Author's note. What exactly am I doing here? Following my biological imperative (imperative!) to pair Dave Karofsky with every cute gay boy in Glee. Like Mallory with the Everest, they must do Dave because he's there. Super many thanks to Illocutionary (wildthorns on Tumblr) and Albatrossities (pistolwhippinzombies ) for their help, and their embrace of the weird pairing.

Further long-ass note on pop culture pedantry. There are bands mentioned in this thing, and a movie, that are not exactly well known (some of them are not at all obscure to people who have delved in the genre, but there's no reason why you should be one of them). You can get the gist of them fairly clearly from the text, but if you really really really want to get it, here is a quick primer:

Ty Segall (and his cohorts) and Nobunny play user-friendly, reverby noise punk, in the vein of The Ramones but with more fuzzboxes. Nobunny plays live with his bunny mask on, but usually loses the rest of his clothes. Very loud and very earnest, Hüsker Dü are one of the flagship bands of 80s Hardcore. They wrote "The Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill", whose title I shamelessly stole, and their guitarist, Bob Mould, was outed in the early 90s. The Kinks' "Lola" could be either about a drag queen or a trans person (and was awesomely covered by female-led band the Raincoats). The Warriors is a about a dystopic future when campy 70s gangs are this close to taking over New York City. Ajax is definitely a dipshit. And the Midwest is unexpectedly full of weird music. Go to the LJ post of this story to read this primer annotated with links.

The boy who lives on Heaven Hill.

So, the hipsters take themselves entirely too seriously, and the whole not-corporate corporate thing means it's just as bad as the Gap, except it tries really hard to pretend it's not. That said, what I really, really fucking hate about working at Urban Outfitters for the past however long, is that, now, 90 percent of the boys I meet are skinny, lanky and with uneven scruff on their angular jaws.

You wouldn't think this was a bad thing, except all it meant was that when I met him, I was ill-prepared to resist.

It was at that Ty Segall show in Columbus, like six plus weeks ago, over by the second bar at the back of the venue where people go to get away from the mass of the crowd. The place was not that packed, but people were blissfully ignoring the passive-aggressive sign that proclaimed, "This is a smoke-free venue! :) ". Dave disliked cigarette smoke, and so did I. Dave liked Ty Segall, and so did I. So far, so good.

What really sort kicked it up a notch was when he said he preferred the stuff Segall did with Mikal Cronin. And yes, he did like Okie Dokie, even if they were unrepentant CalArts hipsters. He was appropriately impressed when I told him I'd caught Les Georges Leningrad on their last tour before they broke up, and I was fucking blown away when he said he owned a shower cap version of Les Savy Fav's first album. You can't find that shit on eBay.

He was wearing a Jay Reatard tee under the Buckeyes sweatshirt he took off after the first openers' set. You know, the X Large kind that floats around you and makes you look like a wisp of nothing. Except it didn't float and he definitely looked like something. Something built and solid.

Something entirely unlike the faux-hipsters and teenage mall fauna I'd been subjected to since I first sank into retail quicksand.

So I might have sort of groped his bicep.

I distinctly remember my anthro professor saying that the arm, between shoulder and elbow, was the most impersonal body part you could touch on a stranger. It totally doesn't work like that when there are biceps involved.

And, okay, I might not have actually known yet if he swung that way. But the way he smiled at me then kinda clinched it, so I'm not even sorry.

We idled time away until Segall came on, drinking watery beer and arguing about the clashy noise punk scene in Montreal. I managed to get him to promise he'd give Duchess Says a listen, even though he didn't like We Are Wolves.

We sauntered over to the main stage when the backing band started playing and I had to shoo off a few girls. Dave, on the other hand, was totally oblivious, much more into the music. I could tell he'd listened to the songs a million times because he could sing along, even though the lyrics were drenched in fuzz and Segall sang like he had a speech impediment and/or a drinking problem. And he danced. A cathartic, directionless bounce, surprisingly graceful, that made it obvious there was nowhere else he'd rather be. He laughed and it was brilliant. He hugged me and it was amazing.

So, after the encore, when we were both sweaty and thrashed out, I told him about a Nobunny house show next Thursday and I didn't even coy when I asked for his number, if he wanted to go together.

I'd texted him intermittently throughout the week, with idle flirting, with thoughts on The Rapture's early singles, or with complaints about some douchebag customer looking for "a poster or a decal or some shit about marxissism."

He met me at the mall's east entrance on Thursday, after I was done with my shift. I was gonna drive us over to some nowhere suburb where a poor punk was about to have his house trashed. Dave said he knew a place on the way that made spectacular burgers.

"Fucking homemade mustard, J. Can't beat that shit."

The entire thing felt very date-ish (and I totally didn't hate the nickname).

When I started the engine, Hüsker Dü's "Something I Learned Today" blasted from the speakers. "I hope you don't mind. I'm on a hardcore kick."

"'S fine. I'm half in love with Bob Mould," Dave confessed with a grin that I had to return. He then settled back into the passenger seat with a thoughtful smile, but he didn't say anything.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"What's on your mind?"

"Oh, uhm. Nothing really. Just thinking. Hüsker Dü are from Minneapolis."

"Uh, so?"

"You know how the Midwest," he gestured beyond the car's windows, at the flat land covered in parking lots and strip malls, "is supposed to be the asshole of nowhere, plain, generic, dull? Normal?"

I nodded, and started mentally running over the lyrics to Lou Reed and John Cale's "Small Town" for something particularly quotable.

"Well, think about it: It's hard to keep that idea going when you look at the music. I mean, these guys are from fucking Minneapolis."

"And the Replacements," I added. "And Violent Femmes are from Milwaukee."

"And Iggy and the Stooges, from Ann Arbor, and the MC in MC5 stands for Motor fucking City."

"Père Ubu are from Cleveland."

"And Devo are from—"

"Akron," we finished at the same time.

"I see what you mean," I conceded. "But I don't think any of them would be as defiant about it if we weren't all surrounded by Normal, Ohio, y'know?"

"I guess," he shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I've never been anywhere else."

It's hard to mind that, though, when he's so familiar with right here: The burger place he guided me to is almost exactly halfway between work and school, and yet I've never been. And the burgers do look fucking spectacular.

"Do they make them with avocado?" I couldn't find any on the menu. "Or could they add some, if I ask?"

"Uh, don't think so. They don't really do the southwestern thing."

"Dude," I shook my head. "Everything tastes better with avocado."

Dave seemed to ponder this truism. "Yeah, okay. Not these. They're already as good as physically possible. This is burger in its purest form. This is what all burgers aspire to be."

A waitress came to take our order before I could argue further. He ordered a bison burger. I would have liked to try the veal, but only if it was humane, and I didn't want to ask and make a big deal of it when I was still making, like, second impressions, or something, so I just gave up and ordered beef, medium-rare. I figured the place was all about 'classic burger' anyway.

And it was absolutely amazing. The fries were al dente, the bun was fresh-baked, the mustard, mayo and pickles were clearly made in-house, and they even, miraculously, figured how to use whole lettuce leaves to keep the bun away from the meat and tomato and other juicy things that might make it soggy.

It was a fucking revelation.

"I still say it'd be better with avocado."

"Dude. You don't know what you're saying."

Dave said he wanted vanilla ice cream for dessert, and I asked if it was like the condiments, made in-house with natural vanilla.

"Everything is from scratch, J. And everything is real." As soon as the waitress walked over, he ordered two double scoops. When they arrived, I could see the little flecks of brown from the pulp of a vanilla pod. So I stood corrected.

I should learn to trust: That ice cream was up there among the top ten things I've ever put in my mouth.

Dave's tongue—still infused with that very same sweet richness, mouth-wateringly wet, first maddeningly hesitant and then maddeningly nimble, stubbornly warm, even in the evening chill out on the bare parking lot—was still head and shoulders above it.

We were a bit late. We had to park some five blocks away, and, walking up to the house, you could already hear a set of jangly guitars echoing in the night air. Dave checked his watch.

"Probably the first openers," I estimated.

"Yeah," a he stopped for beat. "Don't even really care." he laughed.

"Nobunny?"

"Nobunny!"

We sort of half-ran the rest of the way, numb in the cheeks from the night chill and from smiling, navigating side gates and back doors into a ranch-style split-level. A guy in the back porch took our crumpled bills and scribbled on the back of our hands with a Sharpie.

Inside, the 70s furniture, the popcorn ceiling, the fucking carrot carpet, were all deliciously tacky. I eyed the scruffy college kids on the improvised stage in front of the gas fireplace. "I totally know those guys."

"Any good?"

"Fuck, no."

"Let's find the keg and then something else to do."

So, this basically being a house party on overdrive, we looked for a bedroom. When it became clear none were free, I resigned myself to make out with him on a couch, not even much under cover of darkness. Dave was embarrassed but willing, and decidedly fun to bribe. I could think of no better way to ignore a mediocre opening band than memorizing the solid shape of him under me.

So, it might have been obvious that we spent the two openers' sets making a spectacle out of ourselves, but I was still fucking ready to convince myself that nobody noticed much, until the asshats in the last opening band decided to close their set with a cover of The Kinks' "Lola".

Fucking smartasses.

"You know," I said, "that's not even fair. Neither of us fucking 'walks like a woman'. At all."

His laugh was open and piercing, almost involuntary, and barely softer than the band. So after a moment's reluctance and with a "Shut up, I'm totally Lola," he picked me up and sat me on his knee, just to prove the fucking point. What-the-fuck-ever. Let's see him be smug when I'm sucking on his Adams' apple.

I didn't swipe my hand out from under his shirt, even when some sound check noises started coming from somewhere other than the fireplace stage. He was too large and warm to pry myself off of. One of his thick, solid arms was angled across my lower back, his hand a poignant weight on my hip, fingers creeping under my waistband, the other tangled in my hair.

"Come on," he muttered against my ear, "let's get up, or we'll miss it."

He unlocked his limbs from around me to let me stand, and then took my hand to pull him up. He let it go, but when the crowd swallowed us he dared to tuck me against his side and put his hand in my back pocket.

My lips were so stubble burned it hurt to smile, but that didn't stop me.

Nobunny's rabbit-hooded backing band had taken over the kitchen and people were piling around the breakfast bar to get a good view. It was less of a sausagefest than Segall, which meant way more dancing. I was proved right when the bunny of the hour leapt from the laundry room singing "(Nobunny!) Nobunny loves you!" I was laughing, bouncing on the balls of my feet and humming along to the guitar melody (a lot less messy than the vocals). We jumped along to "Boneyard", and woah-oh-ed to "Tina Goes to Work".

A small band of giggling girls in asymmetrical braids and faux-vintage clothing gravitated towards the two of us (which was predictable), right around the time Nobunny took off his pants and climbed onto the breakfast bar, and they laughed it up along with us when, towards the end of the show, he grabbed the last opener's drummer by the neck and fake kissed him, with the dingy, sweaty, substance-soaked fur of his mask.

My throat was raw and my legs sore and it had been ages since music had felt so physical, so fantastic. My entire body felt like quivering, satisfied endorphin jelly, and I couldn't have possibly stopped myself from mauling Dave's mouth on every stoplight on our way to Lima, Ohio.

I dropped him off sometime after 4:30 in the morning, at a neatly kept Craftsman house in the middle of a block of neatly kept Craftsman houses. His was as pitch dark as the rest of them when I parked behind an old truck sitting on the curb, bit his lower lip one final time, and watched him round the minivan on the driveway to get in through the garage.

At least no one was up waiting for him.

I couldn't begin to imagine the tiny daily bothers of living at home at this age.

So, there's a month-long run of the Great Cult Movies of the 70s at the Gateway, and The Warriors, the dudeliest-yet-campiest of them all, was gonna be on, Wednesday and Thursday. I chose to take it as a sign.

warriors is playing at gfc, wanna go?

I consequently spent Monday afternoon waiting to hear back from Dave, while trying —and failing—to avoid actually working with customers. I was attempting to look very engrossed in rearranging the shoe wall, but some guy kept pestering a pair of teenage girls and one of them was fucking pestering me.

Sorry, sweetheart. Wrong gender, wrong age.

Speaking of flirting.

cult classic, you gotta see it ;)

I got her the right size granny boots and left her twirling a lock of chestnut hair, hoping she'd leave me alone. Her friend was totally hamming it up for the guy, giggling and looking at him from under her lashes, and I found the whole thing highly suspect.

ugh, fcking jerkwad customer perving on grls

The guy was not that old, probably a high school senior, but the girls looked at least some three years younger. And he really needed to get it in his beefy upperclassman head that just because girls shop at Urban Outfitters doesn't mean they're actually bohemian or adventurous or free-spirited, or whatever euphemism he'd use for "easy". Or that even if they are, it doesn't mean they're not vulnerable, hurtable little women and that he's fucking accountable for taking advantage.

It wouldn't fucking matter if someone were "easy prey" if you didn't go around acting like a predator.

fck this job for making me deal w/ppl

I don't have the fucking patience for this. I blame the mall thing. Because this place is Teenage Wasteland—and not in the awesome 70s nihilist rock star way. No. That takes some knowledge of the world. These are sheltered Mid-western brats. Who haven't yet figured out that the world extends beyond their suburban dens. Some might never even have that moment of revelation, because you can be too young to be world-weary, but you can't be too old to be shallow and uninterested.

srry fr flooding you w/txts

I shouldn't be so bitter about it. It's not like it's their fault. They're just kids. Some of them will work it out. I had to make myself trust they will, cause it's either that or plan to fucking flee Columbus after graduation, and that takes money I won't make working crap jobs like this.

dave?

I had successfully pouted and grumbled and begged my way to storage to do inventory when he finally replied. He called.

"Hey, J."

He sounded all pleased and his voice was the best thing I'd heard all fucking day. "Hey."

"Sorry I couldn't answer. I was at hockey practice."

"You play? That's pretty cool." I vaguely remembered seeing the intramurals schedules up. "Lemme know when you have a game."

"You'd come to one of my games?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Dunno, man. Doesn't seem like your kinda scene."

"And what, exactly, seems like my kind of scene?"

"Um, noise rock shows and cult movies?"

"Okay, point. So does that mean you wanna go? Wednesday?"

"Can't wait."

And that's the best thing I'd heard all fucking day.

"... and just, ugh, the opening sequence! With the synths, and the subway, and it's like a shitload of exposition, super fast, but it doesn't feel stilted or speechy or anything—"

"Magic! Whoooole lotta magic," Dave interrupted me to quote—and possibly contradict.

"...and then the gangs' intros —they're soooo amazing! Like their clothes and their walk and their fucking stupid names— And did you catch the little clanging sounds at the beginning, just before the Ferris wheel take?"

"Uh, no."

"You'll catch them the next time. They're Luther's bottles."

"Dude, that fucker was creepy."

"I know! The actor was fucking into it. And Swan and Mercy, too."

"Ajax was a dipshit."

"Yeah."

A beat, and I went on.

"You know, It's fucking wrong, but I'd actually somehow managed to forget that every third word out of his mouth is 'faggot.' I guess, because he's not a sympathetic character, in the first place. Or something." I sighed, uncomfortably. "I hope he didn't ruin the movie for you."

He shrugged. "It's no worse than what I hear at practice."

I grimaced. "Are your teammates very shitty about it? You being gay?"

"Odds are. I mean, I don't actually know; I'm not out to them. I just dropped hockey for a while and they're being petty bitches now that I'm back. But yeah, considering that's how they choose to come at me, I'm not feeling very trusting, you know?"

Something in his gaze seems eager for me to understand.

I shrug. "Hey, sane choice. You're the one who has to deal, you're the one who gets to decide. It sucks, otherwise. I mean, I got fired from the Gap when this fucking kid with a crush outed me." In fucking song. But he really doesn't need to know that.

"Dude, isn't that like super illegal?"

"Yeah, but it's not like I'm gonna call the ACLU over a shitty retail job. I just walked across the mall and got another. So now I'm living the good life, selling witless ironic tee shirts and factory distressed petticoats to people with Henry Kissinger glasses and asymmetrical buzz cuts."

"J, you're wearingan ironic tee shirt."

"Well, I'm not gonna fucking waste an employee discount! I'm on a budget here," I grinned, "so I can afford to take you out to nice places."

"Nice places where we go Dutch," he smirked. "Be still, my heart."

"Right, so we can't have that. Come on." I checked my watch and grabbed his hand. "I'll buy you supper."

I did not let go for five whole blocks. And as I led him, I could see, just out the corner of my eye, that he was smiling small, subtle. He seemed sincerely pleased and a little surprised and I really shouldn't have found that so appealing. I could feel him slowing his steps to match mine, his large hand squeezing my uncharacteristically sweaty palm at random moments. I wanted to kiss him mad under a streetlight, bite his lips, suck his tongue until he shuddered.

"So, you should make a mental note of this place: best wraps in South Campus. And they use fair trade avocados."

"Oh, yeah," he chuckles, "I'm sure you can taste the moral righteousness."

"Fuck yeah, you can! It is velvety and delicious." I smile, kiss the joint of his jaw and pull him in the restaurant.

"Can we get the fuck out of this place?"

"What!" I had to yell back in his ear. I could barely manage to understand two syllables under Gang of Four played at full volume.

"Can we leave!" I finally caught. I looked to the bar's door, where they'd laid down cardboard where newcomers would try to wipe their shoes dry.

"'S still raining, dude!"

"Don't care!"

"Okay, yeah, just hang on!" I chugged down what was left of my beer before I finally nodded, and he led me out by the elbow. We both looked up to the speakers as we passed the threshold, listening for the beginning lines of PiL's "This Is Not a Love Song". We were still under the small awning when the door closed behind us, and the sound muted a decent bit.

David rubbed at his ears. "They got good music, but, fuck talking, I can't hear myself fucking think in there."

"If they just let us drink out here, it'd be perfect."

"Yeah, I dunno, man. After a while I'm kinda sick of PBR. Blue Collar Fantasy Camp doesn't make up for the fact that it tastes like piss."

"So, what, you wanna try hitting another bar?"

"Yeah, kinda."

I looked out beyond the awning, at the night dripping down on the city as rain. "You picked a shitty night to bar hop."

"Pfft. It's a little rain, J! What, you gonna melt like the Wicked Witch?" and just like that, without waiting for me, he jogged out from under the awning, into the soaked sidewalk of North High Street.

I pulled up my hood and leapt to follow.

I'd been seeing him pretty often the past two or so weeks, sometimes to go out to do something, and sometimes just to hang. Depending on where we went and who drove there from where (and back), I could get extra Dave-time the next day when he came to pick up his truck from where he'd leave it parked near the mall whenever he met me there after work. If we managed to time it right, we'd spend my break people-watching at the food court, arguing about Kevin Smith movies (I'm For, Dave is decidedly Against). He'd even stopped by my place once or twice, for a bite of something or an episode of Venture Brothers or to hang while he sobers up before driving home.

But.

In all this time, the closest we'd had to privacy was the assumption that people in public-yet-dark places don't actually care what we're doing. Which can be nice, don't get me wrong, but not quite nice enough. That night I was a little giddy with the knowledge that Anish and Roberta had long since departed for their respective significant others', and right then, Declan was probably in Toledo, eating breakfast for dinner while his mom did his laundry. The house was mine to do what I want.

Not that I'd asked Dave to stay over, or even told him my place was free. But had stashed the euro dance CDs out of sight onto the top shelf of the storage closet and displayed my vinyl on the living room shelves, and I'd used the good sheets when I'd made my bed earlier. Just so, you know, I could ask, if he looked like he'd like to.

The night was rich for it, too, the rain adding an extra chill to the late summer night. It was the kind of night that begs to end with a hot shower and a warm body in bed next to you. Half-running in the drizzle beside Dave, I could already imagine peeling damp clothing off of him, discovering his cool clean skin, smelling of soap and cedar and man. I could already imagine how he'd taste.

We were already more than damp when we finally picked a place that looked promising and ducked into their stoop. I held the door for Dave and he smiled one of his impossibly small smiles while he wiped his shoes. Then he yanked my hood off playfully, and gave me one of his impossibly small kisses, right on the corner of my mouth.

The impulse to grin was so big and so fast it was like my lips were magnetically repelled.

"What?"

"What?"

"That smile, dude. It's like avocado-level happiness. What gives?"

"Nothing, man. I mean, it's just not that often that you kiss me out of the blue."

"Well fuck that. Maybe I should."

I quirked an eyebrow (probably not as effectively as him) and got in his face. A dare. He bit then licked his lip while I stared at his mouth and yet, somehow, when his tongue was on mine, rubbing against my palate, it was still a surprise.

I laughed when we broke apart. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

"Little bit." He gave me a silly grin and signaled it with thumb and index finger millimeters apart.

"Let's aggravate that. I owe you from the PBR."

We sat at the bar, he drinking India Pale Ale and me nursing a bottle of Guinness. I had to start minding what I drink. Dave could choose to stay at mine to avoid driving home, but I still had to get both of us there.

The music of choice here seemed to be more earnest indie rock than sneering post-punk, but I had little reason to complain. It was less loud both in volume and nature and seemed to suit Dave's mood much better. I could tell he was more at ease, if I had learned how read those tiny expressions he makes sometimes, with less than a tug of a muscle.

Okay, so, his face is sort of fascinating. As much as can be, uhm, inferred from that fact, about my feelings for him, or whatever, it's still less heavy than my other fixations. Obvious things like his solid chest and large hands, but others, too, like the chorded muscle of his forearms, or the sinew of his neck.

The man is fucking edible.

And I really needed to mind what I drank because right then I felt like if I could find a dark enough spot I'd drop to my knees in front of him before we even reached my car, much less my house.

I probably looked like a wet rat on a bar stool, but he, he looked delicious rained-on. His tee shirt was soaked through at the shoulder seams but only specked with wet on his chest. Little raindrops clung to the curls on his head, tempting and fresh like dew.

I ran my hand over his skull to brush them off, and he was stunned still, just for a microsecond.

"Um," I wiped my hand dry on my jeans. "Sorry. Wanted to do that."

"'S fine." He smiled more at his beer glass than me, but it was still sweet. He tapped the edge of the glass a couple of times before he went on. "Uhm, sorry I suck at PDA."

"Dude. We've barely ever been alone. I'd say you absolutely rock at PDA."

He blushed to his ears before his grin finally broke through.

"I dunno, man. Sometimes I have to sort of remind myself that if all these people are strangers, it's different with them."

"Different from what?"

"Uhm," he shifted in his seat and gathered his thoughts. "Okay, so, I'm not like explicitly out to that many people. Just my friends. Actual, serious friends. And to a few other jerks at school—"

"'Jerks at school.'"

"Yes, actually. Just—people. I don't like pretty much any of them and they absolutely don't like me, but they're cool about shit like this. Which counts for something. It counts for a lot, really. But, whatever. My point was that in front of any of them, I don't bother not to act how I want. That's why I fucking told them, right? So they'd know. And then there's people I'm explicitly not out to, like my folks, and with them I fucking hide everything. But with strangers—Just because I'm not hiding doesn't mean I owe them any explanations, you know? Like, I don't have to tell them shit. If that makes sense."

"It does. I told you before, Dave, you deal, you decide. I'm not gonna be the guy who gives you shit for this kind of thing, okay?" I reached towards his hand trail an idle finger over the bones of his knuckles. "It must fucking suck to live at home if you're not out to your parents."

He shrugged but did not disagree. "I don't wanna chance it, yet. It's—like, well, we're not just Catholic. We're Polish Catholic. That's hardcore. My Nana times her powerwalks by praying a Rosary."

"That's probably less funny than I'm imagining."

"It's disturbing—shit is disturbing. My dad isn't that bad, but my mom... I dunno. I don't wanna risk it until I can actually not live there. Right now I couldn't move out even if I could afford it."

"Why not?" And I should have known why not. I should have. I should have known that he couldn't move out and that fall intramurals didn't include hockey and that he wouldn't be coming from Lima every time we saw each other if he was attending OSU. But at this point my brain was still hearing hooves as zebras and imagining financial aid requirements or parental tax breaks or anything. Really, anything.

"Uhm," he eyed the bartender at the other end of the bar and muttered on. "I dunno, J, cause I'm seventeen?"

Bile was already rising in my throat as my brain decided that no, that didn't sound like a joke. The tone, the place in the conversation weren't right for one. There was no backing out. He was seventeen.

Dave was seventeen.

The guy I'd been buying beer for, the guy I'd been crushing on, fantasizing about—the guy I wanted to take home tonight and fuck in every room of an empty house, was not a guy but a boy. A kid.

I couldn't breathe with the bitter in my throat.

And all along, while I kissed his neck and while I teased his tongue, while I stroked his chest and groped his ass, while I craved his cock, while I fucking lusted after him, he was busy being a kid.

That wasn't fucking right. It couldn't be fucking right.

I should have been able to tell. I absolutely should have. Why the fuck hadn't I realized? (Did I not want to?) I should have realized. If anyone, ever, at all, should have been able to tell, that would be me. I should have fucking known.

"J?" he looked into my face. "'S anything wrong? Are you angry about something?"

And he's right there. Like nothing is wrong. Like we're doing nothing wrong.

"No, Dave, fucking nothing. I've just spent the last hours drinking with a seventeen-year-old!" I yelled well above the volume of the music. The bartender turned towards us, but before he could say anything, Dave was grabbing me by the shoulder and dragging me out of the bar.

Outside the street was bare, even though it wasn't really raining anymore. The drizzle had thinned out to a penetrating mist, the kind that doesn't soak, but pierces though your clothes to make you damp to the bone. Still, it wasn't the reason behind the chill in my marrow.

"Just what the fuck is your problem, J!"

"My fucking problem is that you've been fucking lying to me for weeks! I hope you at least had some fucking fun taking me out for a spin, because you can bet it's over. I fuck men, David, I don't babysit little boys."

"What is your damage, J? What the fuck! When did I supposedly lie to you?"

"You're seventeen! You're a child! Why the fuck didn't you tell me you're seventeen!"

"It never fucking occurred to me that I needed to! Okay? I never hid my age or anything."

"The fuck! I met you at an over-21 show!"

"Aren't you like barely 20?"

"You were wearing a Buckeyes sweatshirt!"

"I'm from fucking Ohio! I've been a Buckeyes fan from the womb."

Something in that explanation made me see red. "This isn't fucking funny for me, David!"

"Cause it's a fucking riot for me! You think I tricked you? Is that what you think I did, that you're so fucking livid! How fucking old did you even think I was!"

"An adult. I thought you were an adult. Someone who's upfront about things. Someone who doesn't get a kick out of playing with people. I don't have the fucking patience for this kind of immature bullshit."

"What bullshit, J? There is no bullshit. I promise," He sighed. "I'm serious. It's clear you're very freaked out right now, and maybe I'm not how you thought I was, but I never set out to deceive you or some shit. Okay?"

He was breathing fast, but had squashed down the worst of his anger. His large hand started to reach for my cheek but I was already backing away in a panic. Seventeen fucking years old, a high school junior (fucking again, what the hell).

"You're jailbait. You're fucking jailbait."

He's not jailbait.

I actually researched, okay? And while he's still a minor, he's past age of consent. Is it creepy that I know that? That I bothered to find out now, but I didn't know that when I was sixteen?

It just feels like it's a pressing need now, when it wasn't before. I looked it up because sorta needed to know that I'd done the right thing, walking away, to regain some certainty and righteousness after I became this gross guy who pervs on seventeen-year-olds. Or, one seventeen-year-old, at least. Because, much as I never wanted to be that guy, and even after that humiliating public shouting match, I still find myself missing him.

And then, the laws of the state of Ohio go ahead and tell me it would not have been illegal. If I had fucked Dave that night, and he had wanted me to, it would not have been illegal.

It had to have been wrong at least. Right? I could fucking deal with Dave thinking I'm a total dick for what I said to him, if it means that we made the best decision possible. He could move on to see boys his age and be happy with one or any of them, and I will go on to... Not see him again, basically. While he dates boys his age. Who take him to do the kind of High School things I'd never do. That he never seemed to mind not doing.

I ran through every moment we spent together trying to figure out if I'd pressured him into doing something or going somewhere, if I kept him away from where he was safer or felt more comfortable. And it's kind of a shitty question because obviously I did, if he drove out from Lima to hang out at the OSU film center and University District bars. And at the same time, I didn't, cause he genuinely seemed to like being away from home, at ease and unworried. It's where I'd met him in the first place.

I wish things were more clear-cut. Like, if I did push him, then I'm obviously a shithead and should stay the fuck away. Or if I know for a fact I didn't, I can tell myself I did nothing wrong and maybe keep seeing him.

But he could be so perplexing, sometimes. He'd be skittish and easily embarrassed, but then spur into action in these bursts of eager bravado. Like the courage he needed just had to pool a little before he'd let himself just get what he wanted.

And that was the heart of the matter. He seemed to want me. And he could have me if I could just bring myself to trust that he knows what he wants for himself. And to trust that he won't lie to get it. That he didn't trick me.

And if he really wasn't pretending to be older—would he have even managed, anyway? Can people pretend to be more grounded and insightful than they are? God knows I never fucking managed. Regardless. Since he wasn't pretending, then his maturity really ought to be given some consideration.

(And his hotness. His recurring and unavoidable hotness was necessarily worth considering.)

So I googled "age of consent in Ohio" and then I double checked with more serious looking sex-ed websites and I resisted the urge to erase my browser history. Because no matter how skeevy I felt about even having to care about this shit, it isn't wrong. It isn't wrong that I care to find out and that I'm making informed decisions from what I learn.

And I want Dave back.

(If we even broke up).

(If we were even dating).

You know that malicious sort of predatory dude, out to get sex from the people who should least have it—I don't want to be one of those men. I absolutely refuse to turn into one. And that's a resolution I can stick to, even if I'm with Dave. I am not trying to justify myself, or anything cheap like that. But if I didn't even realize that he's that young, it sorta has to mean something, right?

It has to mean that he's grown enough into himself that my liking him is not gonna fuck him up.

I keep repeating this to myself a week after the High Street disaster, as I ring the Karofskys' doorbell and hope for the best.

An older man with gray hair and a neat beard opens the door. And fuck if he doesn't look older than a high school junior's dad. (I should ask Dave how old his sisters are.)

Karofsky Sr. holds the door and looks at me with more curiosity than suspicion.

"I'm Jeremiah?" I wave a greeting and try really hard to ooze 'teenager.' "Friend of Dave's? We were supposed to go hear Ex Models play later today..."

"DAVE!" Karofsky, Sr. looks, at worse, mildly annoyed that his son has not seen fit to inform him of his plans. "Your friend is here! Go on up, son," he smiles benevolently.

(This reaction is good for my plans and bad for my self-esteem.)

"Who?" I can hear Dave yell back as I climb the stairs and locate his open door.

I knock to let him know I'm there. "Uhm. Me?"

He drops the book he's reading, a Penguin Frankenstein, and sits up from where he was lying against his bed's headboard. On his bed. His bed, with his letterman hanging from a bedpost and grandma's handmade quilt on the foot. "You shouldn't be here".

Here being the bedroom of a seventeen-year-old boy, with his varsity trophies and honor roll certificates on a shelf, with his posters —Redwings and Ramones and Reservoir Dogs—covering an entire wall. Here being the bedroom of a seventeen-year-old boy whose kindly father, just downstairs, didn't hesitate to let me in. Here being the bedroom of a seventeen-year-old boy clad in a wife-beater and shorts, lying back in bed...

He's sort of right, I shouldn't be here.

I close the door and clear my throat. "I wouldn't have come, but you didn't answer my calls. Or messages."

He frowns. "I didn't want to hear you call me a child and a liar."

"I wasn't gonna, okay? And you aren't a—you're neither. I shouldn't have said what I said. You gotta understand. I just—I felt..." And there's the goddamn problem, because exactly how do you explain that kind of panic? The last time I felt I might be fundamentally sick because of who I liked, I was his age and closeted, holing up in dodgy places with dodgy guys.

"What? What the fuck did you feel? Because the way you yelled you'd think I was trying to entrap you, or some shit! Like Dateline would jump out of the bushes to make you pay and it'd be a great fucking joke for me! It's fucking not, you asshole."

"Well, you're fucking right to be serious! Cause if I panicked about your age it wasn't just for kicks —cause freaking out is so much fucking fun!— and it's certainly fucking not about protecting me." I breathe deeply. "It's about protecting you."

I'd tried to convey that in a couple of the texts I'd sent, but mostly I just wanted to hear from him.

"From fucking what! I still haven't figured that out. From what, liking you? Thinking you were fun, or interesting or cute? I don't fucking deserve this shit. If this condescending asshole is who you are, I don't fucking want you."

There's an ice shard in my chest and I can't manage to swallow. "It's not that simple, Dave." We have to stop yelling if the conversation has any hope of staying between us. "Being with someone isn't just... It can all go to shit. Really fast. And really bad..."

"I don't fucking need you to tell me, okay? I'm not fucking stupid. And I'm not fucking fragile. Being seventeen doesn't make me fucking fragile. And being a virgin doesn't make me fucking fragile. I can take care of myself."

I've always thought guys with a thing for virgins are totally skeevy. A little self-defeating (cause wouldn't it be automatically better to fuck someone who knows what they're doing?) but mostly creepy and gross and fetishizing—

But right now I cannot make myself not think of Dave's mouth, wet and sweet and lissome, and the fact that it has not once touched a man's cock. Known the smell and the firm weight on the tongue and the taste... And I keep thinking of the word 'yet'.

It's heady. It's frightening.

I sigh. I try to keep my voice steady and serious. "I just don't want to be the asshole who hurts you."

"Then why the fuck did you ditch me in the middle of Columbus?"

Oh.

Oh, god. "I totally left you stranded Saturday." I hadn't even fucking realized. While was having my not-a-pedo freak-out, I'd left a seventeen-year-old, on his own, on the puddly sidewalk outside a High Street bar, in the wee hours of Sunday morning. "I'm so sorry."

He waves it off. "I was fine."

"Fuck, I'm such an asshole. Did you get in trouble? How did you get back?"

"I knew a friend was in the city," he says stiffly. "She gave me a ride home. It all worked out."

"Good, good. I mean— But... chancy. If, uh, she hadn't been nearby, you'd 've been shit out of luck. So I'm really sorry."

He shrugs one shoulder. "It was okay." He doesn't look at me. "I can take care of myself."

And yeah, he's been saying that. It's almost enough to make me smile, cause I finally sort of believe him.

"So, whatever speech you wanted to feed me, to soften the blow or whatever, you can save it. I don't need it. Go ahead and fucking dump me, I don't need to be fucking coddled."

So, I... might have done better if I told him from the start that I do want to be with him. That I want to be the one he makes all these discoveries with. That I'll get the fuck over myself. That I like him.

And I could tell him that now. Or I could kiss him.

He ends the kiss, when I really want him not to, and he looks resigned, when I really want him not to, and, with his forehead against mine, begins to back away.

Fuck that. I'm not letting him.

"'M not dumping you," Never fucking dumping you (and thank fucking god I managed not to say that out loud). "I want it too much—you," breathe, J, "way too much."

He kisses me this time, and I'm on top of him on the bed in two seconds flat, have his shirt off in less than two pulls. I haven't kissed him in a week. I have both hands raking through his hair and I'm sucking his smiling bottom lip against my teeth. I haven't kissed him in a week. I run my hands down the sculpted column of his neck and stop at his heart and feel him shudder. He puts solid arms around me, palms searching under my shirt. I haven't kissed him in a week. Under my hands, the skin of his chest is soft and warm beneath the dusting of hair. Over my back, his palms are rough and callused. I haven't kissed him in a week.

How—How have I not kissed him in a week, when it's this brilliant?

I kiss his eyelids and move one hand back to his neck, to trace the lines of sinew with a fingernail. I call his mouth back to mine with a growl, and run a hand—fucking greedy like my mouth—down the solid flesh of his side. I'm fucking sweating and breathing fast. I bite his lip. With damp fingertips I find the crease between his thigh muscle and obliques. I linger there a few seconds and then a few more, because I'm trying to work the courage to follow its dip in from his hipbone, to his cock (fucking hard against my thigh the minute I jumped him, fucking hell). But then he mutters a "stop that" and I tear my mouth from his and jump away like I've been scalded, breathing heavy and mortified.

"Fuck! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—Fucking shit! I shouldn't—I-I, lord, I—'M so sorry!"

And while I'm panicking about him and his boundaries and how fucking fast this is going, the fucking bastard has the nerve to roll his eyes. "Not that, dickweed," he gestures towards me, panting at the foot of the bed. "That. Stop that. The fucking hesitating, the doubting. Stop imagining yourself as Humbert fucking Humbert!"

He seems genuinely angry with me, so I'm pretty shocked when he grabs my arm and pulls me back onto him, then rolls us over. His smile is wicked when he kisses me, almost vindictive, and I let out a moan I didn't mean to.

"Jesus fuck..."

With the weight of him only half on me and one hand gripping my thigh, I realize he shares none of my qualms, cause he fucking goes for my fly and undoes it button by button, slips in like a thief, and wraps his fist around my cock—and this, fuckinghell, this is—this is fucking delicious. "Dave!"

The mass of his torso on my chest and his mouth on mine are all that keep me from fucking hyperventilating and I feel like my breath and my skin and my hips would all gladly leave me to meet his. His grip is firm and his rhythm quick and it's not quite what I like but it's so sure and steady that it must be what he does himself and fuck if that thought doesn't make any thoughts of further instructions fucking fly clear out of my mind, so when I open my mouth all that can come out is a pleading, greedy mewl.

I don't even fucking bother to feel embarrassed.

The hand on my thigh moves to cup my balls through the fabric and when he runs a miraculously dry finger over the sensitized head I feel like I could vibrate right out of my skin, like there's electric current running beneath it and if it touches my sweat I'll flint apart in sparks.

My cock twitches in his grip (because all of me is greedy) and his grin is just mean, "Fuck, J!" he lays a laughing kiss on my mouth. I suck his tongue and his fist goes tighter, so I do it again.

"You're so good babe so hot just so so so, make me come please make me come—" I haven't managed to suck in a breath in ages and my sight goes hazy around the edges when his hand twists the other way, and I fucking explode.

As I try to catch a breath that doesn't fucking want to be in my lungs, I watch his face. Small smile, earnestly pleased. I fucking came and it was too soon and it was too good and there's so much pleasure in the second I don't even mind the embarrassment of the first.

With an outstretched hand, I press against a mole there, on his jaw, and then a freckle, trace the elegant eyebrow and the cheekbone and the orbit of the eye. When I look at his mouth again, the earnestness is gone and the fucker's goddamned smug.

A chuckle escapes me as I drop back down to the bed, "Fucking hell, Dave."

He smiles back, tucks a hand between my tee shirt and the Henley beneath, then peels off the come-stained layer and throws it vaguely at a hamper. He leaves a peck on my nose and bites my chin as I try to gather my thoughts.

"Dave. We, uhm," I button my fly back up, "we should probably talk this through some more." Something is digging against my back and when I fish beneath me I find a pencil and a notepad where he wrote reading guide questions and vocabulary. I toss both towards his discarded Frankenstein.

He tenses one shoulder. "So what, you are dumping me?"

I breathe out a no, touch his face, smell his neck (just once). "I'm just, I'm surprised you're not dumping me. After that fucking mess? I can't fucking figure out why, how to—ugh..."

"It's not fucking difficult, J. I just don't want you to treat me like something I'm fucking not."

"Look, there's shit I need to understand and shit I need to explain." I tap a finger against the back of his hand, "And you need to yell at me, preferably where you won't out yourself," then use it to trace his knuckles. "I told your dad we were gonna go hear Ex Models."

"Ex Models are playing?" he frowns, not quite able to follow a sentence I didn't clarify. "Where?"

"Uh, well, my place, technically?" I shrug a little helplessly and rush to explain. "I got a bunch of bootlegs and my housemates always bail for the weekend and I thought you'd like to listen to them and chill over pizza. And talk," which is what I wanted to do last Saturday, vaguely, before I fucked up. "But we can figure something else, like, I'd be fine with whatever, if you don't feel comfortable with that or..."

He sits up and eyes me thoughtfully. "Yeah, no, it's fine. That—that'd be good. Just, uh, lemme get dressed."

If it were about me letting him, I probably wouldn't, but I don't like my chances of making it out the house with him half-naked. He stops by his dresser to get a shirt from a drawer and his cell from the top, and then ducks into his walk-through closet, already starting a call.

"Hey, babe, how're you? ... Uh, better, actually... Yeah, it did. He stopped by, we talked some things out... No, Dr. Dirty, by that I actually mean 'we talked things out,'" he peeks out over the wall and shoots me a glance, half embarrassed and half conspirational. "Anyway, that's why I'm calling. Yeah. Yeah." He comes back out wearing jeans and a shirt, and sits down next to me to tie his laces, phone on his shoulder. "Uhm, I'm going over to his place... What the fuck, San! None of your fucking business!"

I can see him blush to his ears and I mouth a 'what?'

('Nothing.') "The fuck I'm a bad friend! You're a bad Lesbian, why would you give a shit about that, anyway? ... Yeah, well, me and my cock don't really need your concern, okay?"

He glares at me when I can't contain my laughter.

"Yeah... Yes. I'm always careful, babe. Yeah. Good-bye, San. I'll text you."

He hangs up and waits for me to be coherent. "Your address?"

"Uh, sure," I parrot it out and he types a text. "What was that?"

He shrugs. "If my dad doesn't know where I am, someone should. Even if she's fucking insufferable."

"Dave, we could stay here, if-"

"We really can't, J," he pulls me to stand. I think he wants to kiss me, but he doesn't. "Plus I sorta want to judge your vinyl. Come on." With a quick grab for keys and wallet, we're both stomping down the stairs.

In the well-lit front room, Karofksy Sr. waves us off and quickly burrows back into a pile of documents. I don't know whether to feel relieved or shitty that we don't have to bother to lie about where, exactly, we're going. I do feel a bit guilty, because if I was a girl, or if he knew Dave's into guys, there's no way in hell he would've missed my vanished tee shirt.

Dave and I stand awkwardly on the porch for a bit, looking out at his truck and my car.

"Uh. We could take separate cars. Like, you could follow me."

He shakes his head. "Really not necessary." He shoots me a wry smirk. "I can always steal your keys if you're an asshole again."

And he could. Or he could call San, or a cab, or his dad, even. But I don't want him to need to. So with an idle "catch" I throw him my keys and walk to the curb.

"Dude. This is so not necessary."

"It's a symbolic thing, Dave. Let me do this symbolic thing. You're driving. Okay?" I buckle into the passenger seat and wait for him to get in. My Hüsker Dü kick has advanced from Zen Arcade to New Day Rising, and when he starts the car, "I Apologize" blasts from the speakers.

"This symbolic, too?"

"'M not that fucking cheesy." He only answers with a smile. "Stop that. I'm not that fucking cheesy."

And that's kinda the underlying problem. I'm not sure I can, at 20, be a high school boyfriend. Things like cheering at his hockey games—because he was, of course, absolutely right that it's not my scene. Or be the college aged dweeb taking his sweetheart to Prom. I could probably distract him from that nightmare teen cliché—if someone good enough is playing in Columbus, or fuck, even Cleveland, I'm positive he'd let it go...

I should probably worry about Homecoming before even thinking of Prom.

"Should I be?" I ask on the first stoplight.

"What?"

"Cheesy. Like. Should I be minding shit like Homecoming?"

"Uh, well. I'm on varsity football, so. You can care if you want?"

"Fuck. I mean, good for you, or whatever, it's just... I have no clue how to do this. I'm a poli sci major. I was a school paper dork."

He laughs as the light turns green. "You don't know what a school paper dork is, until you've met ours, dude. He blogs."

"I'm serious, Dave. I don't know what the fuck to do with a High School Junior."

He flicks an annoyed gaze at me then looks back to the road. "You mean, other than what we've been doing? Cause I have no fucking problem with that. Seriously. And. I'm a senior. September birthday."

"David." I take a deep breath. "I've never been with a seventeen-year-old. Not even when I was seventeen. Not even when I was younger than that."

He doesn't say anything until we hit the freeway, but he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, when the road lets him. He even drives older than a teen: fast, but competent and mindful. He doesn't speed.

He shoots me another quick look when traffic evens out. "Look. Whatever that was like for you," he says, "you gotta know we're not like that. You're not like that."

There's plenty to be unsure of in this thing with Dave and me. We might not make it to Homecoming, much less Prom (which would be Senior Prom; I'm totally fucked and in need of a tux...). I might not have patience for high school shit, or he, for college demands. I might just bore him. But I'm already sure we're not like that.

We're like us. Whatever that turns out to be.

Deep breath, J, deep breath.

With no more answer than a tentative smile, and a lot on my mind, I settle back into the passenger seat, trying to find it familiar even though I've never sat on it before, and listen to Grant Hart's voice, pleading out in yells.

Up on Heaven Hill is where I wanna be/ that girl, that bottle, that mattress and me.

I put my hand on his thigh. And hope for the best.