"Everyone's looking at us."

"Well, duh. Because we look so good together."

Rich spins on his skates, before planting one hand on his hip, the other dramatically poised in the air. He lifts his chin as he does it, a jaunty angle to his body as a secretive little smile works onto his lips. His shorts dig too high on his thighs, and his crop top sways above his belly button. The jewel glittering in his navel makes Michael's mouth water, catches his gaze for several seconds too long.

Rich drops his hand, giving a small push, until his entire body circles around on the glide of his wheels. He moves close to Michael, catching both of his hands with his own, and skates backwards, pulling him along with him. Michael has never faltered on his high tops, but Rich leaves him wobbly and clumsy and clammy handed and

Not unsure, he decides, as he levels his feet.

The wood under their skates rattles their barings. Rich finally releases Michael's left hand, dropping their attachment to two hands, one apiece. Michael feels their fingers slot together so naturally that he forgets every single reason, as numerous as digits on his hand, he told himself prior to this moment why this couldn't possibly work.

Their journey along the boardwalk halts as Rich finally releases his hand, leaning against the railing overlooking crashing waves and seagull turf battles. "Did you remember to bring earbuds, bro?"

"Yeah. I mean, I usually prefer full over the ear headphones, though, it's better sound quality." Michael dug through the pocket of his hoodie, holding the tangle of cables out for Rich.

"Nice, dude. Very nice. Walkman me?"

Michael hesitates only a moment. It isn't that he thinks Rich is going to chuck it into the water, or crush it in his fist, or stomp it underfoot-even if they hadn't more than reconciled the week before (and god, Michael knew he should probably clarify and define what they were, but why push it when Rich wore neon 80s clothes out on dates with him, complete with leg warmers, when pushing it could mean ruining what little foundation they'd just started to build?) he's certain that this new post-squip Rich wasn't as prone to bullying tactics as he'd been even a few months before-but rather…

...well…

In truth, Michael isn't quite sure why he hesitates. He hands over his tape deck, and watches as Rich pops it open, after fitting headphones into the jack, and humming softly to himself as he unzips his-

"Fanny pack?" Michael should have put a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

But he doesn't.

"You brought a fanny pack on a…" He trails off, all at once his laughter halting. Because this certainly wasn't a

"Date? Yeah, man, it completely the look, don't you think? Look, it has a little donkey kong on it. How sick is that?" He shook his hips back and forth wildly, showing off the design work of the pack he'd fit against himself. Retrieving a cassette from the bag, his face grows deathly serious, eyes burning into Michael's own. Michael nervously reaches up, playing with his glasses as though preparing to pull them away, should Rich's look become more magnified and intense.

"Dude," Rich says softly. "Did you know fanny means pussy in Britain or wherever?"

"What?" Michael sputters. This time, he remembers to put his hand over his mouth, covering teeth and lips and hiccupped, wheezing laugh. "I mean, yeah, I knew that, but that's what...I mean, did you just find that out?"

"Yes! When I went to buy it. The thrift shop guy, he said, like, "oh, did you know fanny means something different overseas?" Something different. That's what he said. And he wouldn't tell me, right? Like it's some big top secret thing. I felt like I'd walked into a spy movie or some shit. He's leaning over the counter," Rich leans in then, straining up on his skates to bridge the height difference, until his lips press against the outer shell of Michael's ear. His whisper is husky. "This means something radically different in Europe."

"Radically?" Michael repeats.

"Yeah. That's what he said! So I go home, right? I go home and google it-I had to look up some music anyway, so whatever. I google it and, BAM!" He puts up both hands, fingers splayed. "Pussies, pussies, pussies galore! It was like a crazy cat lady convention, except I'm talking vaginas, not actual felines, you know?"

"Yeah, I get ya. But that must have been good for you, right? I mean, you're into that, aren't you?"

Rich, who has begun to insert the tape into the deck, shrugs. "I mean, sure, why not? But mostly I just was thinking 'man. What an unfortunate name for this article of clothing,' you feel me?"

"That's the plan-uh, I mean yeah, I feel you."

Rich's eyes briefly raise, bright, amused. "Yeah. I mean, it makes so much more sense, the American way. Fanny pack."

"Yeah, we shove things in our ass, for Uncle Sam."

"Murica! Yeah! Now you're getting it!"4

"I like it though."

"My ass?"

"No." Michael says too quickly. Rich raises an eyebrow. "...yes, fine, yes. But that's not...I like your outfit. I like your vagina-butt-bag-thing. Whatever you want to call it. I, uh, I like this."

"Us?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, me too."

"Me too."

"You already said that."

"Right. Um. So. You have, uh, music?"

"Don't be a hipster about this, Mell," Rich teases.

"I'm not a hipster. I like things after they've been cool, not before."

"Explains why you like me." Rich sighs, overly dramatic and dreamy and so cute that Michael's heart increases three speeds that day. Some sort of flirtation grinch situation. Rich hands Michael his Sony back, and one half of the earbuds. "Obviously, we're going to need to skate in time with each other for this to work, so you'll have to hold my hand."

"Naturally," Michael quips. "I wouldn't want to lose the rhythm."

"Exactly. No judging you music taste to my face, you hear me?"

"No promises." He slips the earbud into his ear, and his hand into Rich's, and hovers over the play button. Before he hits the button, though, he figures he should ask whatever questions he needs to ask. Once the music starts, whatever the case, he's sure to be too absorbed in it to focus on skating wherever they need to go. "Where are we-"

"Oh. There's an arcade at the end of the pier." Rich laughs, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I figure, you know, if I'm going to embarrass myself by doing things that you're clearly better than me at-skating, retro aesthetics-" His lisp is so cute on that last word that Michael's face briefly tints pink, "-general music taste-then we might as well go all out. Let you kick my ass at Pac-Man or whatev-"

Michael underestimates the force of his pull on Rich's arm, gliding him directly into his chest. The force isn't enough to knock them off their feet, but Rich's feet splay, until Michael catches him. They laugh, bright and sweet, as Michael carefully guides Rich back to his feet.

Their kiss is cotton candy soft and nicotine sharp and Michael burns with how much his body had missed doing something he hadn't even realized he'd enjoyed until a few days before.

Rich's hand scrambles over his hip, hitting play on their mix, letting the synth and uptempo beats amplify the mashup of their lips.