What Happens in Cherryvale...
I.
The bus rattled along the darkened highway, the road pocked and pitted by seasons of inclement weather and neglect. The passengers jostled in their seats, clutching their belongings close to their laps. Kyle felt steady, though, like nothing could knock him out of his place. Oliver's shoulder was sturdy and warm, his green cotton pullover soft against Kyle's temple. After a particularly rough patch of road, he reached over and brought Oliver's hand to his thigh, interlacing their fingers. Oliver squeezed his hand. Relaxed, Kyle let his eyelids grow heavy, thinking to himself how good it felt to be so close to someone they felt like an extension of his own limbs.
Before his eyes fell shut, he could just make out the "Welcome to Llanview" sign as it whirred past the window.
Six months earlier
Kyle bopped his head as 50 Cent blared out of the speakers. The party, amazingly, was in full swing, despite his initial worries that the guy in charge of the CD player would have a hard-on for Yanni or John Denver or something equally unbefitting KAD's first big kegger of the year. Well, big was a relative term. They weren't going to break any maximum occupancy laws, but they had nothing to be ashamed of either, considering their less-than-stellar reputation on campus.
He wondered how many of the guys even knew their frat had been not-so-affectionately termed The Scraps by some of the other houses (short, he was sure, for Scrappa Alpha Delta; no one was claiming genius here)—named so because the guys who had worked so hard to reinstate the Llanview chapter were, well, rejects. Geeks. Determined geeks, well-organized geeks, to be sure, otherwise they wouldn't have been able to pull off such a grand scheme. Shunned by the rest of society, they had set out to carve their own little corner of campus, and succeeded. Kappa Alpha Delta, defunct for nearly a decade, lived on once again.
He was surprised the house was throwing a party at all instead of a chess tournament. Not that he was judging. He liked his brothers and fellow pledges. They knew what it was like to be outsiders, and that generally made them into decent people. Kyle would take decent over cool any day of the week.
Plus, there was something to be said about being the coolest guy in the room at any given time. It meant that he could get away with standing alone behind the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room, just watching, playing the role of Mysterious Loner. It suited him just fine to be by himself.
As his gaze swept across the almost-crowded room, he tried not to notice that his attention kept drifting toward—oh, what was his name? Dudley Do-Right, my cop dad is the bestest ever, I don't know if we should be supplying beer at a party with all us underage students guy... Fisher? No... just Fish. Oliver Fish, who was getting a little green around the gills as he stumbled his way through a conversation with a relatively good looking girl. A bit out of place with this group, she had obviously strayed into the wrong party and was already halfway to wasted. She seemed to be enjoying herself, though. She couldn't take her eyes off Fish, who, Kyle admitted to himself, cut a pretty dashing figure in his black button-down and dark jeans. Not that he was paying particularly close attention.
Drunk Girl brought her hand up to Fish's forearm, and as he sucked down the rest of his fourth beer since Kyle had begun counting—not that he was keeping count, just that he could count—Fish looked absolutely petrified. He shifted on his feet a bit unsteadily, his glazed eyes following the hand as it moved and up and down his bicep, up and down, up and down, venturing past the shoulder and charting an exploration to the back of his head. Drunk Girl was getting a little frisky, it seemed, and poor old Fish looked like he wanted to barf.
And then he did. All over Drunk Girl's designer shoes.
Her lip curled up in disgust. "Ugh! Stupid asshole!" In a blur of motion, her hand met Fish's slack face with a resounding thwack!
Kyle's fist clenched unconsciously. "Oh... shit." Without thinking, he skirted around the edge of the counter and rushed toward the pair as a chorus of "oooooohs" rang through the room.
Drunk Girl pulled back both arms, preparing it seemed to shove Fish in the chest as hard as she could—which would not have ended well given Fish's drunken state and the jagged metal CD rack directly behind him—but Kyle got there first, grabbing Fish by the limp arm and dragging him out of the line of fire. "Come with me, pal."
"These 're $400 shoes, dick!"
"You're a real peach," Kyle called back as he ushered a befuddled and unhelpfully wobbly Fish toward the bathroom by the patio doors. "Someone clean that up, will ya?"
Kyle shouldered open the bathroom door and flipped on the light, which seemed to startle Fish. He flung an arm over his eyes and lost his balance, toppling toward the glass shower stall.
"Whoa whoa whoa." Kyle grabbed Fish around the waist with both arms, steadying him, bringing their chests together. "Hey there, buddy. I gotcha. How you doing? You okay to stand on your own for a sec?"
Fish nodded, looking a little shell-shocked. "This party is... the bomb," he mumbled, slowly retracting from Kyle and bracing his hands on the tile counter.
Chuckling, Kyle wet a washcloth in the sink and handed it over. "Yeah. The bomb diggity." He rubbed a hand over Fish's back in a soothing motion as Fish buried his face in the cloth. "Let's get you back to your room, big guy. You okay to walk? Which hall are you in?"
"Lowell-ll-ll." His tongue seemed to get caught on that last tricky consonant.
"That's convenient. Me too. C'mon. I'll get you home." It was, of course, the decent thing to do.
"'kay."
He guided Fish out of the bathroom and through the back patio doors, opting to keep as low a profile as possible. They walked the perimeter of the house, shivering a bit in the cool autumn air, Fish's arm slung heavily over Kyle's shoulders, and exited through the side gate. It was slow going, as Fish would stop every couple hundred yards to point out something "cool" or "neat-o". Kyle had to admit he wasn't quite as fascinated by dead leaves on the ground or street lamps as Fish apparently was.
Finally, with what Kyle could only call a saintly effort of patience on his behalf, they made it to their destination. Lowell Hall, south wing, fifth floor, room 521.
He knocked on the door, hoping that Fish's roommate would be in. On a Friday night. At 11:00pm.
No such luck. The door silently stared them down, unmoving.
Kyle sighed and presented his palm. "Key?" After a few seconds of silence, he waved his hand in front of Fish's face. "Fish? Hello?"
"Hmm?" Fish turned his head and blinked at him, as if trying to wake himself from his stupor.
"Your keys? Unless you want to sleep in the hallway tonight...?"
"Front—front pocket."
"Oh." Kyle hesitated. He had to be careful here. He knew how easy it was to scare off friendships with other guys if they thought he was getting a little too friendly. It sucked, but he had learned to adapt.
He nervously rubbed his hands together, then thrust two fingers into the left pocket and quickly retrieved the keys, trying not to make contact with anything but metal, as if he were playing Operation. He always kicked ass at that game. "A ha!" He jangled the keys in celebration.
Fish giggled. Kyle took a moment to replay the sound in his mind just to make sure it was a giggle, and not a chuckle. After a short pause, he could confirm: It was a giggle.
"All right, buddy. In we go. You can do it."
"My mouth tastes gross."
"I bet it does." Kyle propped Fish up against the wall. "Where's your toothbrush?"
Fish pointed to a small plastic container next to his bed.
"Here we go again." Kyle sighed and, one hand clutching the container, lifted Fish under the arm and steadied him on his shoulder. They managed to make it down the hall to the communal bathrooms in record time—if the rest of their trek was to be taken as the norm. Kyle was grateful that Fish could function well enough to take care of his own teeth. There were limits to his generosity, after all.
Once they were finally back in Fish's room, Kyle shifted on his feet, not quite sure what to do next. The shoes should come off. That seemed obvious. But what of those jeans? They weren't going to be very comfortable to sleep in, even if Fish was likely to pass out on the bed as soon as he hit it.
Making up his mind, Kyle reached out a hand. "Don't freak out, Fish. I just need to check something." He delved below the band of the jeans and tugged at the fabric beneath.
Boxers. Perfect.
The shoes and jeans came off. Fish followed orders as they were given, zombie-like. Stand still. Lift foot. Other foot. Sit down. Lie back.
Kyle brought Fish's comforter up his recumbent body to his chest, practically forcing himself to not make any tucking motions. Drunk as he was, coddled as he needed to be, Fish was still an adult, and adults didn't go around getting tucked in by other adults. To keep his fidgety hands busy, Kyle smoothed down the fabric of the comforter at Fish's side instead.
Fish looked up at him, blinking, as if seeing him for the first time. "Hi."
"Hi." Kyle couldn't hold back a smile.
"I'm Oliver."
"I know."
"You're... Kyle." Oliver reached up and gently booped! Kyle on the nose.
"I know that too," Kyle said through a laugh. "Poor guy. You have got to get better at talking to girls, 'cause they are not gonna stop fawning over you any time soon. You're too damn cute for your own good."
"No, you're cute."
Kyle tilted his head and regarded Oliver for a moment, before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Again, these are things I already know."
Oliver smiled up at him, his tongue peeking out through his teeth. For reasons he didn't want to think about, Kyle forced himself to look anywhere else except at that little glimpse of tongue. He focused on the window, instead. "Better close those blinds," he said, reaching across Oliver for the cords. "You're gonna wake up with one hell of an unfriendly hangover, and the last thing you need is an east-facing view."
As Kyle retreated, task accomplished, Oliver leaned up and gave him a quick peck on the chin.
"'night, Kyle."
Kyle froze in place, his mouth hanging open. Oliver... Oliver confounded him. Finally, he forced out a quiet, "Goodnight, Oliver."
He stood, suddenly not knowing what to do with his hands, so he shoved them in his pockets. He hovered over the bed a few minutes longer, watching Oliver as he fell asleep with a grin on his face—Jesus, an adorable grin—and in that moment Kyle knew in his heart that no good would come of this.