Gilbert sat behind the wheel of his car, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead like his life depended on it. His car was the best. His car was a 2003 Ford Focus that he had painted yellow and stuck as many bumper stickers on the bumper as he could buy.
He couldn't drive it.
Gilbert's eyes wandered across the dashboard, the CD player (no adapters available), Matthew, the stick shift. He was afraid of three out of the four things.
Gilbert laughed. "So, my instructor said I was amazing at driving, because I am, but my dad got me this piece of awesome junk, and he can't drive stick, so you get to help me learn."
"So much for Pre-Calc homework," Matthew grumbled, and Gilbert internally panicked because was Matthew angry? And then, "You know how to start?" and Gilbert let out another laugh.
"The engine keeps shutting off."
Matthew hummed. "Stalling. Start for me."
Gilbert hadn't thought this through. He rarely did, but rarely did he regret it. Most everything worked out okay, because he had a way of making things work. But Matthew was far too close, and he smelled like hockey practice and something sweet. It was not the most pleasant smell.
How had Ludwig even known Matthew drove a manual?
"Don't let up—" The engine let out a whir of protest then died. "You'll stall if you let up on the clutch too fast. The gas pedal and the clutch have to be applied and released proportionally."
Oh, God, Matthew was so smart. Gilbert gripped the steering wheel. "Awesome."
He couldn't be sure, but he thought Matthew was smiling.
"When you step on the gas, don't pull your foot so fast away from the clutch."
The car groaned, almost stalled, but eventually lurched forward in the deserted parking lot. Matthew clapped once and praised him. Gilbert nearly stalled the car again, laughing and shaking his head.
His brother might have been getting suspicious. For a freshman, the little shit knew his stuff.
"You're still learning how?" Ludwig asked, tilting his head in that way that reminded Gilbert so much of their father. "You've been learning for a month. Father is getting suspicious."
Gilbert grabbed a poptart and waved away his brother's accusations like they were flies. "Only if you tell him I've been going so often. Be a good brother and do your English and leave me alone."
Gilbert had learned how to hill start by the third lesson. They had stopped pretending after the sixth lesson, and now they were in the back of Gilbert's car, mashing their mouths together in a frustrating mix of inexperience and eagerness.
Gilbert didn't really know how to do this, either.
Matthew bit his neck, laughing as Gilbert muttered something in German. Matthew still smelled like sweat and something sweet like coffee, but now the jersey was in the front seat of Gilbert's car and Gilbert didn't know where to put his hands.
Matthew's glasses pressed against Gilbert's cheek as he kissed. At the back of his mind, Gilbert wondered if he was a good kisser. Probably the best kisser Matthew's ever kissed.
"Ow," Matthew mumbled, "You bit my tongue."
"Fuck."
On a unrelated note, Gilbert still stalled sometimes.