That My Two Arms Could Give Me Wing (1/4)
Listen: this is the story of how we brought the far things near.
In the years at the end of the twenty-first century, everything began to change. Following an example set in Cairo, Tripoli and Damascus, protests were seen in New York, London, Paris. No major city was untouched. Governments and monarchies couldn't stand in the face of an entire generation. With one voice, the people spoke and, for a time, they were heard. It wasn't until the fires were out that people realized that what they had created was not a new world at all; it was the old world, but in ruins.
Anarchy is a flame that burns brightly and leaves a vacuum in its wake.
It was a center that could not hold.
In the end, another General replaced all the others that had come before him.
Mattis made his mark, and he made it quickly. It was obvious what became of giving people too much freedom. Revolution came quickly and easily. Slowly but surely, Mattis began to revoke personal freedoms.
The revolutions would not come again.
By 2175, there was no HIV or AIDS, no hunger, no debt. Psychiatric problems were issues of the past. People were, if not happy, content.
And the world went on.
- from Coming Around Again: The Last Revolution by Evan Wright
*
John's eighteenth birthday is in just over four months. He's the youngest of his friends, so he's stuck in the 'ville all on his own. He's got a room to himself now, which is just as well. Getting stuck rooming with some twelve-year-old kid would majorly blow.
The major told John that once he has his surgery and joins their ranks, everything will be great. Of course, John's gonna be a lowly intern, making him worse off than fucking Trombley, but hey, at least he'll be in the business of moving up. Not just a pre-op. Even without power, it sounds great. He's heard epic stories from Billy and he's almost sure at least half of them aren't exaggerated that much. Plus, he knows the parties (and girls) in the city get really wild.
All John has to do between now and his surgery is finalize his new face and not fuck up too badly. Considering how boring it is here, that really shouldn't be much trouble at all.
*
Being the oldest one in the dorm without any friends sucks more than John could have imagined. He hasn't spoken to anyone in days; he's probably going crazy. The waiting, needless to say, doesn't help.
Except he's not. Mental issues were eradicated over two centuries ago, his history teachers have told him. Sanity is not something people lose these days, and if the rare person starts acting weird, they just disappear.
So John definitely has his sanity, but it's not worth much without a use for it. He's nearly bored out of his mind anyway.
He could use his tablet to stream one of the really old movies the dorm offers, or eat, or go for a swim, but without anybody to do things with, it's kind of pointless.
Finally, John figures out one thing to do by himself. Something designed to be done alone: jerking off. He doesn't think about anyone in particular, just pushes up into his fist until he comes. Some of it gets on the wall, but John doesn't bother cleaning it up. He doesn't give a fuck if he gets extra chores for laziness, since he can give some freshman a few extra canteen tokens to do them for him.
John actually doesn't give a fuck about anything but his surgery.
*
He goes for a run around the entire 'ville. The size-barely twelve miles around-is meant to keep all the pre-ops contained and easy to find in case of an emergency. It works. It also gets boring. Still, a workout is a workout, even if he did the loop at least three times a week with Jeff and Kocher. Starting almost four years ago.
(One hundred and forty-two days.)
He reads a goddamn book. Well, it's on his tablet, and it's incredibly old, but this George Orwell dude seems like a pretty okay guy.
(One hundred and forty-one days.)
He cleans out his goddamn closet.
(One hundred and thirty-eight days.)
The in-wall clock is ticking, counting down the secondsminuteshours until the first day of John's life begins.
But at the rate it's going, John honestly can't tell if making it to his eighteenth birthday is worth surviving the boredom. He tries sleeping more to kill the hours, but he's too wired with nervous energy to get more than seven a night.
Life is apparently supposed to be so much better than it was hundreds of years ago. John's not so sure he agrees.
*
They run into each other in the hall-literally. John drops all his laundry, boxers and sweatshirts spilling messily onto the floor.
"Watch where you're fucking going," the guy says. Based on how old (and okay, attractive, if John's being honest) he looks, he should already be in the city, but he's got this white-blond hair and normally they inch you closer to baseline when you have your operation. This guy's just too pale to have changed already.
"Sorry," he says. It's kind of pathetic how quickly he tries to shrink back into himself. "Sorry, I wasn't-"
"Yo, it's cool, it's good," the guy interrupts, cracking a smile. "Just wanted to fuck with you."
"Oh." John breathes a sigh of relief. "Well...good."
"Q-Tip," the guy says. "I gotta make my own fun now, and you looked like an easy target."
"John." They shake hands, and John does his best not to wrench away from Q-Tip's too-tight grip. He's not sure if he should be offended, but figures it's best to let it go. "Are you stuck here all by yourself too?" he asks.
"Yeah. It's fuckin' screwby." Q-Tip shakes his head. He seems as unhappy as John does about his situation, but maybe they can chill before they get to be in the real world. Still, Q-Tip looks more mature than John, and it makes him wonder.
"Not to be rude or anything, but...shouldn't you already be in the city? You just look older than most of the losers around here."
"Motherfuckers bounced me back for nine whole months," Q-Tip explains. "Apparently I got 'behavioral issues.'"
John didn't even know people got their changes delayed as punishment, but he guesses it's a possibility.
"That blows," he says. He can't imagine having to wait any longer than he has to, especially since he's behind his friends as is. "Wait, why haven't I seen you before?" If they're roughly the same age, they should've been living in the same building and having class together.
"Well, they thought maybe I'd stay out of trouble somewhere else. So they moved me here from a few klicks south, maybe two weeks ago," Q-Tip explains.
Now John feels worse for him. Having to wait to move is one thing; being somewhere completely new without knowing anyone is another.
"How long do you have left?" he asks.
"Just about four months," Q-Tip says with an eye roll. "Shit's whack, yo. I'm a motherfucking adult, and they want me to chill with little kids until spring. I can't even get any visitation privileges."
"On the bright side," John tries, "that's when I go, too. So you're not completely alone." He realizes how stupid and clingy he sounds, and blushes, but Q-Tip just grins and says great like he means it.
They end up grabbing dinner together, which takes longer than expected-Q-Tip eats enough food for three people, and John takes his time with the large piece of snozberry cake the kitchen was going to throw out (what with it being a day old and all). It’s hard to tell if Q-Tip’s stories about the stunts he’s pulled are fake or not, but they’re entertaining as fuck, and John’s enjoying not being bored, for once. He easily agrees to meeting up the next morning, and then heads back to his dorm, feeling oddly giddy.
*
John wakes up feeling better than he has since Gabe-who was the last of John’s friends to turn eighteen-left. He feels like today might even be a good one.
Breakfast at the d-hall is bacon, eggs, and toast, and John’s managed to find some coffee powder from a guy on his floor. It’s instant, and doesn’t taste very good, but it’s banned and a needed energy boost. He wants to be all alert and shit for his meeting with the surgeon who’ll be doing his operation, and plus, his BFR has to be ‘acceptable’ for anesthesia or whatever. It doesn’t really make sense, but John doesn’t want anything holding him back from leaving.
His parents (ugh) pick him up at nine and take him to this huge-ass, fancy-looking building near the part of town where the rich fucks and middle-aged people live. Little kids with their parents, too; you leave them and move into the dorms in the 'ville at age eight, no matter what.
Just to get in, John has to have eye and fingerprint scans, which is kind of unnerving, because they’re obviously just going to check his ID again when they actually get to the doctor’s office.
The consult goes better than expected, though. The doctor-Aubin, he thinks, but he’s not sure-has new photos taken of John, and those are used to update the 3D scans of his new look. According to them, John will look recognizable after surgery, but they want to rough up his features a little. Make his lips thinner and his cheekbones less prominent, the doctor says with a wink.
It sounds good, and John's parents are nodding very intently. The guy on-screen looks like he belongs in the city and has an important job. John uses his tablet to make the guy's features a little less drastically different from his current ones and clicks the 'accept image' box, signing his name slowly.
His mother looks like she might cry; his father looks proud. Some assistant (or nurse, whatever) goes over a really long list of pre-op and post-op shit with John. Most of it sounds okay, but he's not looking forward to not eating beforehand and not exercising after. It's worth the pain, he knows. That doesn't mean he has to enjoy it.
John's parents, having taken the day off from work, insist on treating him to an early lunch. They weren't around much when he was little and he bets they're still trying to absolve themselves of the guilt.
Restaurants in the city are fucking good, though, and the fancy lunch is an especially needed break from d-hall food. His parents insist on making small talk for most of the meal, which makes the awkward silences even worse. It's not that they're bad people. It's just that they don't really understand him.
Finally, he gets back to the 'ville, and his first thought is to find Q-Tip and show him the pictures. He has no idea where Q-Tip lives, though, so he checks the d-hall (almost empty) and the main lounge (filled with preteens) before finding him by the artificial pond.
He's got a book in one hand and a burger in the other, which is kind of surprising. John didn't peg him as the literary type, but he actually doesn't know all that much about Q-Tip. Like an idiot, John trips over a rock as he's running down the hill. Q-Tip turns and laughs so hard he almost chokes.
"Thanks a lot," John grumbles. "Keep it up and I won't show you the post-surgery imaging scans I have."
Q-Tip just plucks the folder out of John's hands, flipping through the shots.
"Dude, this doesn't even look like you," he says, scrunching up his nose. "Who's doing this? They're changing you too much."
"That's the point," John sighs exasperatedly. "Nobody in the city looks like me, and after this, I'll look like them. I'll fit in."
"Sometimes it's better to stand out, and nothin's wrong with your face. Well, nothin' that terrible, anyway." Q-Tip closes the folder and passes it back to John. "Do what you want. I'm just sayin' it's a waste."
No one's ever said something like that to John before-society tells you you're born ugly and will need surgery to fix that. Even parents can't tell their children they're special or anything, not before the kid's eighteen. It feels good. He feels good, feels like someone likes him for real.
"Come on," Q-Tip says as he stands up. "Let's go to the courts. You could stand to lose a few pounds, Christeson." It's the first time he's called John by name. He doesn't even know how Q-Tip found it out.
*
By the time they're done playing basketball, the sun is low in the sky, and John is sweaty and exhausted. If he'd known how badly Q-Tip would beat him, he probably would've suggested, like, sim bowling or something. Q-Tip jumps up, his hands pushing down on John's shoulders, his weight sending John reeling forward.
"Loser buys dinner!" he yells, and with how much he eats, it probably won't be cheap. Live and learn, John guesses as he watches his meal points drop and drop when Q-Tip rattles off his order.
*
For lack of anything better to do, they head back to John's room and watch the lights and fireworks from parties in the city. The glow is sort of distant and hazy, like John's seeing them through a fogged-up window, even though he's just a short walk away from the glamour. Flashes of pink and orange and yellow stain Q-Tip's hair in patches, but his eyes are focused on something in the distance, a pinpoint John can't seem to find.
"Hey, you cool?" he asks gently, shaking Q-Tip's shoulder a bit. He gets a startled reaction and then a nod, so John lets him stare out into the sky until he falls asleep. Since John hadn't expected him to stay over, he didn't set up the air mattress, and since it's too late to do it, he covers Q-Tip with a blanket and goes to sleep in the lounge.
He sees how young and peaceful Q-Tip looks when he's sleeping, and doesn't even try to pretend he didn't notice it.
*
When John returns to his room the next morning, the only sign Q-Tip was ever there is the freshly made bed-John normally doesn't bother with it. He wonders if he did something wrong or made Q-Tip upset all through Saturday morning brunch, where he eats like he hasn't in a day. Granted, that's mostly because brunch seems to be the one (or one and a half, whatever) meal the d-hall does well.
It's kind of weird that he doesn't see Q-Tip, because he loves to eat and probably loves brunch, but clearly something happened last night that's keeping him from acting like himself.
Fucking Trombley corners John on his way out-he wants advice or someone to take him along on a stunt or something, but John's not going to take pity on the little psycho just because he's getting close to leaving. The kid's beyond all hope.
He manages to slip out intact and without a huge argument, so that's a small victory, though he'll probably need to avoid Trombley for at least a week.
With Q-Tip nowhere to be found and without any responsibilities or plans, John figures he should do something to counter the boredom, which ends up being swimming. The pool is completely empty-under-twelves aren't allowed without a minder-which John appreciates. It's just annoying when people are loud and obnoxious when he's trying to relax and/or exercise.
And since there's no one there, he doesn't see a problem with turning the jets and bubbles on and stripping down. Why bother with a suit if he's alone?
It's just warm enough, but not so much the heat is uncomfortable. The water relaxes his muscles, soothing over the places that are sore from running. He does laps in long, easy strokes, raising his head from the water every so often to suck in a deep breath.
Every noise he makes reverberates, and John yells just to do it. The echo is deafeningly loud, and he ducks back underwater, where it's a little quieter. He wonders when the fitness center got all revamped, 'cause he doesn't remember any of this.
There's a diving board where there wasn't one before, so John does a few (plus one ill thought-out belly flop that leaves his skin red and stinging). When his energy starts to fade, he stops and floats on his back, staring up at the skylight. The sun's bright enough to hurt a little, so John shields his eyes and only spends another minute like that before doing a handstand.
Just to see if he can do it, John takes a big fucking lungful of air, dives into the pool, and swims as far as he can without coming up.
He ends up just a few feet short of making it and gasping for breath-it seemed a lot smaller above water. Q-Tip is standing at the edge of the pool, fully clothed, looking a little dazed. Honestly. John spent a good part of the morning looking for him and now he decides to just show up? While John is naked, no less.
"What the fuck," he says, and then louder, just to be sure Q-Tip hears him. "I've been looking for you." And Q-Tip just blinks and goes oh. He looks weirded-out or something, which makes John want to get out and see if he's okay, but he's not wearing anything and thinks it would be weird. There are towels by the door-too far away.
"Can you close your eyes for a minute?" John asks, climbing out of the pool with the expectation that Q-Tip will do it.
He doesn't-doesn't even look away, for fuck's sake-and John automatically tries to cover himself with his hands. Swearing, he walks quickly but carefully, so he doesn't slip and crack his head open over to the table and wraps a towel around his waist.
"Seriously, what the fuck happened to you, man?" Now John's getting worried for real, because even though he hasn't known Q-Tip for very long, he strikes John as the kind of person who only gets this rattled by serious shit. "Did someone die or something?"
"No. At least not that I know of." Q-Tip's voice is steady and unsure; he seems so unlike himself. He shakes his head emphatically. "I don't wanna talk about it."
"Okay," John says, not quite sure of what to do next. It feels like he should hug Q-Tip, though that might just make the whole thing worse. "Let me just find my clothes and we can get some coffee and talk about-"
"You wanna head back to my room? I can't stand being here." Q-Tip interrupts. "I have stuff."
Stuff could mean any one of a number of things that the dorm prohibits. John accepts without a second thought, especially with Q-Tip looking like he really needs to forget something.
"Anything you want. I should probably change first, though." John takes a few steps in the locker room's direction. When Q-Tip follows him, he keeps his mouth shut, even though it's unexpected and a little odd. Casual physical contact is looked down upon, and this isn't that, but he's pretty sure this could get them a warning.
Luckily, the locker room has curtained stalls. When John's done, Q-Tip's face is wet, like he washed it, but he doesn't seem any calmer.
"Maybe we should stop for some food?" John suggests. Q-Tip's pale as fuck, and probably a few steps-literally-from collapsing. There's a to-go store connected to the d-hall where they could grab something quick. He'll even treat willingly.
With some food (a protein wrap and some generic-brand sports drink), Q-Tip does look a bit healthier, a little more stable, but John sticks close in case he starts to wobble. Q-Tip has to lead the way, since John doesn't know which building he lives in.
His room is a double with just one bed, and in complete disarray. Walking through it is sort of like what John imagines walking through a minefield would be like, especially since he almost trips on a free weight that's just laying in the middle of the room. It makes Q-Tip laugh and look alive, shockingly.
"That could've killed me," he points out.
"Yeah, but it didn't. So shut up and lock the fuckin' door."
John does as he's told, and when he turns back around, Q-Tip is pulling a brown paper bag out from underneath the bed. Glass clinks together, sounding so loud in the confined space, but Q-Tip says his dorm monitor lives all the way at the other end of the hall. A shot glass is shoved into John's hands and filled; he's told to drink and chase it with some lemonade. He's pretty sure you can just mix them together, but Q-Tip rolls his eyes at the suggestion and claims he knows best.
"Again," he instructs. "I know you're not that much of a lightweight."
So John does another, and another. He starts to feel buzzed, more relaxed, and the tension in his shoulders dissipates a little. On the other hand, Q-Tip is hardly showing anything-his jaw is less tight, but that's it.
"We're switching to beer now," Q-Tip announces, and as nice as it is to hang out and drink, John hates that he has no say in anything. The paper bag is just within his reach, so he lifts it and pulls out the nearest bottle, twisting open the top so he can drink it straight.
...Which is a terrible idea, he realizes, because it's moonshine. He winces, eliciting a small smirk from Q-Tip.
"Ready to talk about what happened yet?" John asks. "Seriously, you looked pretty fucked-up. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Shut up and drink." Q-Tip gulps down the rest of his beer, Adam's apple bobbing. John's transfixed by it, but that goes unmentioned.
"Fine, then. But what's with the nickname? I mean, 'Q-Tip?'" John asks. "It's not very tough. Don't really think it suits you."
"Yo, I'm glad you think so. Intimidation's the only thing I got." Q-Tip grins a little. "Cuz of my hair, you know? And I used to be real skinny when I was a kid. Like a Q-Tip. One day my friend Chaffin came up with it and it just stuck."
"But what's your real name?" He's been curious about it since they met, but didn't know how Q-Tip would react if he asked. Now that they're drinking, though, all bets are off.
"It's Evan. After my grandpa."
"Evan," John repeats. It suits him, mostly.
"The reason I don't go by that is cuz he was a real bastard," Q-Tip explains. "I don't like thinking about him, so…"
"I'll make sure not to call you that, then. Sorry I asked." He has to have two more vodkas and shotgun his beer as punishment, Q-Tip says, and John goes along with it because he would've drunk them anyway. That doesn't mean he likes it. "You're an ass," he says flat-out, kicking Q-Tip hard under the table.
"'s part of my charm and you know it," is the response John gets. Q-Tip may be cocky, but he's also right. His honesty is refreshing; it's rare to meet a pre-op who's so confident.
Right about then is when they both start to slur their words, vowels getting looser with each sip of alcohol. John can feel his cheeks flushing and see Q-Tip's reddening, too, really incongruous with his pale...everything.
Fumbling, Q-Tip manages to call up some music on his player. It's wordless electronica, synthesized and repetitive, but at least it doesn't give John a headache, which is usually what happens with noise when he's drunk.
It fades into background noises fairly quickly, almost disappearing against the sounds of liquid sloshing and Q-Tip's out-of-the-blue laughing fit. When Q-Tip starts fucking shaking, John gets a little worried that he's going to hurt himself or choke from lack of oxygen.
Then he kind of falls on John, and all of John's thoughts are gone.
(Here are his thoughts on Q-Tip, though: the guy makes his heart beat faster and his stomach drop out, even though society would probably call that an inappropriate reaction. And John would much rather have a relationship than a one-night stand. That's all.)
He's heavy but not uncomfortable, though he's squirming around and dangerously close to elbowing John in the nose. It takes some work for John to get out from underneath him, and when Q-Tip finally stops laughing, he shifts so they're lying side by side. Even though Q-Tip is still practically on top of him, it's more comfortable, though comfortable is relative. They're touching at the shoulders and hips and knees, and John's skin feels hotter in those places.
Q-Tip drops his mostly-empty bottle onto the small pile of clothes that's accumulated by the bed. The sound's muffled by cotton and polyester, though it sounds like some of the vodka has spilled out.
His fingers come to rest right at John's wrist, skimming over his veins. Maybe he gets more touchy when he's drunk. There's no way of telling. John can't say he minds it at all, even though he's kind of ticklish there, because the pads of Q-Tip's fingers are surprisingly soft. It feels nice.
(If he was less drunk, it'd probably send a tingle through his spine-at the very least-as pathetic as that is, but with this much alcohol in his system, nothing is going to happen.)
Slowly, John's eyelids start to feel too heavy to stay open, struggling against his logical side, which wants to stay awake as long as possible. (To see Q-Tip happy and chilled-out, which isn't coming from his logical side, needless to say.) He knows he should get up and sleep somewhere else so he and Q-Tip don't wake up, like, cuddling or something, but his limbs all feel like they've got weights on them.
He dozes off with Q-Tip still lightly touching his wrist, their ankles tangled together and the comforter bunched below their waists.
*
When he wakes up, his mouth is stale and sour, and his head is pounding. John turns over to see where the light's coming from and almost hits Q-Tip, who looks dead to the world, in the nose.
Memories from last night come rushing back: the thing at the pool, drinking, Q-Tip opening up a little. It was like seeing a completely different person, which makes things kind of awkward. Is John supposed to stay? Does he need to bring back breakfast and coffee? Can he just slip out now? There really should be some instruction manual on this, because Q-Tip is snoring a little, one arm slung over the space where John had been, and he's torn.
He leaves a note, just a quick scribble saying he had to leave, pulls on his shoes, and bolts.
It's not that he didn't like what happened. That's exactly the problem. He did, and now he has to deal with having a huge crush on a guy who's probably R0 (exclusively heterosexual, as the government reseachers' scale says. It's what John thought he was before he met Q-Tip). And figuring out what the hell he is, clearly, because the situation is confusing as fuck.
The rest of the day is spent trying to avoid thinking too much-John goes down to the pond and skips stones, to the gym and lifts weights, and to the shitty dorm kitchen to make himself some mac and cheese. His parents are probably home, or would be available if he called, but John's mom isn't a great communicator and his dad is worse. He wishes he had, like, a wise older person in his life who could help him get his shit together. Dan might be a good choice, he thinks, but as far as John knows, no one's heard from him since he fell into the party scene across the river.
…Maybe not such a good choice after all.
Basically, he might've just ruined things with the one person he had to talk to. This is fucking great. It's kind of hard to keep his freaking out to a minimum, so he ends up buzzing with nervous energy that can't even be countered by a downer pill. The only thing he can channel that into is video games, where can blow shit up and drive fast, so he plays and plays until his hand cramps and his eyes are sore. Then he forces himself to sleep and repeats the whole routine the next day.
There are a couple stupid information sessions about how not to fuck up too badly when he moves out that John has to go to. The rest of the time he does jack shit and is lonely for all the friends who got to go before him. And because John avoids interacting with people for a few days, he doesn't see Q-Tip at all. He's kind of worried about him, but doing nothing is probably better than doing the wrong thing.
*
John finally sees Q-Tip a few days later when they're stuck in a special assembly with a guest speaker, and Q-Tip takes the seat next to John's, making a few cracks. They don't talk about what happened, so it's almost like before, but not quite.
Still, John likes him too much to say anything and risk ruining what they have irreparably, so he tamps down the feelings bubbling up inside him, keeps his room fully stocked with snacks, and listens carefully when Q-Tip talks. True, it's painful, but it's definitely less painful than being some lonely friendless loser, holed up in his room until surgery.
*
"You wanna go boarding?" Q-Tip asks late one night. They're in John's room, messing around with his shitty-ass gaming system.
It makes John do a double-take. Boarding at night is pretty fucking dangerous, but he's not going to mention that to Q-Tip and sound like a pussy.
"The dorm monitors," he says instead, regretting it almost instantly, when he realizes that worrying about getting caught isn't better than worrying about his safety.
"Come on, it'll be great," Q-Tip says, more pleading now. He looks so fucking eager that it hurts John to say no.
"I’m really tired. Another time?"
Then Q-Tip smiles like he knows something John doesn’t. "I get it," he says. "You’ve never been on a hoverboard before. Dude, how?"
John can only duck his head and look embarrassed. Walt and Holsey weren't big troublemakers, so the most they ever did was, like, set off some sparklers in an abandoned field.
"Well, you gotta do it before you change. It's too hard to do in the city, and nobody ever even wants to. We'll go together. We can go tonight." It’s not a request, it’s a demand, and Q-Tip always wins out in the end.
In the dark, John knows they won’t be able to see the tracks that mark the metal deposits in the ground, or when they end-hence the danger, since that's what keep the hoverboards in the air-but when has Q-Tip steered him wrong? Anyway, they’re wearing crash bracelets, so it’s unlikely either of them will die. Nightboarding is practically a rite of passage everyone is supposed to have before the leave the 'ville. The only thing he doesn't know is where they'll get the boards, since you have to get special permission to sign one out, and they're only available during limited hours. When he tells Q-Tip this, all he gets is that you're such an idiot! laugh.
"We're just gonna swipe 'em, bro. I know how to turn the sensors off without them showing it, and we'll put them back once we're done."
"Okay," John agrees cautiously. He follows Q-Tip's instructions (take off your belly sensor, strip down to the essentials but dress in darks, put on his watch cap) and arranges his pillow to look sort of like a person, in case someone comes by for fucking bed checks.
The boards and other interesting and possibly dangerous shit are kept on the roof of the science building. Instead of trying to pick the locks, Q-Tip hugs the wall as he goes around to the back and pulls down a shaky-looking ladder that John had no idea was even there.
"Are you scared, motherfucker?" John hears, and when the screws sound like they'll give way under their combined weight on each step up, he is a little freaked out.
Somehow, they both make it up, and Q-Tip hauls John from where the ladder ends over the edge of the roof. Up here, he can see the stars without any interference, and wonders how they'll look when he's zipping through the air.
There's a rack of safety jackets, but Q-Tip says he doesn't know how to get those off without triggering the alarms, so they have to go without. John doesn't watch as he does something with the box, because he doesn't really want to know how Q-Tip gets the hoverboards.
He's handed one, and it's a lot heavier than John expected it to be-after all, if it's in the air, a lot of weight doesn't make sense. It has to carry his weight, though, and since he doesn't understand the physics or engineering or whatever of it, he just holds it.
"I still can't believe you've never done this before. I'm gonna have to show you how," Q-Tip says. "Put it down and stand on it." John does. "Okay, shift your weight around some, 'cuz there's gonna be some force from the wind, and then turn left and right."
John feels like an idiot, standing on top of an 'off' hoverboard on top of a building while Q-Tip watches him, unimpressed, and that gets him a disapproving sigh.
"Just stand like this," Q-Tip tells him, walking closer and basically positioning John's body, his hands warm on John's hips. They're large and strong and shit-John should probably pay attention so he doesn't, like, get out there and die. "Pretend like you're turning again." This time, Q-Tip goes with him, pulling John's weight to one side to mimic the wind's power. "Damn, I gotta show you everything," Q-Tip jokes, only it's pretty true.
When Q-Tip takes his hand away and steps back so he can flip his own board into his hands, John feels this oddly deep loss, like he was whole for a minute and now he's not.
"I'm ready," he says. "Let's do this." The first few seconds off the roof are incredibly freaky. There's no getting around that. Q-Tip is right next to him, though, and his center of gravity adjusts. Beneath him, the ground becomes more distant, and the city seems closer.
John's never felt anything like this before. They're not even that high up, but the wind is whipping at his skin as the board carries him. It's a lot colder, and his lips will probably be chapped as fuck tomorrow. And none of it matters, for whatever reason. Q-Tip's ahead of him, swerving into sharp turns for no apparent reason other than it's probably an extra kick of energy. He's yelling so loudly everyone below can probably hear it, even with the wind roaring.
Easing the weight from the balls of his feet makes John's board lift a good few feet higher, and his heart drops into his stomach, but in a good way, if that's even possible. He manages to steal a glance at Q-Tip, who's definitely the happiest John's ever seen him, and smiles wide.
Suddenly, there's a loud whoosh of air, like it's suddenly been let out of a pressurized tube or something. Q-Tip's mid-flip, tongue out and short hair wild, and then he jerks his body to the side and comes upright again. The mechanics of that confuse the hell out of John; he's not even going to wonder. Or think about trying that anytime soon, because gravity isn't supposed to work like that.
John insists they turn around just before they hit the city's outer limits-there's having fun irresponsibly, and then there's just being a fucking dumbass. That doesn't go over very well, but John's putting his fucking foot down for once. Q-Tip can't call all the shots, all the time. He concedes to taking a detour, though, around the couples park and nursery school, because the feel of the night air on his skin, from this angle, is kind of thrilling.
When they finally touch back down on the grass (John refuses a roof landing, because if they miss, it could be a long fall down), his heart's beating like crazy. It's a pretty warm night, yet he can't stop shivering, which is confusing. Q-Tip claims it's the extra adrenaline, and John's not sure if the theory is valid or bullshit. Either way, they dump their boards and jog to Q-Tip's dorm (it's closer) so John can grab a hoodie. It's slightly too big on him, which makes him feel both protected and like a kid.
His chills eventually slow and then stop; Q-Tip only rags on him a little. But he also mixes John up some instant hot chocolate, mooting his point. John appreciates the gesture and the warmth, even if it's kind of watery.
"So, how was it for you?" Q-Tip asks. "I'm actually kinda surprised you didn't panic and bail up there. If anyone would, it'd be you." John throws his empty cup at him, drops of congealed cocoa spilling on the floor and across the knees of Q-Tip's pants. "Jus' kidding," he says quickly. "You picked it up kinda quick. We'll definitely have to go again, though, so you can do more than just go in a straight fucking line the whole time."
"If you want to," John agrees. He'd be perfectly happy to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground, even if life is about taking risks. Talking to Q-Tip in the first place was a pretty damn big risk, John thinks, and he can only imagine what kind of shit he'll-or they'll, rather-get into once they move. Talking to him again after their drunk cuddle session took even bigger balls, so maybe he's not a killjoy after all.
For a while, they sit in comfortable silence, watching streams of television shows that are hundreds of years old. Everything seems like he's looking at it from far away, grainy and out-of-focus, until Q-Tip hands him a frozen toaster pastry, and then there's chewing and laughing and before either of them know it, the whole pack is gone.
He's full, almost uncomfortable, but he figures he deserves it. There's probably some connection between lots of adrenaline and burning calories, not that he's smart enough to know. Also, the d-hall's menu for the night was shitty (cabbage soup), so they skipped it.
"Next time," John says, "don't tell me I need to lose a few pounds and then stuff me full of sugar and empty carbs, you fucker."
Q-Tip snorts. "Don't blame me if you can't control yourself, fatass."
"I'll get you some goddamn carrot sticks and celery for the room," John offers, half-seriously. "They don't like fat new recruits across the river."
"You're crazy," Q-Tip replies, shaking his head. "I'd rather eat cardboard."
It's incredibly late when John decides he has to stumble back to his own dorm for the night, a mix of wanting his own bed and not wanting to torture himself by sleeping in close proximity to Q-Tip again.
*
The sky outside is still dark when John's woken the next morning by a crushing pressure on his lungs and stomach. This is a nightmare he's had before (dying young, or violently), but when he raises his head a couple inches and blinks the sleep from his eyes, it's just Q-Tip sitting on him.
Just. Q-Tip. Sitting. On him.
"Get off me," he says as calmly as possible, because a. he can't breathe, and b. he probably has a boner and doesn't want Q-Tip to get the wrong impression or anything.
(Not that, you know, Q-Tip is...hot in the way girls haven't always been to John. It's nothing. Really.)
"Pussy," Q-Tip taunts. He's dressed and ready for the day, somehow. Not even the dorm monitors are up this early. The lights on the grounds haven't come on yet; John's eyelids feel heavy and sore with the sleep he's missing out on. But he'd much rather be tired than bored, especially since he'll get plenty of rest after the operation.
Q-Tip tosses him some clothes, as well as a toothpaste pill and a bottle of water. "Hurry up," he says. "I want to go running before everyone else is awake to ruin our day."
He feels like he only slept for a couple hours; his body's protesting. "If you say so."
John turns his back so he can change without Q-Tip watching him. Or at least watching Q-Tip watch him. He kind of thinks he needs to shower, but figures he'll need one more after he's done exercising. "Which pair?" he asks, gesturing in the direction of the pile of shoes on the floor, and Q-Tip fishes out the high-tech ones that are like running barefoot.
"Hurry up," Q-Tip says again. John really does wonder what the rush is-it's not like anyone's going to see them running and get angry or bother them. But he's set in under a minute, and Q-Tip leads the way out and onto the paved jogging path. He takes off in a full sprint, which John wasn't prepared for, and he has to push himself to catch up.
With Q-Tip still strides ahead of him, John can't help but notice that he runs like he's in the wild, all graceful and panther-like and shit. The muscles of his legs ripple as he moves, and John really needs to snap out of this...whatever this is.
The pavement curves left towards the quad, but Q-Tip's direction doesn't change. From John's perspective, it looks like they're headed for the woods. He's not really sure he gets it-there are a couple old buildings, ones the 'ville doesn't use, and John's been to parties in them, but he's sure even Q-Tip would agree that it's way too early to be drinking.
"Keep up, son," Q-Tip calls from over his shoulder, and John gets a sudden burst of energy, mostly in hopes of whupping the cockiness out of him. It works, mostly, and John figures staying right on Q-Tip's heels is acceptable enough.
He makes another turn and ducks under the tree, leading them into an even more wooded area. John notices a little bird's nest and nothing else, but Q-Tip makes a sharp left and a bridge appears from (what seems like) out of nowhere. It's not an iron-reinforced, city SmartBridge. It looks pretty old, and possibly dangerous.
"You coming or what?" Q-Tip asks, and he looks like he actually gives a shit about John's response. It feels weirdly good, and John nods, wincing when he accidentally steps on a loud tree branch.
As is usual now, Q-Tip leads the way, always so sure of his direction. Under John's feet, the bridge creaks and gives, somehow rebelling after Q-Tip crossed it silently not thirty seconds ago. He hears a hissed why you gotta be so loud? but figures he shouldn't respond.
Once they cross, they're in the city's outskirts. There are a few shitty-looking houses out here, and a pathetic tree or two, but outside of the suburbs, there really isn’t much. Q-Tip stays close to the edge of the woods, so John does too, and he keeps an eye out for City Patrol copters.
Even this early, the city looks so much better and brighter from here than it does from across the river. People are happy there, and John can’t wait to reunite with the rest of his old dorm.
Q-Tip tugs John past a bench so they can avoid setting of the motion sensor, and then they reach a large, plain-looking building. He reaches into his pack and starts pulling things out: gloves, ID cloakers, retractable knives. Like most people would be, John is pretty fucking freaked out, and backs up a couple steps, just to make sure he’s not going to get stabbed.
"What the fuck are we doing?" he hisses, glancing around nervously. None of this makes sense.
"Breaking into the main complex." Q-Tip acts like it's completely obvious, which it kind of is, but that's not the point. The better question might be why they're doing this, since they're so close to having it all. Why would they want to jeopardize that?
"Okay, why?" John amends.
"Remember how I was telling you about my friend Jason? Jason Lilley?" He waits for John to nod before continuing. "Not too long ago, he got caught up with this group of people who were pretty close to finding out some kinda conspiracy in Special Ops or whatever. Someone tipped a couple people off and he knew he needed to leave before they got to him, only...nobody knows if he made it out of the city or not, and I'm hoping I can find out the answer."
"I'm out," John says, going with his gut. "Believe me, I know you want to find him, but I can't help you with this. There's too much that could go wrong."
"Wait!" Q-Tip snaps, blocking John's path. "Come on. I trust you, okay? And I know you trust me, even if you think you shouldn't. I need a lookout. We'll be in and out so fast they won't even know we were there; if we get caught, I promise I'll take all the blame."
He's still leaning against breaking in (it's so dangerous, and John has a future that's not secure unless he's good," but Q-Tip adds, "I need you," and that's it, he's got John by the balls.
In a matter of speaking, anyway.
This isn't just another one of Q-Tip's mostly harmless stunts where he tests the limits to see what he can get away with. This is for a reason-there's someone's welfare involved, a friend of his'-which is why John commits to it too. He just hopes Q-Tip's plan is foolproof, and that Q-Tip can talk their way out of trouble if they get caught.
The building has security, high-tech cameras and armed guards and passcodes required to get in, though Q-Tip doesn't seem deterred. He swipes a card through the scanner (where the fuck did he get that, and whose is it?) and yanks John through before the green light switches back to red.
"What are you going to do about-" but before John can even finish asking his question, Q-Tip produces a can from his pack, jumps up, and sprays the camera screens.
"There. You happy?"
"Just go," he says, giving Q-Tip a little shove forward. "Tell me what room number we're looking for. I'll check one side and you can do the other."
"528-491," Q-Tip says.
"But we're in the basement!" It doesn't make sense. The rooms should be B-100 and up, like how some of his classrooms were numbered.
"Shh, just come," he hisses back.
The numbers are completely out of order-the first door on John's side starts with an eight, while the next one starts with a three-so it's kind of hard to find the one he's looking for. It's a clusterfuck, to say the least, and with every step he takes, he's worried about triggering some invisible sensor or laser that'll alert their presence to the higher-ups and get them tossed in a laogai camp.
When John does manage to find the room Q-Tip's looking for, he takes a minute to stop and look at the door, which is sort of creepy-looking. Unlike all the others, it's faded with age, and it's missing the sharp black letters that indicate who or what is inside.
"This is the one," says Q-Tip, half-shoving John out of his way. How he even gets them in is a mystery, but he puts John in front of the door and tells him to stand guard.
It'd be great if he had one of the knives Q-Tip packed or something so he'd look intimidating if anyone were to pass by. He can hear Q-Tip rummaging around and generally making a big fucking mess in the office or storage room. Does he even know what he's looking for? Upstairs, boots hit the floor hard, faster than a normal walking pace. John's heart pounds in his chest, blood pumping in his ears. Specials could be coming for them right now, armed to the teeth and with ice in their veins.
A few minutes pass without any interruptions (if he ignores Q-Tip's grumbled curses); they must be safe. It makes him grit his teeth, though, because the possibility of that happening is pretty likely. When he turns around to see how Q-Tip's doing, John finds him with an official-looking folder in his hand as he clicks through something on the computer.
"Just copy the files so we can get out of here," John insists. "We'll have plenty of time to look at it later."
"One more," Q-Tip says, and grabs a thick, leather-bound book that's got 'confidential' stamped on the front, back, and side. He tosses John a stained rag, saying "wipe down what you touched" and does the same. "Okay, you go first. There's an exit on the opposite side of the hall, which we'll take, because they might've found where we busted in so they could wait for us to leave."
The rest of the hallway is dark and has fewer doors, so they hurry through it to the staircase. On the way out, though, the emergency exit door alarm goes off and they have to sprint all the way back to the woods with their gear still on.
"Shit," John gasps, trying to catch his breath. "Are you sure no one saw us?"
"Relax. If they did, we'd've shaken 'em by now. Even with technology, they can't see through forest. Let's go back, though," Q-Tip says, and then yells loudly.
Instinctively, John rushes to cover his mouth. They got what they came for, but it wouldn't be good if someone found them. Luckily, Q-Tip gets the point, and quiets down so they don't have to walk the whole way back like that.
"Sorry. I'm just really fuckin' excited," he says. "Lilley's been MIA for a few months, and this-" he brandishes his portable info card "-is the key to figuring out what the fuck happened."
"I get it. How about we go back to the dorms so you can be less of an idiot and still blow off steam?" John suggests, already a few paces in front of Q-Tip.
*
After stopping to ditch their packs in Q-Tip's room, burying them in the closet, they wander around. Finally, they end up in the quad, people-watching and just messing around. Something John says makes Q-Tip lightly punch his shoulder, and it dawns on him that all the tension that had been lingering between them is gone. While it's a huge relief, it's also kind of a letdown, because some of that tension had been sexual and the lack of it makes John wonder if there's no longer anything between them.
He knows that there shouldn't be-according to the government, society, and his own damn parents, at least-but if he concentrates hard enough to block out all the external influences, he can probably admit that he'd be disappointed if he and Q-Tip are going to only be friends.
It actually makes him feel so sick to his stomach that he has to tell Q-Tip he's not feeling well and stop by the to-go store for some anti-nausea tablets. Then he lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling, feeling like nothing's really changed since before he met Q-Tip. Except, of course, that he's, like, ten times more sexually frustrated. Life just sucks, and his in particular.
Part Two
In the years at the end of the twenty-first century, everything began to change. Following an example set in Cairo, Tripoli and Damascus, protests were seen in New York, London, Paris. No major city was untouched. Governments and monarchies couldn't stand in the face of an entire generation. With one voice, the people spoke and, for a time, they were heard. It wasn't until the fires were out that people realized that what they had created was not a new world at all; it was the old world, but in ruins.
Anarchy is a flame that burns brightly and leaves a vacuum in its wake.
It was a center that could not hold.
In the end, another General replaced all the others that had come before him.
Mattis made his mark, and he made it quickly. It was obvious what became of giving people too much freedom. Revolution came quickly and easily. Slowly but surely, Mattis began to revoke personal freedoms.
The revolutions would not come again.
By 2175, there was no HIV or AIDS, no hunger, no debt. Psychiatric problems were issues of the past. People were, if not happy, content.
And the world went on.
- from Coming Around Again: The Last Revolution by Evan Wright
*
John's eighteenth birthday is in just over four months. He's the youngest of his friends, so he's stuck in the 'ville all on his own. He's got a room to himself now, which is just as well. Getting stuck rooming with some twelve-year-old kid would majorly blow.
The major told John that once he has his surgery and joins their ranks, everything will be great. Of course, John's gonna be a lowly intern, making him worse off than fucking Trombley, but hey, at least he'll be in the business of moving up. Not just a pre-op. Even without power, it sounds great. He's heard epic stories from Billy and he's almost sure at least half of them aren't exaggerated that much. Plus, he knows the parties (and girls) in the city get really wild.
All John has to do between now and his surgery is finalize his new face and not fuck up too badly. Considering how boring it is here, that really shouldn't be much trouble at all.
*
Being the oldest one in the dorm without any friends sucks more than John could have imagined. He hasn't spoken to anyone in days; he's probably going crazy. The waiting, needless to say, doesn't help.
Except he's not. Mental issues were eradicated over two centuries ago, his history teachers have told him. Sanity is not something people lose these days, and if the rare person starts acting weird, they just disappear.
So John definitely has his sanity, but it's not worth much without a use for it. He's nearly bored out of his mind anyway.
He could use his tablet to stream one of the really old movies the dorm offers, or eat, or go for a swim, but without anybody to do things with, it's kind of pointless.
Finally, John figures out one thing to do by himself. Something designed to be done alone: jerking off. He doesn't think about anyone in particular, just pushes up into his fist until he comes. Some of it gets on the wall, but John doesn't bother cleaning it up. He doesn't give a fuck if he gets extra chores for laziness, since he can give some freshman a few extra canteen tokens to do them for him.
John actually doesn't give a fuck about anything but his surgery.
*
He goes for a run around the entire 'ville. The size-barely twelve miles around-is meant to keep all the pre-ops contained and easy to find in case of an emergency. It works. It also gets boring. Still, a workout is a workout, even if he did the loop at least three times a week with Jeff and Kocher. Starting almost four years ago.
(One hundred and forty-two days.)
He reads a goddamn book. Well, it's on his tablet, and it's incredibly old, but this George Orwell dude seems like a pretty okay guy.
(One hundred and forty-one days.)
He cleans out his goddamn closet.
(One hundred and thirty-eight days.)
The in-wall clock is ticking, counting down the secondsminuteshours until the first day of John's life begins.
But at the rate it's going, John honestly can't tell if making it to his eighteenth birthday is worth surviving the boredom. He tries sleeping more to kill the hours, but he's too wired with nervous energy to get more than seven a night.
Life is apparently supposed to be so much better than it was hundreds of years ago. John's not so sure he agrees.
*
They run into each other in the hall-literally. John drops all his laundry, boxers and sweatshirts spilling messily onto the floor.
"Watch where you're fucking going," the guy says. Based on how old (and okay, attractive, if John's being honest) he looks, he should already be in the city, but he's got this white-blond hair and normally they inch you closer to baseline when you have your operation. This guy's just too pale to have changed already.
"Sorry," he says. It's kind of pathetic how quickly he tries to shrink back into himself. "Sorry, I wasn't-"
"Yo, it's cool, it's good," the guy interrupts, cracking a smile. "Just wanted to fuck with you."
"Oh." John breathes a sigh of relief. "Well...good."
"Q-Tip," the guy says. "I gotta make my own fun now, and you looked like an easy target."
"John." They shake hands, and John does his best not to wrench away from Q-Tip's too-tight grip. He's not sure if he should be offended, but figures it's best to let it go. "Are you stuck here all by yourself too?" he asks.
"Yeah. It's fuckin' screwby." Q-Tip shakes his head. He seems as unhappy as John does about his situation, but maybe they can chill before they get to be in the real world. Still, Q-Tip looks more mature than John, and it makes him wonder.
"Not to be rude or anything, but...shouldn't you already be in the city? You just look older than most of the losers around here."
"Motherfuckers bounced me back for nine whole months," Q-Tip explains. "Apparently I got 'behavioral issues.'"
John didn't even know people got their changes delayed as punishment, but he guesses it's a possibility.
"That blows," he says. He can't imagine having to wait any longer than he has to, especially since he's behind his friends as is. "Wait, why haven't I seen you before?" If they're roughly the same age, they should've been living in the same building and having class together.
"Well, they thought maybe I'd stay out of trouble somewhere else. So they moved me here from a few klicks south, maybe two weeks ago," Q-Tip explains.
Now John feels worse for him. Having to wait to move is one thing; being somewhere completely new without knowing anyone is another.
"How long do you have left?" he asks.
"Just about four months," Q-Tip says with an eye roll. "Shit's whack, yo. I'm a motherfucking adult, and they want me to chill with little kids until spring. I can't even get any visitation privileges."
"On the bright side," John tries, "that's when I go, too. So you're not completely alone." He realizes how stupid and clingy he sounds, and blushes, but Q-Tip just grins and says great like he means it.
They end up grabbing dinner together, which takes longer than expected-Q-Tip eats enough food for three people, and John takes his time with the large piece of snozberry cake the kitchen was going to throw out (what with it being a day old and all). It’s hard to tell if Q-Tip’s stories about the stunts he’s pulled are fake or not, but they’re entertaining as fuck, and John’s enjoying not being bored, for once. He easily agrees to meeting up the next morning, and then heads back to his dorm, feeling oddly giddy.
*
John wakes up feeling better than he has since Gabe-who was the last of John’s friends to turn eighteen-left. He feels like today might even be a good one.
Breakfast at the d-hall is bacon, eggs, and toast, and John’s managed to find some coffee powder from a guy on his floor. It’s instant, and doesn’t taste very good, but it’s banned and a needed energy boost. He wants to be all alert and shit for his meeting with the surgeon who’ll be doing his operation, and plus, his BFR has to be ‘acceptable’ for anesthesia or whatever. It doesn’t really make sense, but John doesn’t want anything holding him back from leaving.
His parents (ugh) pick him up at nine and take him to this huge-ass, fancy-looking building near the part of town where the rich fucks and middle-aged people live. Little kids with their parents, too; you leave them and move into the dorms in the 'ville at age eight, no matter what.
Just to get in, John has to have eye and fingerprint scans, which is kind of unnerving, because they’re obviously just going to check his ID again when they actually get to the doctor’s office.
The consult goes better than expected, though. The doctor-Aubin, he thinks, but he’s not sure-has new photos taken of John, and those are used to update the 3D scans of his new look. According to them, John will look recognizable after surgery, but they want to rough up his features a little. Make his lips thinner and his cheekbones less prominent, the doctor says with a wink.
It sounds good, and John's parents are nodding very intently. The guy on-screen looks like he belongs in the city and has an important job. John uses his tablet to make the guy's features a little less drastically different from his current ones and clicks the 'accept image' box, signing his name slowly.
His mother looks like she might cry; his father looks proud. Some assistant (or nurse, whatever) goes over a really long list of pre-op and post-op shit with John. Most of it sounds okay, but he's not looking forward to not eating beforehand and not exercising after. It's worth the pain, he knows. That doesn't mean he has to enjoy it.
John's parents, having taken the day off from work, insist on treating him to an early lunch. They weren't around much when he was little and he bets they're still trying to absolve themselves of the guilt.
Restaurants in the city are fucking good, though, and the fancy lunch is an especially needed break from d-hall food. His parents insist on making small talk for most of the meal, which makes the awkward silences even worse. It's not that they're bad people. It's just that they don't really understand him.
Finally, he gets back to the 'ville, and his first thought is to find Q-Tip and show him the pictures. He has no idea where Q-Tip lives, though, so he checks the d-hall (almost empty) and the main lounge (filled with preteens) before finding him by the artificial pond.
He's got a book in one hand and a burger in the other, which is kind of surprising. John didn't peg him as the literary type, but he actually doesn't know all that much about Q-Tip. Like an idiot, John trips over a rock as he's running down the hill. Q-Tip turns and laughs so hard he almost chokes.
"Thanks a lot," John grumbles. "Keep it up and I won't show you the post-surgery imaging scans I have."
Q-Tip just plucks the folder out of John's hands, flipping through the shots.
"Dude, this doesn't even look like you," he says, scrunching up his nose. "Who's doing this? They're changing you too much."
"That's the point," John sighs exasperatedly. "Nobody in the city looks like me, and after this, I'll look like them. I'll fit in."
"Sometimes it's better to stand out, and nothin's wrong with your face. Well, nothin' that terrible, anyway." Q-Tip closes the folder and passes it back to John. "Do what you want. I'm just sayin' it's a waste."
No one's ever said something like that to John before-society tells you you're born ugly and will need surgery to fix that. Even parents can't tell their children they're special or anything, not before the kid's eighteen. It feels good. He feels good, feels like someone likes him for real.
"Come on," Q-Tip says as he stands up. "Let's go to the courts. You could stand to lose a few pounds, Christeson." It's the first time he's called John by name. He doesn't even know how Q-Tip found it out.
*
By the time they're done playing basketball, the sun is low in the sky, and John is sweaty and exhausted. If he'd known how badly Q-Tip would beat him, he probably would've suggested, like, sim bowling or something. Q-Tip jumps up, his hands pushing down on John's shoulders, his weight sending John reeling forward.
"Loser buys dinner!" he yells, and with how much he eats, it probably won't be cheap. Live and learn, John guesses as he watches his meal points drop and drop when Q-Tip rattles off his order.
*
For lack of anything better to do, they head back to John's room and watch the lights and fireworks from parties in the city. The glow is sort of distant and hazy, like John's seeing them through a fogged-up window, even though he's just a short walk away from the glamour. Flashes of pink and orange and yellow stain Q-Tip's hair in patches, but his eyes are focused on something in the distance, a pinpoint John can't seem to find.
"Hey, you cool?" he asks gently, shaking Q-Tip's shoulder a bit. He gets a startled reaction and then a nod, so John lets him stare out into the sky until he falls asleep. Since John hadn't expected him to stay over, he didn't set up the air mattress, and since it's too late to do it, he covers Q-Tip with a blanket and goes to sleep in the lounge.
He sees how young and peaceful Q-Tip looks when he's sleeping, and doesn't even try to pretend he didn't notice it.
*
When John returns to his room the next morning, the only sign Q-Tip was ever there is the freshly made bed-John normally doesn't bother with it. He wonders if he did something wrong or made Q-Tip upset all through Saturday morning brunch, where he eats like he hasn't in a day. Granted, that's mostly because brunch seems to be the one (or one and a half, whatever) meal the d-hall does well.
It's kind of weird that he doesn't see Q-Tip, because he loves to eat and probably loves brunch, but clearly something happened last night that's keeping him from acting like himself.
Fucking Trombley corners John on his way out-he wants advice or someone to take him along on a stunt or something, but John's not going to take pity on the little psycho just because he's getting close to leaving. The kid's beyond all hope.
He manages to slip out intact and without a huge argument, so that's a small victory, though he'll probably need to avoid Trombley for at least a week.
With Q-Tip nowhere to be found and without any responsibilities or plans, John figures he should do something to counter the boredom, which ends up being swimming. The pool is completely empty-under-twelves aren't allowed without a minder-which John appreciates. It's just annoying when people are loud and obnoxious when he's trying to relax and/or exercise.
And since there's no one there, he doesn't see a problem with turning the jets and bubbles on and stripping down. Why bother with a suit if he's alone?
It's just warm enough, but not so much the heat is uncomfortable. The water relaxes his muscles, soothing over the places that are sore from running. He does laps in long, easy strokes, raising his head from the water every so often to suck in a deep breath.
Every noise he makes reverberates, and John yells just to do it. The echo is deafeningly loud, and he ducks back underwater, where it's a little quieter. He wonders when the fitness center got all revamped, 'cause he doesn't remember any of this.
There's a diving board where there wasn't one before, so John does a few (plus one ill thought-out belly flop that leaves his skin red and stinging). When his energy starts to fade, he stops and floats on his back, staring up at the skylight. The sun's bright enough to hurt a little, so John shields his eyes and only spends another minute like that before doing a handstand.
Just to see if he can do it, John takes a big fucking lungful of air, dives into the pool, and swims as far as he can without coming up.
He ends up just a few feet short of making it and gasping for breath-it seemed a lot smaller above water. Q-Tip is standing at the edge of the pool, fully clothed, looking a little dazed. Honestly. John spent a good part of the morning looking for him and now he decides to just show up? While John is naked, no less.
"What the fuck," he says, and then louder, just to be sure Q-Tip hears him. "I've been looking for you." And Q-Tip just blinks and goes oh. He looks weirded-out or something, which makes John want to get out and see if he's okay, but he's not wearing anything and thinks it would be weird. There are towels by the door-too far away.
"Can you close your eyes for a minute?" John asks, climbing out of the pool with the expectation that Q-Tip will do it.
He doesn't-doesn't even look away, for fuck's sake-and John automatically tries to cover himself with his hands. Swearing, he walks quickly but carefully, so he doesn't slip and crack his head open over to the table and wraps a towel around his waist.
"Seriously, what the fuck happened to you, man?" Now John's getting worried for real, because even though he hasn't known Q-Tip for very long, he strikes John as the kind of person who only gets this rattled by serious shit. "Did someone die or something?"
"No. At least not that I know of." Q-Tip's voice is steady and unsure; he seems so unlike himself. He shakes his head emphatically. "I don't wanna talk about it."
"Okay," John says, not quite sure of what to do next. It feels like he should hug Q-Tip, though that might just make the whole thing worse. "Let me just find my clothes and we can get some coffee and talk about-"
"You wanna head back to my room? I can't stand being here." Q-Tip interrupts. "I have stuff."
Stuff could mean any one of a number of things that the dorm prohibits. John accepts without a second thought, especially with Q-Tip looking like he really needs to forget something.
"Anything you want. I should probably change first, though." John takes a few steps in the locker room's direction. When Q-Tip follows him, he keeps his mouth shut, even though it's unexpected and a little odd. Casual physical contact is looked down upon, and this isn't that, but he's pretty sure this could get them a warning.
Luckily, the locker room has curtained stalls. When John's done, Q-Tip's face is wet, like he washed it, but he doesn't seem any calmer.
"Maybe we should stop for some food?" John suggests. Q-Tip's pale as fuck, and probably a few steps-literally-from collapsing. There's a to-go store connected to the d-hall where they could grab something quick. He'll even treat willingly.
With some food (a protein wrap and some generic-brand sports drink), Q-Tip does look a bit healthier, a little more stable, but John sticks close in case he starts to wobble. Q-Tip has to lead the way, since John doesn't know which building he lives in.
His room is a double with just one bed, and in complete disarray. Walking through it is sort of like what John imagines walking through a minefield would be like, especially since he almost trips on a free weight that's just laying in the middle of the room. It makes Q-Tip laugh and look alive, shockingly.
"That could've killed me," he points out.
"Yeah, but it didn't. So shut up and lock the fuckin' door."
John does as he's told, and when he turns back around, Q-Tip is pulling a brown paper bag out from underneath the bed. Glass clinks together, sounding so loud in the confined space, but Q-Tip says his dorm monitor lives all the way at the other end of the hall. A shot glass is shoved into John's hands and filled; he's told to drink and chase it with some lemonade. He's pretty sure you can just mix them together, but Q-Tip rolls his eyes at the suggestion and claims he knows best.
"Again," he instructs. "I know you're not that much of a lightweight."
So John does another, and another. He starts to feel buzzed, more relaxed, and the tension in his shoulders dissipates a little. On the other hand, Q-Tip is hardly showing anything-his jaw is less tight, but that's it.
"We're switching to beer now," Q-Tip announces, and as nice as it is to hang out and drink, John hates that he has no say in anything. The paper bag is just within his reach, so he lifts it and pulls out the nearest bottle, twisting open the top so he can drink it straight.
...Which is a terrible idea, he realizes, because it's moonshine. He winces, eliciting a small smirk from Q-Tip.
"Ready to talk about what happened yet?" John asks. "Seriously, you looked pretty fucked-up. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Shut up and drink." Q-Tip gulps down the rest of his beer, Adam's apple bobbing. John's transfixed by it, but that goes unmentioned.
"Fine, then. But what's with the nickname? I mean, 'Q-Tip?'" John asks. "It's not very tough. Don't really think it suits you."
"Yo, I'm glad you think so. Intimidation's the only thing I got." Q-Tip grins a little. "Cuz of my hair, you know? And I used to be real skinny when I was a kid. Like a Q-Tip. One day my friend Chaffin came up with it and it just stuck."
"But what's your real name?" He's been curious about it since they met, but didn't know how Q-Tip would react if he asked. Now that they're drinking, though, all bets are off.
"It's Evan. After my grandpa."
"Evan," John repeats. It suits him, mostly.
"The reason I don't go by that is cuz he was a real bastard," Q-Tip explains. "I don't like thinking about him, so…"
"I'll make sure not to call you that, then. Sorry I asked." He has to have two more vodkas and shotgun his beer as punishment, Q-Tip says, and John goes along with it because he would've drunk them anyway. That doesn't mean he likes it. "You're an ass," he says flat-out, kicking Q-Tip hard under the table.
"'s part of my charm and you know it," is the response John gets. Q-Tip may be cocky, but he's also right. His honesty is refreshing; it's rare to meet a pre-op who's so confident.
Right about then is when they both start to slur their words, vowels getting looser with each sip of alcohol. John can feel his cheeks flushing and see Q-Tip's reddening, too, really incongruous with his pale...everything.
Fumbling, Q-Tip manages to call up some music on his player. It's wordless electronica, synthesized and repetitive, but at least it doesn't give John a headache, which is usually what happens with noise when he's drunk.
It fades into background noises fairly quickly, almost disappearing against the sounds of liquid sloshing and Q-Tip's out-of-the-blue laughing fit. When Q-Tip starts fucking shaking, John gets a little worried that he's going to hurt himself or choke from lack of oxygen.
Then he kind of falls on John, and all of John's thoughts are gone.
(Here are his thoughts on Q-Tip, though: the guy makes his heart beat faster and his stomach drop out, even though society would probably call that an inappropriate reaction. And John would much rather have a relationship than a one-night stand. That's all.)
He's heavy but not uncomfortable, though he's squirming around and dangerously close to elbowing John in the nose. It takes some work for John to get out from underneath him, and when Q-Tip finally stops laughing, he shifts so they're lying side by side. Even though Q-Tip is still practically on top of him, it's more comfortable, though comfortable is relative. They're touching at the shoulders and hips and knees, and John's skin feels hotter in those places.
Q-Tip drops his mostly-empty bottle onto the small pile of clothes that's accumulated by the bed. The sound's muffled by cotton and polyester, though it sounds like some of the vodka has spilled out.
His fingers come to rest right at John's wrist, skimming over his veins. Maybe he gets more touchy when he's drunk. There's no way of telling. John can't say he minds it at all, even though he's kind of ticklish there, because the pads of Q-Tip's fingers are surprisingly soft. It feels nice.
(If he was less drunk, it'd probably send a tingle through his spine-at the very least-as pathetic as that is, but with this much alcohol in his system, nothing is going to happen.)
Slowly, John's eyelids start to feel too heavy to stay open, struggling against his logical side, which wants to stay awake as long as possible. (To see Q-Tip happy and chilled-out, which isn't coming from his logical side, needless to say.) He knows he should get up and sleep somewhere else so he and Q-Tip don't wake up, like, cuddling or something, but his limbs all feel like they've got weights on them.
He dozes off with Q-Tip still lightly touching his wrist, their ankles tangled together and the comforter bunched below their waists.
*
When he wakes up, his mouth is stale and sour, and his head is pounding. John turns over to see where the light's coming from and almost hits Q-Tip, who looks dead to the world, in the nose.
Memories from last night come rushing back: the thing at the pool, drinking, Q-Tip opening up a little. It was like seeing a completely different person, which makes things kind of awkward. Is John supposed to stay? Does he need to bring back breakfast and coffee? Can he just slip out now? There really should be some instruction manual on this, because Q-Tip is snoring a little, one arm slung over the space where John had been, and he's torn.
He leaves a note, just a quick scribble saying he had to leave, pulls on his shoes, and bolts.
It's not that he didn't like what happened. That's exactly the problem. He did, and now he has to deal with having a huge crush on a guy who's probably R0 (exclusively heterosexual, as the government reseachers' scale says. It's what John thought he was before he met Q-Tip). And figuring out what the hell he is, clearly, because the situation is confusing as fuck.
The rest of the day is spent trying to avoid thinking too much-John goes down to the pond and skips stones, to the gym and lifts weights, and to the shitty dorm kitchen to make himself some mac and cheese. His parents are probably home, or would be available if he called, but John's mom isn't a great communicator and his dad is worse. He wishes he had, like, a wise older person in his life who could help him get his shit together. Dan might be a good choice, he thinks, but as far as John knows, no one's heard from him since he fell into the party scene across the river.
…Maybe not such a good choice after all.
Basically, he might've just ruined things with the one person he had to talk to. This is fucking great. It's kind of hard to keep his freaking out to a minimum, so he ends up buzzing with nervous energy that can't even be countered by a downer pill. The only thing he can channel that into is video games, where can blow shit up and drive fast, so he plays and plays until his hand cramps and his eyes are sore. Then he forces himself to sleep and repeats the whole routine the next day.
There are a couple stupid information sessions about how not to fuck up too badly when he moves out that John has to go to. The rest of the time he does jack shit and is lonely for all the friends who got to go before him. And because John avoids interacting with people for a few days, he doesn't see Q-Tip at all. He's kind of worried about him, but doing nothing is probably better than doing the wrong thing.
*
John finally sees Q-Tip a few days later when they're stuck in a special assembly with a guest speaker, and Q-Tip takes the seat next to John's, making a few cracks. They don't talk about what happened, so it's almost like before, but not quite.
Still, John likes him too much to say anything and risk ruining what they have irreparably, so he tamps down the feelings bubbling up inside him, keeps his room fully stocked with snacks, and listens carefully when Q-Tip talks. True, it's painful, but it's definitely less painful than being some lonely friendless loser, holed up in his room until surgery.
*
"You wanna go boarding?" Q-Tip asks late one night. They're in John's room, messing around with his shitty-ass gaming system.
It makes John do a double-take. Boarding at night is pretty fucking dangerous, but he's not going to mention that to Q-Tip and sound like a pussy.
"The dorm monitors," he says instead, regretting it almost instantly, when he realizes that worrying about getting caught isn't better than worrying about his safety.
"Come on, it'll be great," Q-Tip says, more pleading now. He looks so fucking eager that it hurts John to say no.
"I’m really tired. Another time?"
Then Q-Tip smiles like he knows something John doesn’t. "I get it," he says. "You’ve never been on a hoverboard before. Dude, how?"
John can only duck his head and look embarrassed. Walt and Holsey weren't big troublemakers, so the most they ever did was, like, set off some sparklers in an abandoned field.
"Well, you gotta do it before you change. It's too hard to do in the city, and nobody ever even wants to. We'll go together. We can go tonight." It’s not a request, it’s a demand, and Q-Tip always wins out in the end.
In the dark, John knows they won’t be able to see the tracks that mark the metal deposits in the ground, or when they end-hence the danger, since that's what keep the hoverboards in the air-but when has Q-Tip steered him wrong? Anyway, they’re wearing crash bracelets, so it’s unlikely either of them will die. Nightboarding is practically a rite of passage everyone is supposed to have before the leave the 'ville. The only thing he doesn't know is where they'll get the boards, since you have to get special permission to sign one out, and they're only available during limited hours. When he tells Q-Tip this, all he gets is that you're such an idiot! laugh.
"We're just gonna swipe 'em, bro. I know how to turn the sensors off without them showing it, and we'll put them back once we're done."
"Okay," John agrees cautiously. He follows Q-Tip's instructions (take off your belly sensor, strip down to the essentials but dress in darks, put on his watch cap) and arranges his pillow to look sort of like a person, in case someone comes by for fucking bed checks.
The boards and other interesting and possibly dangerous shit are kept on the roof of the science building. Instead of trying to pick the locks, Q-Tip hugs the wall as he goes around to the back and pulls down a shaky-looking ladder that John had no idea was even there.
"Are you scared, motherfucker?" John hears, and when the screws sound like they'll give way under their combined weight on each step up, he is a little freaked out.
Somehow, they both make it up, and Q-Tip hauls John from where the ladder ends over the edge of the roof. Up here, he can see the stars without any interference, and wonders how they'll look when he's zipping through the air.
There's a rack of safety jackets, but Q-Tip says he doesn't know how to get those off without triggering the alarms, so they have to go without. John doesn't watch as he does something with the box, because he doesn't really want to know how Q-Tip gets the hoverboards.
He's handed one, and it's a lot heavier than John expected it to be-after all, if it's in the air, a lot of weight doesn't make sense. It has to carry his weight, though, and since he doesn't understand the physics or engineering or whatever of it, he just holds it.
"I still can't believe you've never done this before. I'm gonna have to show you how," Q-Tip says. "Put it down and stand on it." John does. "Okay, shift your weight around some, 'cuz there's gonna be some force from the wind, and then turn left and right."
John feels like an idiot, standing on top of an 'off' hoverboard on top of a building while Q-Tip watches him, unimpressed, and that gets him a disapproving sigh.
"Just stand like this," Q-Tip tells him, walking closer and basically positioning John's body, his hands warm on John's hips. They're large and strong and shit-John should probably pay attention so he doesn't, like, get out there and die. "Pretend like you're turning again." This time, Q-Tip goes with him, pulling John's weight to one side to mimic the wind's power. "Damn, I gotta show you everything," Q-Tip jokes, only it's pretty true.
When Q-Tip takes his hand away and steps back so he can flip his own board into his hands, John feels this oddly deep loss, like he was whole for a minute and now he's not.
"I'm ready," he says. "Let's do this." The first few seconds off the roof are incredibly freaky. There's no getting around that. Q-Tip is right next to him, though, and his center of gravity adjusts. Beneath him, the ground becomes more distant, and the city seems closer.
John's never felt anything like this before. They're not even that high up, but the wind is whipping at his skin as the board carries him. It's a lot colder, and his lips will probably be chapped as fuck tomorrow. And none of it matters, for whatever reason. Q-Tip's ahead of him, swerving into sharp turns for no apparent reason other than it's probably an extra kick of energy. He's yelling so loudly everyone below can probably hear it, even with the wind roaring.
Easing the weight from the balls of his feet makes John's board lift a good few feet higher, and his heart drops into his stomach, but in a good way, if that's even possible. He manages to steal a glance at Q-Tip, who's definitely the happiest John's ever seen him, and smiles wide.
Suddenly, there's a loud whoosh of air, like it's suddenly been let out of a pressurized tube or something. Q-Tip's mid-flip, tongue out and short hair wild, and then he jerks his body to the side and comes upright again. The mechanics of that confuse the hell out of John; he's not even going to wonder. Or think about trying that anytime soon, because gravity isn't supposed to work like that.
John insists they turn around just before they hit the city's outer limits-there's having fun irresponsibly, and then there's just being a fucking dumbass. That doesn't go over very well, but John's putting his fucking foot down for once. Q-Tip can't call all the shots, all the time. He concedes to taking a detour, though, around the couples park and nursery school, because the feel of the night air on his skin, from this angle, is kind of thrilling.
When they finally touch back down on the grass (John refuses a roof landing, because if they miss, it could be a long fall down), his heart's beating like crazy. It's a pretty warm night, yet he can't stop shivering, which is confusing. Q-Tip claims it's the extra adrenaline, and John's not sure if the theory is valid or bullshit. Either way, they dump their boards and jog to Q-Tip's dorm (it's closer) so John can grab a hoodie. It's slightly too big on him, which makes him feel both protected and like a kid.
His chills eventually slow and then stop; Q-Tip only rags on him a little. But he also mixes John up some instant hot chocolate, mooting his point. John appreciates the gesture and the warmth, even if it's kind of watery.
"So, how was it for you?" Q-Tip asks. "I'm actually kinda surprised you didn't panic and bail up there. If anyone would, it'd be you." John throws his empty cup at him, drops of congealed cocoa spilling on the floor and across the knees of Q-Tip's pants. "Jus' kidding," he says quickly. "You picked it up kinda quick. We'll definitely have to go again, though, so you can do more than just go in a straight fucking line the whole time."
"If you want to," John agrees. He'd be perfectly happy to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground, even if life is about taking risks. Talking to Q-Tip in the first place was a pretty damn big risk, John thinks, and he can only imagine what kind of shit he'll-or they'll, rather-get into once they move. Talking to him again after their drunk cuddle session took even bigger balls, so maybe he's not a killjoy after all.
For a while, they sit in comfortable silence, watching streams of television shows that are hundreds of years old. Everything seems like he's looking at it from far away, grainy and out-of-focus, until Q-Tip hands him a frozen toaster pastry, and then there's chewing and laughing and before either of them know it, the whole pack is gone.
He's full, almost uncomfortable, but he figures he deserves it. There's probably some connection between lots of adrenaline and burning calories, not that he's smart enough to know. Also, the d-hall's menu for the night was shitty (cabbage soup), so they skipped it.
"Next time," John says, "don't tell me I need to lose a few pounds and then stuff me full of sugar and empty carbs, you fucker."
Q-Tip snorts. "Don't blame me if you can't control yourself, fatass."
"I'll get you some goddamn carrot sticks and celery for the room," John offers, half-seriously. "They don't like fat new recruits across the river."
"You're crazy," Q-Tip replies, shaking his head. "I'd rather eat cardboard."
It's incredibly late when John decides he has to stumble back to his own dorm for the night, a mix of wanting his own bed and not wanting to torture himself by sleeping in close proximity to Q-Tip again.
*
The sky outside is still dark when John's woken the next morning by a crushing pressure on his lungs and stomach. This is a nightmare he's had before (dying young, or violently), but when he raises his head a couple inches and blinks the sleep from his eyes, it's just Q-Tip sitting on him.
Just. Q-Tip. Sitting. On him.
"Get off me," he says as calmly as possible, because a. he can't breathe, and b. he probably has a boner and doesn't want Q-Tip to get the wrong impression or anything.
(Not that, you know, Q-Tip is...hot in the way girls haven't always been to John. It's nothing. Really.)
"Pussy," Q-Tip taunts. He's dressed and ready for the day, somehow. Not even the dorm monitors are up this early. The lights on the grounds haven't come on yet; John's eyelids feel heavy and sore with the sleep he's missing out on. But he'd much rather be tired than bored, especially since he'll get plenty of rest after the operation.
Q-Tip tosses him some clothes, as well as a toothpaste pill and a bottle of water. "Hurry up," he says. "I want to go running before everyone else is awake to ruin our day."
He feels like he only slept for a couple hours; his body's protesting. "If you say so."
John turns his back so he can change without Q-Tip watching him. Or at least watching Q-Tip watch him. He kind of thinks he needs to shower, but figures he'll need one more after he's done exercising. "Which pair?" he asks, gesturing in the direction of the pile of shoes on the floor, and Q-Tip fishes out the high-tech ones that are like running barefoot.
"Hurry up," Q-Tip says again. John really does wonder what the rush is-it's not like anyone's going to see them running and get angry or bother them. But he's set in under a minute, and Q-Tip leads the way out and onto the paved jogging path. He takes off in a full sprint, which John wasn't prepared for, and he has to push himself to catch up.
With Q-Tip still strides ahead of him, John can't help but notice that he runs like he's in the wild, all graceful and panther-like and shit. The muscles of his legs ripple as he moves, and John really needs to snap out of this...whatever this is.
The pavement curves left towards the quad, but Q-Tip's direction doesn't change. From John's perspective, it looks like they're headed for the woods. He's not really sure he gets it-there are a couple old buildings, ones the 'ville doesn't use, and John's been to parties in them, but he's sure even Q-Tip would agree that it's way too early to be drinking.
"Keep up, son," Q-Tip calls from over his shoulder, and John gets a sudden burst of energy, mostly in hopes of whupping the cockiness out of him. It works, mostly, and John figures staying right on Q-Tip's heels is acceptable enough.
He makes another turn and ducks under the tree, leading them into an even more wooded area. John notices a little bird's nest and nothing else, but Q-Tip makes a sharp left and a bridge appears from (what seems like) out of nowhere. It's not an iron-reinforced, city SmartBridge. It looks pretty old, and possibly dangerous.
"You coming or what?" Q-Tip asks, and he looks like he actually gives a shit about John's response. It feels weirdly good, and John nods, wincing when he accidentally steps on a loud tree branch.
As is usual now, Q-Tip leads the way, always so sure of his direction. Under John's feet, the bridge creaks and gives, somehow rebelling after Q-Tip crossed it silently not thirty seconds ago. He hears a hissed why you gotta be so loud? but figures he shouldn't respond.
Once they cross, they're in the city's outskirts. There are a few shitty-looking houses out here, and a pathetic tree or two, but outside of the suburbs, there really isn’t much. Q-Tip stays close to the edge of the woods, so John does too, and he keeps an eye out for City Patrol copters.
Even this early, the city looks so much better and brighter from here than it does from across the river. People are happy there, and John can’t wait to reunite with the rest of his old dorm.
Q-Tip tugs John past a bench so they can avoid setting of the motion sensor, and then they reach a large, plain-looking building. He reaches into his pack and starts pulling things out: gloves, ID cloakers, retractable knives. Like most people would be, John is pretty fucking freaked out, and backs up a couple steps, just to make sure he’s not going to get stabbed.
"What the fuck are we doing?" he hisses, glancing around nervously. None of this makes sense.
"Breaking into the main complex." Q-Tip acts like it's completely obvious, which it kind of is, but that's not the point. The better question might be why they're doing this, since they're so close to having it all. Why would they want to jeopardize that?
"Okay, why?" John amends.
"Remember how I was telling you about my friend Jason? Jason Lilley?" He waits for John to nod before continuing. "Not too long ago, he got caught up with this group of people who were pretty close to finding out some kinda conspiracy in Special Ops or whatever. Someone tipped a couple people off and he knew he needed to leave before they got to him, only...nobody knows if he made it out of the city or not, and I'm hoping I can find out the answer."
"I'm out," John says, going with his gut. "Believe me, I know you want to find him, but I can't help you with this. There's too much that could go wrong."
"Wait!" Q-Tip snaps, blocking John's path. "Come on. I trust you, okay? And I know you trust me, even if you think you shouldn't. I need a lookout. We'll be in and out so fast they won't even know we were there; if we get caught, I promise I'll take all the blame."
He's still leaning against breaking in (it's so dangerous, and John has a future that's not secure unless he's good," but Q-Tip adds, "I need you," and that's it, he's got John by the balls.
In a matter of speaking, anyway.
This isn't just another one of Q-Tip's mostly harmless stunts where he tests the limits to see what he can get away with. This is for a reason-there's someone's welfare involved, a friend of his'-which is why John commits to it too. He just hopes Q-Tip's plan is foolproof, and that Q-Tip can talk their way out of trouble if they get caught.
The building has security, high-tech cameras and armed guards and passcodes required to get in, though Q-Tip doesn't seem deterred. He swipes a card through the scanner (where the fuck did he get that, and whose is it?) and yanks John through before the green light switches back to red.
"What are you going to do about-" but before John can even finish asking his question, Q-Tip produces a can from his pack, jumps up, and sprays the camera screens.
"There. You happy?"
"Just go," he says, giving Q-Tip a little shove forward. "Tell me what room number we're looking for. I'll check one side and you can do the other."
"528-491," Q-Tip says.
"But we're in the basement!" It doesn't make sense. The rooms should be B-100 and up, like how some of his classrooms were numbered.
"Shh, just come," he hisses back.
The numbers are completely out of order-the first door on John's side starts with an eight, while the next one starts with a three-so it's kind of hard to find the one he's looking for. It's a clusterfuck, to say the least, and with every step he takes, he's worried about triggering some invisible sensor or laser that'll alert their presence to the higher-ups and get them tossed in a laogai camp.
When John does manage to find the room Q-Tip's looking for, he takes a minute to stop and look at the door, which is sort of creepy-looking. Unlike all the others, it's faded with age, and it's missing the sharp black letters that indicate who or what is inside.
"This is the one," says Q-Tip, half-shoving John out of his way. How he even gets them in is a mystery, but he puts John in front of the door and tells him to stand guard.
It'd be great if he had one of the knives Q-Tip packed or something so he'd look intimidating if anyone were to pass by. He can hear Q-Tip rummaging around and generally making a big fucking mess in the office or storage room. Does he even know what he's looking for? Upstairs, boots hit the floor hard, faster than a normal walking pace. John's heart pounds in his chest, blood pumping in his ears. Specials could be coming for them right now, armed to the teeth and with ice in their veins.
A few minutes pass without any interruptions (if he ignores Q-Tip's grumbled curses); they must be safe. It makes him grit his teeth, though, because the possibility of that happening is pretty likely. When he turns around to see how Q-Tip's doing, John finds him with an official-looking folder in his hand as he clicks through something on the computer.
"Just copy the files so we can get out of here," John insists. "We'll have plenty of time to look at it later."
"One more," Q-Tip says, and grabs a thick, leather-bound book that's got 'confidential' stamped on the front, back, and side. He tosses John a stained rag, saying "wipe down what you touched" and does the same. "Okay, you go first. There's an exit on the opposite side of the hall, which we'll take, because they might've found where we busted in so they could wait for us to leave."
The rest of the hallway is dark and has fewer doors, so they hurry through it to the staircase. On the way out, though, the emergency exit door alarm goes off and they have to sprint all the way back to the woods with their gear still on.
"Shit," John gasps, trying to catch his breath. "Are you sure no one saw us?"
"Relax. If they did, we'd've shaken 'em by now. Even with technology, they can't see through forest. Let's go back, though," Q-Tip says, and then yells loudly.
Instinctively, John rushes to cover his mouth. They got what they came for, but it wouldn't be good if someone found them. Luckily, Q-Tip gets the point, and quiets down so they don't have to walk the whole way back like that.
"Sorry. I'm just really fuckin' excited," he says. "Lilley's been MIA for a few months, and this-" he brandishes his portable info card "-is the key to figuring out what the fuck happened."
"I get it. How about we go back to the dorms so you can be less of an idiot and still blow off steam?" John suggests, already a few paces in front of Q-Tip.
*
After stopping to ditch their packs in Q-Tip's room, burying them in the closet, they wander around. Finally, they end up in the quad, people-watching and just messing around. Something John says makes Q-Tip lightly punch his shoulder, and it dawns on him that all the tension that had been lingering between them is gone. While it's a huge relief, it's also kind of a letdown, because some of that tension had been sexual and the lack of it makes John wonder if there's no longer anything between them.
He knows that there shouldn't be-according to the government, society, and his own damn parents, at least-but if he concentrates hard enough to block out all the external influences, he can probably admit that he'd be disappointed if he and Q-Tip are going to only be friends.
It actually makes him feel so sick to his stomach that he has to tell Q-Tip he's not feeling well and stop by the to-go store for some anti-nausea tablets. Then he lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling, feeling like nothing's really changed since before he met Q-Tip. Except, of course, that he's, like, ten times more sexually frustrated. Life just sucks, and his in particular.
Part Two