Proceed With Caution
Author's Note: This is the prequel to my fic "No Smoking," which you may want to read before this. Or not. I'll still like you either way. g
It's hard to believe in a city of eight million people, but even in New York there are secluded places--mostly off the island, to be honest. They're tucked away in quiet corners of office buildings, little-known churches, most of the parks. There's one here, on the Brooklyn side of the East River, where some old unused docks overlook the water, and that's where the boy comes. He's in his late teens, maybe early twenties, with a slight build and a pretty, impish face; still, there's something about him that would make a grown man nervous.
He storms towards the end of the pier, throws himself down with the dramatics only someone his age can muster, and wraps skinny arms around skinny legs. Beneath a sullen brow eyes match the churning river, almost-gray and tumultuous. It seems less like he's thinking Deep Thoughts and more like there's a steady, pulsing command rising off of him; leavemealoneleavemealoneleavemealone.
No such luck, though, because another boy appears and makes his way towards the prickly figure. He's even shorter than the first boy, but more solidly built; less pretty but far more charming, and smoking a cigarette expertly. As he reaches the end of the pier he flicks the butt into the water, as if to announce his presence. The first boy doesn't move, but his eyes follow the little dash of white until it's swallowed up by the current.
The newcomer shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels, and studies the sky with great interest before he speaks. "So you wanna tell me what's going on, Spot?"
Spot still doesn't move, though the skin flutters lightly over his jaw. "Go away, Racetrack." The nicknames are used casually and without overt affection, although Racetrack has the severity of an angry parent using a full name.
To his credit, Racetrack does not go away; in fact, he settles himself down beside Spot, legs dangling off the edge of the pier. "See, here's the thing," he says, and there's an air of strained carefulness as he keeps his eyes off of Spot. "I've got this friend, see? Good friend, known him since sixth grade, real loyal guy. Stuck by me when we went to different high schools, when I came out, when my dad kicked me out of the house. But now..." He lets out a heavy sigh. "Now he's not returning my calls, snapping at me when we do talk, and about, oh, twenty minutes ago he called me a...what was it?"
Spot tenses visibly.
"Oh, yes. A 'fucking wop faggot.' Not that I don't applaud the attempt to bring 'wop' back into the vernacular, but...well, it's interesting, don't you think?"
Spot feigns indifference with a terse "Spare me, Race," but he's heard the monologue to the end, and it makes his ambivalence heartily unconvincing.
Maybe he's humoring Spot, but Race shuts up for a minute, and they stare in murky silence at the water. To look at Race you'd think nothing was wrong–he's relaxed, his body language neutral, his whole demeanor that of someone utterly at ease. But Spot is palpably tense, and he keeps shooting dark glances at Race beneath his lashes, and it's clear that something is very, very wrong.
"Fine, I'm sorry," Spot blurts out, and the sound cuts through the heavy air like a whip. It's grudging and petulant and Race gives a short, dismissive laugh.
"Don't strain yourself there, Conlon. It's not like I'm all broken up about it or anything." He's calm, controlled, the way only fiercely angry people are. He'd probably be a brilliant poker player. "After all, I've got my strong Italian blood, and the mighty power of my homosexuality."
"Race–" And there's a warning in Spot's voice, but if Race hears it–and he probably does, he's the type who hears everything–he chooses to ignore it. He continues, and it sounds like he's joking, but it's not even a little funny.
"I mean, here I am, back for the summer, all excited about seeing my friends, my best friends, the first people I smoked with and drank with and went to summer camp with–not in that order, of course–"
"Race, shut up." Spot stands up and turns to leave, but Race gets up, too, his jovial tone steamrollering over Spot's objections.
"–and suddenly I'm being called a faggot by one of them. It's like a Greek tragedy, or maybe Shakespeare; I'm not David, I wouldn't know. Oh, but David's one of us. What would he be, a 'hebe faggot?' 'Pollack?' You'll have to help me out with the ethnic slurs, mick, I'm a little rusty–"
Spot's jaw clenches, and he levels an icy glare at Race, but the shorter boy doesn't quail, doesn't even pause for breath. It might be that he can't stop at this point.
"–the point is that I never pegged you for a homophobe, Spot. Emotionally constipated rageaholic with a Napolean complex, sure, but not a bigot. Gonna vote for Bush this year? Maybe make a few 'Adam and Steve' cracks? Fall in with a crowd of knuckle-dragging, bat-wielding, redneck ho–"
Thwack!
The punch lands on Race's left cheekbone–sharp, because everything Spot does is sharp, but not nearly as hard as it could be. It's enough. Race reels back, a hand to his cheekbone. The poker face flickers vainly before falling and shattering in a million pieces on the waterlogged pier.
"You...you hit me!" Race accuses rather obviously, staring at Spot, eyes round as saucers.
Spot's composure, never as strong as Race's, is even more shaken, and he spreads his hands helplessly. "Look, I–"
"Oh, fuck that," Race interrupts, and he punches Spot in the jaw.
Spot's head snaps to the right with the force of the blow, then back instantly, and before Race can recuperate, Spot's feet have closed the distance between them, his fingers are digging into the base of Race's skull, and his tongue is in Race's mouth. It's an unusual reaction to being socked in the jaw, and Race hangs boneless with shock in Spot's arms, anger draining rapidly and bafflement taking its place.
It should be noted, however, that he does kiss back.
Finally Spot releases him and both stagger back, uncertain and defensive. Race tries to break the silence with a joke–"Is that how all the cool kids are fighting these days?"–but it falls flat and he gives it up as a bad job.
Spot stares at Race piercingly for a long moment before returning to his seat at the end of the pier. After a careful study of the back of Spot's head, Race joins him. They're silent, watching the barges and tugboats churn up white froth on the dark surface of the river, and it's almost peaceful. Almost perfect.
Of course Spot, who's the type that might pull wings off of butterflies, has to talk. He's hesitant, and he's clearly unused to being hesitant. "...Race?"
Race turns to him with the most neutral face he can manage, now his poker face is gone.
"What...How did you know you were gay?"
"Um." Race stares at his hands, square and graceful, with short fingers and neatly clipped nails. "Well, I liked boys."
Spot rolls his eyes. "Don't patronize me."
"I'm not. At the heart of it, that's what it is."
Spot picks at a large splinter in the dock. "What if you like...one boy?"
To the casual observer, Race's hands might not look that interesting, but Race is focused on them like they're the Rosetta Stone of post-pubescent relationships. "Hell, Spot, I don't know. It was always sort of a general thing for me. No one 'turned me gay,' if that's what you're thinking." He smiles suddenly, and makes a soft noise with his nose that might be a laugh.
"What?" Spot asks, stealing a sidelong glance beneath lashes no boy deserves.
Race shakes his head a bit. "No, it's just...you were my big high school crush, you know."
Spot raises his eyebrows. "You're kidding."
Now Race really does laugh, and some of the tension slips from his shoulders. "Ask Jack. He once swore if I said your name one more time he'd paint me pink and hang me from a flagpole."
Spot laughs too, now, and it's funny how a smile can transform a face. "He would, too."
But Race is serious again. "And it took a while, but he finally knocked some sense into me, and I accepted that you were straight. But now..."
"...Now?" Spot's voice is heart-clenching. Maybe he doesn't pull wings off butterflies after all.
Race looks at him for the first time since they sat down. "Now...aw, hell, Spot, why'd you have to be such a good kisser?
"Just cursed, I guess," Spot says softly. He's not smiling anymore, but hope transforms a face too, and in just as nice a fashion.
This kiss is gentler, more tentative and more affectionate, and doesn't seem to matter who leaned in first. There's time to explore the slick surfaces of teeth, the softness of tongues, the way it feels to nibble on a best friend's lip. It's an interesting experiment, to say the least, and gentle as it is, it leaves them as breathless as the first one.
"Race," Spot says finally, as if the way his forehead rests against the other boy's isn't apology enough, "I'm sorry I–"
"It's okay." There's a rasp in his voice that wasn't there before, and Spot gives a happy little shiver.
"I was confused–"
"I know." The silence holds for a moment longer. "So are you, um...did you figure out if you're..."
"Gay?" The word spills from Spot's mouth with a flicker of apprehension, and Race nods almost imperceptibly against Spot's forehead. "I don't know. Does it matter?"
"No." Race presses his lips against Spot's forehead. "It doesn't matter at all." That's not entirely true, but it'll do for now.
(Thanks to TSB, B, Harmony, and Shimmerwings for betas and advice and saintlike patience.)