeared to be. Or perhaps he was, but Davey felt like it suddenly became more bearable in the face of all the other things he was beginning to know about Freddy, like how his favorite cookies in the entire world were his grandmother's chocolate-chip cookies.
"They have ginger in them," Freddy all but moaned. "They're just a little spicy and soft, it's like they melt. I swear to God, Davey, it's like the ginger is having sex with your tastebuds."
"That makes no sense," Davey said. "And when you see a stop sign, could you actually stop at it for a change?"
"Stop signs are for people who are boring," Freddy said dismissively. "And if you're paying attention to them you're clearly not thinking hard enough about my grandmother's cookies."
And, well, it was hard to hate someone who loved his grandmother's cookies so much. Even though sometimes Davey really, really wanted to, like the day he stayed up until two writing a paper and came in wearing his pajama pants, and Freddy acted as if he'd personally murdered a small child before his very eyes. "It's like you have absolutely no self-respect," he groused as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Not a lot, no," Davey yawned. "And what I have left I'd sell for a nap."
"I mean, your ratty hoodies were bad enough," Freddy said, as if Davey hadn't spoken. "But I could keep my mouth shut about those."
"Big of you," Davey muttered.
"But this? You're wearing a stained hoodie with flannel pants."
"They're comfy," Davey said firmly. "You should try it."
"Try what, looking like a hobo?"
"I do not look like a hobo," Davey said. "I look tired. I am tired."
"I don't get how someone is too tired for pants," Freddy said grumpily. "Nobody used to be too tired for pants."
"Are you one of those people who wishes it was the good old days so you could, like, wear a suit and fedora and get away with it?" Davey asked, half-serious as he leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane and watched a red light zoom by, ignored. Freddy's uncomfortable silence was a very good answer. "Oh my god, you are," Davey said gleefully. "Do you have a pair of spats, too?"
"No."
"Oh," Davey said, mildly disappointed in Freddy's lack of spats. "Well, I'd wear a tie to school for a day if you wore your pajamas."
"No can do," Freddy said cheerfully. "I sleep either in the buff or in my boxers. I'd probably get a detention."
"Can’t have another one," Davey muttered.
"That's right," Freddy said, as if it was a very great tragedy. "If you ever wanted to see my pajamas though, I'd be happy to give you a private viewing. All you have to do is ask."
"Yeah, got it," Davey said, too tired to even be flustered by Freddy’s blatant come-on of the day. "I'll keep that in mind."
"I'll make sure to remind you," Freddy said, grinning at him so widely Davey couldn't help but smile back. Freddy really wasn't that bad, when he was away from Chris and Nathan. As far as Davey could tell, Nathan was responsible for about half of what made Freddy such an asshole, and the other half was his inability to keep it in his pants. "It's always a problem," Freddy was complaining to Davey one day. "Because it's like, I could go to the jazz club, which is like my ears and brain having sex, or I could go to the gay clubs, where it's like the rest of me is having sex. But why should I have to choose? Why can't gay clubs play good music, or why can't they just have a gay jazz club?"
"I don’t think there's a real demand for gay jazz clubs," Davey said sensibly. "I think the demand is limited to you."
"Aw, come on," Freddy wheedled, "you'd support my gay jazz club, right?"
"I don't like clubs," Davey said. "They're loud and probably smelly and people you don't want touching you touch you and people you want touching you probably don't. I get enough of that when Joey's drunk friends crash on the couch."
"You want Joey's friends touching you?" Freddy asked incredulously. "I mean, I blew those guys and I still wouldn't want them groping on me when I was drunk."
"They don't mean to grope," Davey said, "they're just really wasted and can't really control where their hands are going. They grope each other too, sometimes."
"But clubs are like that only filled with attractive people," Freddy said wistfully. "And you want them all to touch you. Just imagine that, Davey."
For a brief, horrible moment, Davey had a fleeting vision of a room full of Freddys, all laughing at him wickedly and winking or undressing him with their eyes. One of those was already far more than Davey could handle.
"So I guess that's what you'll be doing, this weekend?" Davey asked. "Hanging out at the clubs?"
"Nah," Freddy said, shrugging. "Nathan and Chris have a gig."
"What kind of gig?"
"Some stupid concert for their stupid jam band," Freddy said bitterly. "It’s awful, it's like they sit there and strum random chords at each other and call it, like, 'The Moon Orbits In Your Smile' or something, and every time you think they're finally done, one of them will riff and they'll start all over again."
"Sounds fascinating," Davey said sarcastically, mildly peeved that Freddy was willing to subject himself to that sort of thing for Nathan, of all people. He wasn't sure why Nathan in particular got under his skin, but something about him really did. Davey blamed the fact that he had squinty eyes. You could never trust someone with squinty eyes. "What do they call themselves?"
"Soul Project," Freddy said. "Or maybe Soul Project, like, projection. They haven’t decided."
"Do they play soul music?" Davey asked. Because if they did that might explain why Freddy had spent one ride detailing everything that was wrong with Motown and how it had destroyed both the glory of the jazz age and thereby, America.
"No," Freddy said, increasingly sulky sounding. "That would make too much sense. They say it's because it helps them work on the state of their inner being, or something. But it's also like they're projecting their soul to the audience, and the audience is projecting back, and then they're one giant soul projection."
"That is the stupidest thing I think I've ever heard in my entire life," Davey said. "That's even stupider than your stance on pajamas."
"My stance on pajamas is not stupid," Freddy said, affronted, "it’s about self-respect."
"Says the guy who's going to go project his soul this weekend."
"Shut up," Freddy said viciously, pulling up in front of the Little Lamb Bakery. "Why did I want you to ride with me so badly again?"
"I don't know," Davey said, "but now I've gone lazy and you're stuck with me."
"That's no good," Freddy said, reaching across and ruffling Davey’s hair fondly, like he was wont to do. Davey had stopped trying to duck.
"If it's any consolation," Davey said, "I have it on good authority that I'm kind of a cool guy."
"Oh yeah?" Freddy asked, grinning. "What idiot told you that?"
"Same one who's going to some dumb gig this weekend, apparently."
"Fuck off," Freddy laughed, without any heat. "Get out of my fucking car."
"Thanks for the ride?" Davey asked.
"Yeah, yeah," Freddy said, still chuckling. "See you Monday."
- - -
Freddy crumpled the program within his hands slowly. Unfolded it and crumpled again. The girl next to him - big blonde hair, nice tits - was nodding along earnestly to the music. Freddy wanted to shake her by the shoulders.
Nathan was onstage, concluding what felt like a twenty minute guitar solo. He was getting into it even - his eyes had actually closed in heartfelt emotion as he strummed in front of the drum kit. Freddy didn't even why a drum kit (with the band name stenciled on it, no less) was necessary for a band that consisted of two guys slowly playing guitar, but he'd learned not to question Nathan and Chris' artistic vision. Every five minutes, Nathan would open his eyes and look over the audience, making eye contact with each person. Freddy found it extremely creepy. Nathan had called it "essential to the experience."
He wasn't even sure why he was there. Chris and Nathan's gigs were always a succession of small tortures. At least it hadn't been any worse than the music festival last summer -- this concert was thankfully exempt from lesbian tribal chant ensembles.
Chris looked up from where he had been playing. Freddy grimaced. He didn't understand why they even wanted them. Freddy never lost an opportunity to make fun of their attempts at music, and loudly. But Chris was still his best friend, and he and Nathan were still pretending to be brothers even when they weren't talking to each other, so Freddy bit the bullet and came to their gigs.
Freddy snorted. Fuck that, he thought to himself. That wasn't it at all. He was still there because it was Chris had taken his keys before the performance, knowing Freddy would try and sneak out. If he had his car keys with him, there was no way in hell he'd still be there watching as Nathan and Chris slowly and systematically destroyed his will to live. Thankfully, they finished by some pre-ordained signal with a final deafening twang, letting it resound into loud feedback through the speakers. Freddy clapped his hands over his ears, vowing this time, for real, he was never, ever, ever letting them talk him into attending a gig again.
"Thank you," Mr. Jones said, clapping as he came out to the microphone. "That was Soul...Project? Project?"
"Either pronunciation works!" Nathan shouted from offstage.
"Right," Mr. Jones said dryly. "Well, anyways, for our final act, we have a rather talented freshman, a young David O'Brian playing Franz Liszt's Liebestraum."
Freddy straightened up immediately. Was this why Davey had nervously been asking about his weekend? In case he wanted to come watch him? He'd never seen Davey perform really, and would have said yes if he'd known, even if it had meant enduring a thousand of Chris and Nathan's "concerts". He'd seen Davey composing, but that was different. That wasn't Davey on stage with an actual piece of music. And if those few moments had fueled a few more jerk-off sessions than Freddy cared to admit, well, who even knew what an actual performance would be like.
When Davey came on-stage, he did so with a sort of embarrassed shuffle. He looked like his mother had dressed him. His pants were clearly steam-pressed, and he'd never seen Davey in a sweater or a crisp button down (not flannel, even). His hair looked like someone had tried to take a wet comb to it, but it still stuck up stubbornly in the back. The only bit of Davey that was unchanged was his same, omnipresent, scuffed converse he'd worn every day Freddy had known him.
"Um, hi," Davey said into the microphone when he sat down. "This is Liszt's nocturne Liebesträume, which translates to 'dreams of love'. I think it, uh, adds to the experience when you, you know, know what the composer was trying to say. So I really hope you enjoy it. Thanks." Davey scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, and Freddy felt himself grin a little, involuntarily. A low, simmering heat began blooming in his stomach, and it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Which was weird - he was pretty sure he hadn't eaten anything off all day.
Slowly, Davey's fingers settled on the keyboard - just a few light caresses at first, his head cocked to the side as if the piano was speaking to him - before he closed his eyes and with a little smile began to play, and Freddy forgot everything else, including how to breathe.
The piece was gentle, rocking back and forth, and longing somehow. It really did sound like a romantic dream, the lovelorn kind that made you wake up with the choked, bittersweet feeling from knowing that no matter how hard you wished, it would never, ever be real. Davey's face looked so sad in the spotlight, like he was sympathizing with his fingers, which touched the piano gently, as if they were attempting to give it comfort. Abruptly Freddy realized that he wanted nothing more than those fingers on him. He wanted Davey to gaze at him the way he was gazing unfocused ahead - soft and wondrous, like he saw something otherworldly that no one else could. But it wasn't a sexual want - Freddy knew those. He knew what it felt like for your body to want someone with a sudden flash heat, and this wasn't it. This was wanting Davey's eyes on him, his attention and fingers brushing against his quietly. This was looking at Davey's skinny arms and wrists and seeing a fluid, poetic motion, something too terribly beautiful and breakable, something he fiercely wanted to protect. He looked at Davey and thought mine, and the strength and certainty of thought that frightened him. When Davey finished the last, tearful notes of the piece Freddy was standing up and applauding wildly without even realizing what he was doing, too lost in his own detached horror as he scanned the crowd. His gaze ended up focused in the back, where he saw Joey, which meant he must have come in after Freddy had. He looked proud and positively gleeful, pumping his fist in the air while the other hand clutched a video camera. He was standing next to a slight, pretty woman with a dark blonde braid who was crying and beaming, looking so much like Davey she had to be his mother. He saw her wave and blow a kiss onstage, where Davey beamed and waved at her, miming catching it and stuffing it in his pocket.
The simple motion made the warm feeling in Freddy's stomach return, yawning and empty and desperate. I'm in love with him. he thought, still in a numb state of shock as he filed out of the auditorium and retrieved his keys from Chris, who seemed supremely disinterested in Freddy’s silence. He kept thinking it over and over again as he walked into the chilly November air and across the parking lot, to make sure it made sense. I'm in love with him, I'm in love with him, I'm in love with him. It still made sense, and what's more, it felt right. It felt right the same way driving Davey home had felt right, the way hearing Davey laugh at his music taste and chat with his grandmother and smile at him in band had felt right. It felt right to be thinking this about Davey, little Davey with his cow licked hair and scuffed sneakers and big brown eyes and quirky mouth. That was Freddy's. Freddy wanted that. Freddy was in love with that.
He opened his car door and got in, terribly calm in his revelation for a few moments before leaning over and banging his head against the steering wheel twice.
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck."
Soundtrack:
A Good Start - Maria Taylor (lyrics)
In The Mood - Glenn Miller
My Funny Valentine - Chet Baker (lyrics)
Liebesträume No. 3 - Franz Liszt (more information)
First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes (lyrics)
He first realized he needed a car around the same time that he realized that he liked getting guys naked. The first few excursions to gay clubs in the area had held a certain thrill of excitement; sneaking out, sneaking in; but after a while Freddy became convinced there was nothing more pathetic than taking the crosstown bus to home from the gay club. His few sexual experiences at that point had been vague, hurried affairs, but the possibility of actually taking someone home was leering frighteningly near. What was he supposed to do if he was ready and the right opportunity came up? Drag his partner to the nearest bus station?
If his grandparents guessed the reason behind Freddy's sudden loud and vocal desire for a car, they said nothing. Pops even offered to look into the policy for Freddy's insurance money from his parents - apparently there was some clause about such occasions - but he refused. It just didn't feel right, plundering his parents' will in order to get laid.
The car thus ended up being the fruit of weeks spent doing overtime at the record store, selling Christina Aguilera compilations (while barely holding back a scowl) to teenyboppers all day long. Evenings, he spent at Pops' carpentry workshop; cutting chair legs on the band saw, varnishing table tops and dressers over and over again until they glowed under the pale yellow lighting. It took him months to finally save up the money to buy something that was a (very few) steps above the prerequisite piece of shit station wagon favored by his classmates, sleek and pretty and his.
He loved it most because he didn't have to walk or take the bus, unlike the forlorn figure walking on the sidewalk with his worn messenger bag, slowly making his way up the hill. Freddy was opening his mouth to snicker at the sucker as he blasted by, when he caught a brief glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. It was Davey, studying his feet as he walked. He was frowning -apparently the pebble he'd been kicking along as he walked had sailed into the gutter.
Freddy threw the car into reverse, stopping a few feet ahead of Davey. He reached over and cranked down the passenger window, cursing himself that he didn't shell out the money to have an automated system put in. "Hey, O'Brian," he called out. "Need a ride?"
Davey looked up blinking owlishly at Freddy before he shifted his large pile of textbooks around awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure where to place them.
"Um, no thanks," Davey said uncomfortably. "Exercise is, you know, important,"
"It's not a problem," Freddy wheedled.
"I'm good," Davey said. "Really value, you know, sunburn."
"Have it your way," Freddy said, saluting and speeding off, Glenn Miller lingering in the air.
- - -
Freddy started following Davey home with his car every day Joey had practice and he walked. It would have been creepy, if Davey cared as much as he claimed to.
"It's windy!" Freddy tried one day, going at approximately five miles per hour in the breakdown lane while Davey purposefully stuffed his earbuds in. Freddy looked incredulous, like he’d never been ignored in his life when trying to lure people into his car, which was probably true. "Are you...blocking me out with earbuds?" He finally managed.
"Yes," Davey said, pointedly ignoring him as he scrolled through his albums. He generally found that silence got Freddy to go away the fastest, but this seemed to be the sort of thing that might have made Freddy leave. "It's clearly not working very well."
"Well of course not," Freddy spluttered. "The sound quality on those things is despicable. I'm insulted you're even using them."
"Goodbye, Freddy," Davey said calmly, cranking his iPod as loud as it would go. Maybe, if he went deaf, Freddy would stop following out of guilt for clearly driving Davey insane.
"IS THAT ELTON JOHN?" Freddy bellowed. "SERIOUSLY, HOW GAY ARE YOU?"
"HE PLAYS PIANO WELL," Davey yelled back angrily. "YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO HEAR HIM IF YOU LEFT ME ALONE, YOU KNOW."
"YOU CAN'T DETER ME THAT EASILY," Freddy said stubbornly.
Davey just flipped him off.
- - -
"Seriously, how can you stand this walk?" Freddy asked as Davey zipped his fleece up resolutely.
"It used to be so nice and quiet," Davey said wistfully, staring off into the distance. "Peaceful."
"It's uphill both ways," Freddy said. It was true. The bakery was two very long blocks from the school on main streets, which offered no shade from old growth trees and no shelter in the wind and rain. It was a quick zip of a drive, but walking it was long - both were nestled in valleys that rose steeply upwards soon after into one of the tallest hills in town. Not far enough for a bus to go, but just far enough to be obnoxious.
"It builds character," Davey said. "One day, when I have to tell off my kids, this story will increase my street cred."
"You don't know what street cred is," Freddy said. "You're a pianist."
"Right," Davey said. "Because all the kids these days are be-bopping to Miles Davis."
"You do not be-bop to Miles Davis," Freddy said. "The fact that you’re even suggesting that is both ridiculous and wildly offensive."
"So is you following me," Davey said. "How much gas are you wasting, by the way?"
"I'm trying to be nice," Freddy ground out.
"Be nicer to the ozone layer and leave me out of it," Davey said.
- - -
Freddy, ever persistent, tried for days on end, as if clearly time was the issue and soon enough Davey would just break down. But days stretched quickly into weeks, with no end in sight.
"This is getting old," he complained one day.
"I agree," replied Davey. "This is getting old."
"You know," Freddy pointed out, "You could just get in the goddamn car and let me move you a few blocks."
Davey sighed, and very pointedly pulled his iPod out of his back pocket to restart whatever it was he was listening to. "Or," he said, long-sufferingly. "You could just stop."
"Or," Freddy replied sulkily, lost for words. "…your face." Davey stared at him pointedly. “Right,” Freddy sulked, accelerating away.
The problem with wearing Davey down with patience was that Freddy had none to wear him down with.
- - -
One dreary day, the storm clouds that had been hanging around all morning finally let loose over seventh period with a torrential pour. Freddy seemed to be in an extremely bad mood, because by time Davey had walked up to the usual spot, Freddy was already waiting, sitting with a surly expression and tapping his fingers anxiously on the dashboard. When he saw Davey, his eyes darkened. He slammed the window down immediately. As much as one could slam a window down that still used a hand crank; it tended to look more ridiculous than dramatic.
"Don't say a word," Freddy said. "It is raining of biblical proportions right now. It is raining and thundering and there are bolts of lightning shooting from the sky. And I don't get how you can remember all those notes but not remember to bring something as basic as an umbrella..."
"Hey," Davey interjected, deciding not to mention the fact that it was not, in fact, thundering to Freddy when he was in this mood. "It's not my fault. I it left in Joey's car."
"Why didn't you get it back?"
"He was busy. With his girlfriend. You know," he made a complicated hand gesture that vaguely resembled the mating dance of an obscure breed of butterfly. “Busy. I’ve learned through painful experience not to interrupt."
Freddy groaned, his head sinking on the steering wheel. "Davey, if you actually are going to walk home like that, in the freezing rain, with no umbrella, and you without an ounce of body fat, I'm going to assume that you would actually rather die than let me give you a ride home."
Davey rolled his eyes.
"Or, at least you would rather have soggy underwear, which is almost as insulting. But that's not the point," he amended. "The point is that you are actually hurting my feelings by not getting in my warm and toasty car. So," he concluded, reaching over and opening the door. "Get in."
"Fine," Davey grumbled, ignoring the passenger’s seat and squelching into the back. Freddy raised his eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror.
"Shotgun." He said firmly.
"Why do you care?" Davey grumbled. "I'm in your freaking car."
"Shotgun," Freddy repeated. "Or so help me God, I will move you there myself."
"Fine," Davey ground out, clambering over the console and into the front, where he crossed his arms and glared daggers at Freddy, the effect ruined by the fact that he looked like nothing so much as a bedraggled puppy, impossibly young now that his hair was too wet to stick up in its normal cowlicks and had bowed down in inevitable soggy defeat. "Are you happy, control freak?"
"Deliriously," Freddy said dryly, pushing Davey's sopping hair out of his face. Davey stilled under his hand like a frightened animal, his eyes impossibly wide and brown. Freddy felt a warm thrill start in the base of his spine, the reckless fire that caused him to give blow jobs to the entire JV soccer team just to piss Joey off, the kind that made him cut class and start food fights in the cafeteria, only this time it was good. It felt right, not like a quick flare that would burn hot and die, leaving nothing but a hollow feeling inside. It felt like a slow smolder, instead, like a warm drink on a snowy day. Davey's lips were so pink, bitten and a little chapped from playing clarinet (not that he'd noticed, not at all), and so were his cheeks, a flush of hectic color from the central heat. His skin was delicate and baby-smooth under Freddy's hand, and Freddy would bet good money that while Davey couldn't grow a decent beard or even bit of stubble if he tried, he'd also never gotten a bad pimple in his life, so white from the cold that the circles under his eyes made him appear older, more tired, wiser than his years.
"You haven't moved your hand," Davey said in a strained-sounding whisper. "Also, you're staring at me."
"Maybe I like what I see," Freddy said, matching Davey's whisper and leaning in a little. Davey's eyelashes were almost black and thick, like a girl's. There was a drip of rainwater clinging to his funny little nose. Freddy wanted to taste it. He wanted to know what those lashes felt like, fluttering against his cheek.
"That's the stupidest line I've ever heard," Davey said, sounding a little more confident, but still hoarse. "And I live with Joey, so."
"Maybe I'm telling the truth," Freddy replied, brushing his thumb to catch some of the rain from Davey's bangs.
"Maybe you were dropped on your head as a child."
"Maybe I-" Freddy began, but he was cut off by the unnaturally loud blaring of his cell phone. Both he and Davey jumped out of their car seats as if shocked.
"Is that... In the Mood?" Davey asked weakly.
"BEE BEE DEE BEE BEEP, BEE DEEBY DEEBY DEEBY DEE!" The phone replied jauntily.
"I like it," Freddy said defensively. "Besides, it's fitting, because, you know," he waggled his eyebrows, "I'm always in the mood."
"This is why you shouldn't get in cars with strange men," Davey said. "All the after-school specials were true."
"I haven't even shown you my special present," Freddy said, leering. "It's like a puppy, only it doesn't bite. You can pet it, if you want."
"Oh my god, will you just answer your phone."
"Fine," Freddy said, flipping it open and pressing 'send', ignoring Davey as he mouthed the word 'rapist' at him. "Heya, Pops, what's up?"
"JUNIOR," a loud voice boomed through the phone after a pause. Freddy held the phone away from his ear. Try as he might, Freddy never could persuade Pops that one didn't need to yell into the phone in order to be heard. "JUNIOR, I NEED A FAVOR."
"What?"
"I NEED YOU TO PICK UP YOUR GRANDMOTHER FROM THE HAIR SALON." Some voices in the background. "WE'VE JUST GOT A SHIPMENT OF WOOD AND SUPPLIES IN. I CAN'T DO IT."
"Well, I can't do it either." He frowned. "I'm all tied up at the moment."
More noise. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T DO IT?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded uncertain. "CAN'T YOU GET OUT OF IT? I WAS SUPPOSED TO PICK HER UP AN HOUR AGO, AND IT'S GOTTEN SO RAINY--"
"Fine," Freddy interrupted huffily. "I'm heading there right now."
"THANKS, JUNIOR."
"Yeah." Freddy hung up with a snap. "We've got to go somewhere."
Davey looked at him doubtfully. "I thought you said you were going to take me home. No detours included."
"It's just around the corner. I'll have you home in no time." Freddy waved a hand dismissively. After a moment, he looked at Davey sideways and smiled. "Why, don't you trust me?"
"No," Davey replied flatly.
"Well, this won't take any time at all," he said, slowing at a stoplight. "It's practically on the way. And besides," Freddy stretched his free arm casually along the back of Davey's seat. "I want to savor this."
- - -
"I'm so glad to see you Frederick. I thought your grandfather was never going to pick me up- he's so awful about remembering these things. Oh," exclaimed Freddy's grandmother, scooting into the back seat "It's gone all wet back here." She pulled out a paisley handkerchief and wiped the seat gingerly.
Freddy hit the stop button on the CD player. Although Chet Baker singing My Funny Valentine was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard, it was all wrong - too croony and slinky. The type of music that was fine for Davey-and-Freddy but somehow wrong for Davey-Freddy-and-Grandmother. He would have preferred to ride in silence, but after the second soft ahem from his grandmother he caved. "Regina, this is Davey. Davey, my grandma."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Davey." She squeezed his shoulder warmly, as if being greeted by strange, soaking wet boys was an all-too-frequent occurrence. Freddy hit the accelerator with a special vengeance. The tires screeched against the pavement loudly.
"I wish you wouldn't drive so fast, Freddy. Be a dear and turn up the heat so your friend doesn't catch cold. He's soaked to the bone!"
"What? No, it's too warm in here already."
"Freddy."
"Are you even cold, Davey? I'm not cold at all."
"Freddy."
"Fine," Freddy said huffily, turning the dial up. He concentrated moodily on navigating the car throughout the streets as quickly as possible. The seductive atmosphere had successfully been evaporated. Much thanks, Pops. His grandmother sighed and opened her handbag with a snap. "I swear, this boy just can't tell temperature like a normal person," she whispered conspiratorially to Davey. "He was like that even as a baby, always throwing off his nappies so he'd be cooler. I don't think it wasn't until he was three that he stopped undressing in public. Anna used to call me at all hours worried about it. Thought she'd have to raise him a nudist. Ah, here we are."
She held a yellowed photograph out for Davey to see. A man in a nice suit was bending over in two, chasing a small child with a head of dark hair running towards the camera. Littered on the floor was a trail of clothes: a tiny pair of pants, a tiny oxford shirt, one small purple sock. Little Freddy was entirely naked, except for a purple sock oddly fixed in his hair, and a wide toothy smile. "Such a handsome baby," his grandmother clucked.
"Augh" Freddy wailed, snatching the photograph away. "Come on, no stories. No pictures." He shot his grandmother a hurt look through the rearview mirror."Since when has that ever, ever, been okay? Better yet,” he reached over and cranked up the radio, “no more talking. We're almost home. Christ."
"Eyes on the road," Davey said, snatching the picture as Freddy made a noise of helpless frustration. "I want to get home in one piece." He paused and considered the picture. "Look at you," he cooed to Freddy, "you were so cute."
"I was never cute," Freddy said stubbornly, his eyes remaining fixed on the road.
"Yes you were, and I have proof now," Davey crowed. "Look at your little thing!"
"It was never little." Freddy said, even louder.
"I'm so glad you like the picture," Freddy's grandmother said happily, "would you like to keep it?"
"No," Freddy said loudly. Sighing, Davey shook his head.
"Thanks lot, Mrs. Kennedy, but I couldn't possibly."
"Call me Regina, dear," she said fondly. "I just had a feeling you'd take very good care of it. I've got dozens like it at home, too, you'll have to come see them sometime."
"Davey is busy," Freddy said firmly. "Like, all the time, absolutely cannot look at naked baby pictures. Deadly allergic, actually. Makes him break out in hives."
"Sorry, Regina," Davey said regretfully, "but I think Junior here would kill me, and this whole ride-in-the-rain business is pretty useful."
"Well you'll just have to come over for cookies, sometime," Regina said, and then she looked out the rain-streaked window. "I didn't mean now, Freddy, why are we in front of the Little Lamb?"
"Oh, I live here," Davey said. "My mom owns it, we live upstairs.”
"Oh, really?" Regina cried. "Oh, isn't that nice, this is my favorite bakery! It's so homey, and the food's so good. I come here whenever I don't feel like baking, which isn't often, mind you, but I do make a point to come here."
"Oh, Freddy really likes it too," Davey said, with a glint in his eye. "He's really fond of the banana bread."
"Shut up, Davey," Freddy hissed, but Davey just grinned wickedly at him before turning back to his grandmother.
"You want to come in for coffee? On the house, of course." Davey pretended not to notice that Freddy had turned and was making large and imploring eyes that screamed if you have ever loved me you will shut the hell up and get me the hell out of here. It was probably karma for stalking Davey and then stroking him like a puppy, but really, this was bordering on mortifying.
"While I would just love to," Regina said, sending her grandson a stern look, "I've really got to get started on dinner, I've already been out much later than I thought I would."
"Yeah, how 'bout that," Freddy said. "Real shame."
"I can see you're all torn up," Davey said, getting out of the car. "Bye Freddy, bye Regina, thanks for the ride."
"So nice to meet you!" Freddy's (traitorous) grandmother called after him, waving like she might never get to see Davey again, even after he'd turned from the rain-streaked car and walked into the bakery.
"Are you done yet? Because I don't think he can see you anymore," Freddy said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"What a nice boy," Regina said, as if she hadn't heard him at all. "So polite and sweet."
"Yeah, a real charmer," Freddy muttered under his breath.
"And he seemed so fond of you, too!" Regina said.
"Oh, yeah," Freddy said dryly, pulling out. "We're bosom buds, old Davey and I."
"Well, I thought he seemed quite fond of you," Regina said placidly, folding her hands. "And he was really quite good-looking."
"Yeah, yeah."
"How do you know him?" She pressed on.
"Met him in band, he plays piano and clarinet. Some sort of whiz kid composer," Freddy ground out, knowing that the sooner he answered the questions she was inevitably going to ask, the quicker his grandmother would let it drop.
"And you really seemed to like him," Regina said, as if she had no idea that Freddy had wanted her to stop talking about five minutes ago. "Had your arm around him and everything."
"I did not," Freddy said, snatching his arm off the back of the passenger seat. "That's just how I drive."
"Well, I liked him," his grandmother went on, like she hadn't already made that point abundantly clear. "We should have him over sometime."
"We're really not that close," Freddy said. "Don't be weird, Regina."
"The question isn't how close you are now, Freddy, it's if you want to be closer. Don't act like you couldn't if you didn't want to."
"Not with him, I couldn't."
"Why, is he not...gay?"
"No, he's gay, just not...receptive."
"Well, I don't see why not," Regina said. "You're funny and handsome and charming."
"I'm kind of a jerk."
"Well," his grandmother said, with an air of finality. "Perhaps you should make an effort not to be."
- - -
After that, Davey gave in and started accepting rides. It was turning to November, after all, and it was getting really too cold to be walking comfortably. Also, Freddy had started waiting for him in the parking lot and asking politely, rather than stalking him and demanding Davey do as he said.
Besides, it was comfortable. Freddy wasn't half the ass he'd initially appeared to be. Or perhaps he was, but Davey felt like it suddenly became more bearable in the face of all the other things he was beginning to know about Freddy, like how his favorite cookies in the entire world were his grandmother's chocolate-chip cookies.
"They have ginger in them," Freddy all but moaned. "They're just a little spicy and soft, it's like they melt. I swear to God, Davey, it's like the ginger is having sex with your tastebuds."
"That makes no sense," Davey said. "And when you see a stop sign, could you actually stop at it for a change?"
"Stop signs are for people who are boring," Freddy said dismissively. "And if you're paying attention to them you're clearly not thinking hard enough about my grandmother's cookies."
And, well, it was hard to hate someone who loved his grandmother's cookies so much. Even though sometimes Davey really, really wanted to, like the day he stayed up until two writing a paper and came in wearing his pajama pants, and Freddy acted as if he'd personally murdered a small child before his very eyes. "It's like you have absolutely no self-respect," he groused as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Not a lot, no," Davey yawned. "And what I have left I'd sell for a nap."
"I mean, your ratty hoodies were bad enough," Freddy said, as if Davey hadn't spoken. "But I could keep my mouth shut about those."
"Big of you," Davey muttered.
"But this? You're wearing a stained hoodie with flannel pants."
"They're comfy," Davey said firmly. "You should try it."
"Try what, looking like a hobo?"
"I do not look like a hobo," Davey said. "I look tired. I am tired."
"I don't get how someone is too tired for pants," Freddy said grumpily. "Nobody used to be too tired for pants."
"Are you one of those people who wishes it was the good old days so you could, like, wear a suit and fedora and get away with it?" Davey asked, half-serious as he leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane and watched a red light zoom by, ignored. Freddy's uncomfortable silence was a very good answer. "Oh my god, you are," Davey said gleefully. "Do you have a pair of spats, too?"
"No."
"Oh," Davey said, mildly disappointed in Freddy's lack of spats. "Well, I'd wear a tie to school for a day if you wore your pajamas."
"No can do," Freddy said cheerfully. "I sleep either in the buff or in my boxers. I'd probably get a detention."
"Can’t have another one," Davey muttered.
"That's right," Freddy said, as if it was a very great tragedy. "If you ever wanted to see my pajamas though, I'd be happy to give you a private viewing. All you have to do is ask."
"Yeah, got it," Davey said, too tired to even be flustered by Freddy’s blatant come-on of the day. "I'll keep that in mind."
"I'll make sure to remind you," Freddy said, grinning at him so widely Davey couldn't help but smile back. Freddy really wasn't that bad, when he was away from Chris and Nathan. As far as Davey could tell, Nathan was responsible for about half of what made Freddy such an asshole, and the other half was his inability to keep it in his pants. "It's always a problem," Freddy was complaining to Davey one day. "Because it's like, I could go to the jazz club, which is like my ears and brain having sex, or I could go to the gay clubs, where it's like the rest of me is having sex. But why should I have to choose? Why can't gay clubs play good music, or why can't they just have a gay jazz club?"
"I don’t think there's a real demand for gay jazz clubs," Davey said sensibly. "I think the demand is limited to you."
"Aw, come on," Freddy wheedled, "you'd support my gay jazz club, right?"
"I don't like clubs," Davey said. "They're loud and probably smelly and people you don't want touching you touch you and people you want touching you probably don't. I get enough of that when Joey's drunk friends crash on the couch."
"You want Joey's friends touching you?" Freddy asked incredulously. "I mean, I blew those guys and I still wouldn't want them groping on me when I was drunk."
"They don't mean to grope," Davey said, "they're just really wasted and can't really control where their hands are going. They grope each other too, sometimes."
"But clubs are like that only filled with attractive people," Freddy said wistfully. "And you want them all to touch you. Just imagine that, Davey."
For a brief, horrible moment, Davey had a fleeting vision of a room full of Freddys, all laughing at him wickedly and winking or undressing him with their eyes. One of those was already far more than Davey could handle.
"So I guess that's what you'll be doing, this weekend?" Davey asked. "Hanging out at the clubs?"
"Nah," Freddy said, shrugging. "Nathan and Chris have a gig."
"What kind of gig?"
"Some stupid concert for their stupid jam band," Freddy said bitterly. "It’s awful, it's like they sit there and strum random chords at each other and call it, like, 'The Moon Orbits In Your Smile' or something, and every time you think they're finally done, one of them will riff and they'll start all over again."
"Sounds fascinating," Davey said sarcastically, mildly peeved that Freddy was willing to subject himself to that sort of thing for Nathan, of all people. He wasn't sure why Nathan in particular got under his skin, but something about him really did. Davey blamed the fact that he had squinty eyes. You could never trust someone with squinty eyes. "What do they call themselves?"
"Soul Project," Freddy said. "Or maybe Soul Project, like, projection. They haven’t decided."
"Do they play soul music?" Davey asked. Because if they did that might explain why Freddy had spent one ride detailing everything that was wrong with Motown and how it had destroyed both the glory of the jazz age and thereby, America.
"No," Freddy said, increasingly sulky sounding. "That would make too much sense. They say it's because it helps them work on the state of their inner being, or something. But it's also like they're projecting their soul to the audience, and the audience is projecting back, and then they're one giant soul projection."
"That is the stupidest thing I think I've ever heard in my entire life," Davey said. "That's even stupider than your stance on pajamas."
"My stance on pajamas is not stupid," Freddy said, affronted, "it’s about self-respect."
"Says the guy who's going to go project his soul this weekend."
"Shut up," Freddy said viciously, pulling up in front of the Little Lamb Bakery. "Why did I want you to ride with me so badly again?"
"I don't know," Davey said, "but now I've gone lazy and you're stuck with me."
"That's no good," Freddy said, reaching across and ruffling Davey’s hair fondly, like he was wont to do. Davey had stopped trying to duck.
"If it's any consolation," Davey said, "I have it on good authority that I'm kind of a cool guy."
"Oh yeah?" Freddy asked, grinning. "What idiot told you that?"
"Same one who's going to some dumb gig this weekend, apparently."
"Fuck off," Freddy laughed, without any heat. "Get out of my fucking car."
"Thanks for the ride?" Davey asked.
"Yeah, yeah," Freddy said, still chuckling. "See you Monday."
- - -
Freddy crumpled the program within his hands slowly. Unfolded it and crumpled again. The girl next to him - big blonde hair, nice tits - was nodding along earnestly to the music. Freddy wanted to shake her by the shoulders.
Nathan was onstage, concluding what felt like a twenty minute guitar solo. He was getting into it even - his eyes had actually closed in heartfelt emotion as he strummed in front of the drum kit. Freddy didn't even why a drum kit (with the band name stenciled on it, no less) was necessary for a band that consisted of two guys slowly playing guitar, but he'd learned not to question Nathan and Chris' artistic vision. Every five minutes, Nathan would open his eyes and look over the audience, making eye contact with each person. Freddy found it extremely creepy. Nathan had called it "essential to the experience."
He wasn't even sure why he was there. Chris and Nathan's gigs were always a succession of small tortures. At least it hadn't been any worse than the music festival last summer -- this concert was thankfully exempt from lesbian tribal chant ensembles.
Chris looked up from where he had been playing. Freddy grimaced. He didn't understand why they even wanted them. Freddy never lost an opportunity to make fun of their attempts at music, and loudly. But Chris was still his best friend, and he and Nathan were still pretending to be brothers even when they weren't talking to each other, so Freddy bit the bullet and came to their gigs.
Freddy snorted. Fuck that, he thought to himself. That wasn't it at all. He was still there because it was Chris had taken his keys before the performance, knowing Freddy would try and sneak out. If he had his car keys with him, there was no way in hell he'd still be there watching as Nathan and Chris slowly and systematically destroyed his will to live. Thankfully, they finished by some pre-ordained signal with a final deafening twang, letting it resound into loud feedback through the speakers. Freddy clapped his hands over his ears, vowing this time, for real, he was never, ever, ever letting them talk him into attending a gig again.
"Thank you," Mr. Jones said, clapping as he came out to the microphone. "That was Soul...Project? Project?"
"Either pronunciation works!" Nathan shouted from offstage.
"Right," Mr. Jones said dryly. "Well, anyways, for our final act, we have a rather talented freshman, a young David O'Brian playing Franz Liszt's Liebestraum."
Freddy straightened up immediately. Was this why Davey had nervously been asking about his weekend? In case he wanted to come watch him? He'd never seen Davey perform really, and would have said yes if he'd known, even if it had meant enduring a thousand of Chris and Nathan's "concerts". He'd seen Davey composing, but that was different. That wasn't Davey on stage with an actual piece of music. And if those few moments had fueled a few more jerk-off sessions than Freddy cared to admit, well, who even knew what an actual performance would be like.
When Davey came on-stage, he did so with a sort of embarrassed shuffle. He looked like his mother had dressed him. His pants were clearly steam-pressed, and he'd never seen Davey in a sweater or a crisp button down (not flannel, even). His hair looked like someone had tried to take a wet comb to it, but it still stuck up stubbornly in the back. The only bit of Davey that was unchanged was his same, omnipresent, scuffed converse he'd worn every day Freddy had known him.
"Um, hi," Davey said into the microphone when he sat down. "This is Liszt's nocturne Liebesträume, which translates to 'dreams of love'. I think it, uh, adds to the experience when you, you know, know what the composer was trying to say. So I really hope you enjoy it. Thanks." Davey scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, and Freddy felt himself grin a little, involuntarily. A low, simmering heat began blooming in his stomach, and it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Which was weird - he was pretty sure he hadn't eaten anything off all day.
Slowly, Davey's fingers settled on the keyboard - just a few light caresses at first, his head cocked to the side as if the piano was speaking to him - before he closed his eyes and with a little smile began to play, and Freddy forgot everything else, including how to breathe.
The piece was gentle, rocking back and forth, and longing somehow. It really did sound like a romantic dream, the lovelorn kind that made you wake up with the choked, bittersweet feeling from knowing that no matter how hard you wished, it would never, ever be real. Davey's face looked so sad in the spotlight, like he was sympathizing with his fingers, which touched the piano gently, as if they were attempting to give it comfort. Abruptly Freddy realized that he wanted nothing more than those fingers on him. He wanted Davey to gaze at him the way he was gazing unfocused ahead - soft and wondrous, like he saw something otherworldly that no one else could. But it wasn't a sexual want - Freddy knew those. He knew what it felt like for your body to want someone with a sudden flash heat, and this wasn't it. This was wanting Davey's eyes on him, his attention and fingers brushing against his quietly. This was looking at Davey's skinny arms and wrists and seeing a fluid, poetic motion, something too terribly beautiful and breakable, something he fiercely wanted to protect. He looked at Davey and thought mine, and the strength and certainty of thought that frightened him. When Davey finished the last, tearful notes of the piece Freddy was standing up and applauding wildly without even realizing what he was doing, too lost in his own detached horror as he scanned the crowd. His gaze ended up focused in the back, where he saw Joey, which meant he must have come in after Freddy had. He looked proud and positively gleeful, pumping his fist in the air while the other hand clutched a video camera. He was standing next to a slight, pretty woman with a dark blonde braid who was crying and beaming, looking so much like Davey she had to be his mother. He saw her wave and blow a kiss onstage, where Davey beamed and waved at her, miming catching it and stuffing it in his pocket.
The simple motion made the warm feeling in Freddy's stomach return, yawning and empty and desperate. I'm in love with him. he thought, still in a numb state of shock as he filed out of the auditorium and retrieved his keys from Chris, who seemed supremely disinterested in Freddy’s silence. He kept thinking it over and over again as he walked into the chilly November air and across the parking lot, to make sure it made sense. I'm in love with him, I'm in love with him, I'm in love with him. It still made sense, and what's more, it felt right. It felt right the same way driving Davey home had felt right, the way hearing Davey laugh at his music taste and chat with his grandmother and smile at him in band had felt right. It felt right to be thinking this about Davey, little Davey with his cow licked hair and scuffed sneakers and big brown eyes and quirky mouth. That was Freddy's. Freddy wanted that. Freddy was in love with that.
He opened his car door and got in, terribly calm in his revelation for a few moments before leaning over and banging his head against the steering wheel twice.
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck."
Soundtrack:
A Good Start - Maria Taylor (lyrics)
In The Mood - Glenn Miller
My Funny Valentine - Chet Baker (lyrics)
Liebesträume No. 3 - Franz Liszt (more information)
First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes (lyrics)