"Maybe I don't actually belong here," Jeremy said, tugging on his cardigan as a man in a leather harness and curbstomp boots bustled past them. The hallway was tightly claustrophobic, and Michael considered asking if Jeremy had brought his inhaler, if only to try to artificially catch his breath.
It probably didn't work like that though.
"Well, I mean, I guess we could have dressed more for the occasion, dude," MIchael said. He smoothed his familiar red hoodie over himself. The patches probably elevated his fitting in factor, but his, well, everything else probably killed it.
And the fact he'd brought his headphones when they were about to listen to a set. Who the hell brought headphones to a club anyway?
"No, not that." The opening into the main segment of the bar wasn't any less tightly uncomfortable than the entrance. It said a lot, that flashing their fake IDs at the door, an action they'd rehearsed and discussed for hours before arriving, had been a half-second of anxiety as the bouncer briefly graced her eyes over their Alaskan stated licenses, then at their faces, before taking the cover money and allowing them inside.
If only the rest of this could be so easy. Michael looked around for any available tables that didn't already have people 500% cooler than themselves sitting there. Cooler and scarier. Why was this scary?
If anything, shouldn't Michael feel less scared here than the bubbling discomfort of school? After all-
"This is a gay bar," Jeremy said, hands now pressed into the pockets of his cardigan. "And I'm here to see my girlfriend."
"And you're bi. So I think that means you fit. What do you think the B stands for?"
"I don't know. Bananas?" Michael raised an eyebrow. "What? Maybe gay guys need a lot of potassium or...I don't know. Give me a pity laugh or, you know, something. I'm freaking out here."
"Afraid of some gay guys?" Michael bumped his hip against Jeremy's. He wished he had a drink. Not to actually sip it, but for something to occupy his hands. He reached into his pocket, bumping against his game boy.
It needed new batteries anyway.
And pulling out a retro game boy at a gay bar, when they were about to watch a set? Not cool. Not cool at all.
Since when did Michael care about cool, though? He started to draw it out, only for Jeremy to suddenly clasp his other arm. Michael dropped the gaming system back into the pouch of his hoodie, and couldn't help the warm rush of affection flooding him as he took in the open smile on Jeremy's face.
"That's her," He said. Michael glanced about, past chairs and standing couples and enough leather and glow sticks to cater to a hell's angel rave. And then he finally spotted the stage, the guitars propped, the drum set. A solitary female, long dark hair, olive skin, a dreamy look on her face, floated onto the stage. Her poise was perfect and her nail polish was smudged. She took a seat at the drum set, though not before shooting a smile to the crowd.
"I still can't believe you're dating Madeline," Michael said, while Jeremy took his hand and, counterintuitive to everything they held dear, pulled them deeper into the crowd, closer to the stage and the action.
The action! Jeremy and Michael, in the midst of actual action. Or in this case, idle, impatient milling about, as the older generation of some-type-of-vaguely-punk queer folk drank and chainsmoked and generally paid no attention to the two teens who'd infiltrated their ranks.
"You and me both."
"I mean, you never really spoke."
"And I'm a total freaking dork," Jeremy pointed out. Michael could practically taste the cartoon hearts bubbling off of Jeremy's head. He sighed, his eyes fixated on the girl currently fiddling with drumsticks.
Michael couldn't imagine ever looking at someone with so much attention, so much affection, while surrounded by complete discomfort on all other sides.
And that was the moment Michael first laid eyes on Rich Goranski.
Of course, to Michael, he had no way of knowing his name. One moment, he was watching Jeremy watch Madeline watch her drum kit. The next, the rest of the band was entering the stage. A tall boy with a letterman's jacket, hopping over to the guitar with a flourish of applause from members of the crowd who clearly recognized him.
And then a smaller boy. Tank topped, garishly vibrant skin graft scars dancing up his arms and neck, eventually splaying over his left cheek like a lover's caress. He grabbed the bass, flicking the strap over his well-defined shoulder.
His eyelashes were long. Michael could practically feel a breeze from them as he blinked, pretty green eyes moving around the crowd. Briefly, they landed on Michael.
He winked, a crooked smile dipping into his burn.
Michael's chest ached, a sudden sharp feeling that made his fingers twitch against Jeremy's. Jeremy...shit, it looked like they were a couple or something like that. He tugged his hand out of Jeremy's, still fixated on the heavily pierced bassist.
He sauntered up to the microphone, moving as though his small body carried more weight than it surely did. For a moment, as he tried to speak, feedback from the mic cut through the crowd. He took a step back, muttering something to the person directly off stage-probably some sort of sound technician. Adjustments surely must have been made, because when Rich reapproached, the sound level had been adjusted.
"I'm Rich Goranski, and we're Deaf Gecko." He idly strummed at his bass, as though now was the ideal time to properly tune it. "Are you ready to politely nod your heads to some covers?"
The crowd seemed satisfied with this call to action. Michael watched as the other two members of the band seemed to ready themselves, exchanging smiles, as Rich shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.
"Cool. Here's some Alanis Morissette. And if you're expecting You Oughta Know, then you oughta know that I'm ashamed of you and you can go to hell."
Oh no.
Oh no.
That was all Michael needed to be pushed off that little ledge of uncertainty into full blown crush at first sight.
They launched into their rendition of All I Really Want, and Rich didn't even pretend to sing pretty. His words were loud-maybe they were trying to sing for the namesake gecko of their band, so loud and not-quite-angry but certainly forceful that he'd be able to grasp onto the subtle nuances of sound-and his body moved more fluidly than the words themselves that left his lips.
And Michael would have pawned everything he owned, right then and there, just for a demo track of this very performance.
Rich's words rounded around to talk of soulmates and drift-catching and his eyes once more found their way to Michael's. Michael's chest burned and his mouth went dry and it was so high school cliche to fall for the lead singer of a band, but he reasoned that it was okay because it was in a bar with a fake ID and...oh, that only made it more cliche, didn't it?
Jeremy moved beside him, captivated by the rickety beat of the drum. "They're good, huh?" Jeremy shouted over the din of the music.
Michael watched as Rich pursed his lips, mimed blowing a kiss to him, then launched into the next verse.
"Yeah," Michael said shakily. "Yeah, they're...they're good, dude. I mean, it's no Marley or anything."
"Everything can't be Marley, Mikey!" Jeremy groaned, but good naturedly. The next song in the set began after a wave of applause and affectionate wolf-whistling. "I'm glad you like them. We're going over to Maddie's after the set. You can meet them."
Rich's words swooned over Michael's body, wrapped in so tight that he may as well have been wearing a blanket of him. He swallowed sharply.
"Cool beans," He finally wheezed out.
The rest of the set wasn't any more short of winks and flicking of studded tongues and flirty little finger wiggle waves. After the third rendition, though, Michael realized he must be misinterpreting. With the lighting, Rich probably couldn't even see the crowd. Sure, it was a little strange that he was focusing all that attention in Michael's direction, but it was probably a general display, not a personal one.
Never mind that there were no bright lights on the stage to blind the singer from differentiating faces.
Never mind that their eyes locked, preventing any logic from assuming he meant his gestures for someone else.
But maybe he thought Michael was someone else. Besides, who would notice Michael Mell, when Jeremy was right beside him? Jeremy, in his soft cardigan and babyfaced infatuated bliss.
They stood at the bar, sipping cokes (and getting dirty looks from the bartender for taking up counter space without ordering actual drinks), as Jeremy gushed about the band.
Or rather, gushed about one aspect of the band.
"-and the way she handled that last solo. Did you see that? When she flipped her sticks in the air? She's so graceful!"
"Yeah, she's pretty cute," Michael said absentmindedly.
"So am I."
The voice cast over the pair of them, coming from behind Michael. Michael watched as Jeremy's eyes lit up in recognition.
"Oh, hey, Rich." He said it so casually, as though it was the norm for him to communicate with lead singers of bands who made Michael's head spin into orbit.
"Queere, nice of you to join us." Michael forced himself to turn around, smile plastered onto his face.
Rich leaned against the counter, complimentary drink already in his hand. He didn't make any secret of looking Michael up and down, smiling that same crooked smile from the stage. "And who's this?"
"Um. Just a guy-" Michael stammered.
"This is my best friend Michael." Jeremy spoke without a hint of shame or hesitation. Another rush of warmth hit Michael. It felt nice, to be verbally cherished like that.
It also felt nice to have Rich looking at him. "Michael," He tested his name out, giving a small nod after as though granting it his approval. "Nice. I like your patches."
"I like your…" What? Voice? Yes, that was nice. A little lispy, but a pleasant tone. Face? Of course, but that wasn't something you told a stranger. Body? That was just entering Creepsville, he couldn't-oh, right, so easy "..music."
Rich laughed. "They were covers. You were bound to like at least one."
"Oh."
"But thank you. I was hoping you'd say you liked my face or body, but I'll take the less objectifying route," Rich broke up the word 'objectifying' into each individual syllable, bouncing back and forth on his heels as he spoke. "So boys!" Rich threw one arm around each of their shoulders. His drink sloshed without quite spilling, ice rattling around his glass near Jeremy's arm. "Do either of you dorks have a ride? Jake's car is not-so-car anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"We had to crush it. For a video. It's not really...it doesn't matter. No car, though. And I can't carry everyone on my bike."
"Michael has a car."
Michael thought of his vehicle, his raggedy PT Cruiser currently uncomfortably parallel parked outside the bar. He thought of the bumper stickers, the dice hanging off the mirror, the fact that nothing was remotely cool about it except for his sound system.
He'd never much cared about impressing people before. Why the hell was he losing his chill anticool factor here?
"There's only enough room for 4 people in it though."
"No problem. Jerm, Mads, and Jake can go with the equipment in your car. And you and I can follow on my bike."
If it seemed like an excuse to get Michael by himself, he thought, it was probably an excuse.
"Are you sure you can pedal with both of us?" He asked.
Rich's eyes sparkled in amusement. Those impossible eyelashes blinked as he laughed. "Motorcycle, bro. My motorcycle."
"Oh."
"Just make sure you hold on tight for all the curves."
"I...um. Yeah."
Jeremy slid his hand into Michael's pocket, tugging free his keychain. "Maddie knows how to drive stick, so we'll be fine," He reassured, a worry Michael had been too preoccupied to even have.
"Oh. Um. Cool then. Super cool. Then there's no problem."
"No problem at all," Rich took Michael's hand. "Let's go, my little biker virgin."
The sounds leaving Michael's mouth were inhuman, and thankfully mostly drowned out by the replacement of live band with jukebox jams. He glanced back at Jeremy, who had the audacity to give him a thumbs up.
All in all, Michael supposed, as they found themselves outside, and Michael's arms found themselves fitting all too familiarly around Rich's tight torso, not too heinous a night after all.