The Care and Feeding of Imaginary Belly Fruits
This party sucks. And that's something Cappie doesn't say lightly. Parties are, by their very nature, awesome. But when the best part of the night is a conversation he's been having with Spitter's weird roommate. Spitter's weird roommate, who is currently curled up against his side like a kitten in a basket. A kitten with glasses and slightly cold hands. And this cuddle is, incidentally, the most action he's gotten all night. Well then, he's pretty sure he can go ahead and declare this party a bust.
Of course the worst part is, it's kind of a great party. If it were his party it would be a great party. An epic rager for the history books. But it's not his party. It's Max's party. Just like Spitter is Max's new little brother type figure. And Casey is Max's new girlfriend. Not that this is about Casey. It's not always about Casey. Okay, if he's being honest it's always a little bit about Casey. But it's not JUST about Casey. At least not about Casey in the sense of it being about being with Casey. His thoughts stutter, giving his really very drunk brain a second to untie that knot.
"It's not about Casey," he says out loud to clarify. It is. But it's about Casey in the same way it's about Rusty. About how she'll never see him as anything but the party boy. And maybe that's fair. Maybe that's all he'll ever be. God knows he doesn't want to grow up. But he doesn't like seeing Rusty look past him, dismissing him the way she did. Outgrowing him. This life is Cappie's choice, but that doesn't mean he has to like being left behind.
"I imagine Casey's hair smells like The Lord's breath," Dale says drowsily into his neck.
Cappie cocks his head, genuinely curious. "What does the Lord's breath smell like?"
"His Infinite Majesty."
"So┘ Papaya?" he says. "Because I've smelled her hair, and I'm pretty sure there was some papaya in the mix."
"Did you know papaya seeds are edible?" Dale asks.
"I did not," Cappie admits. "I once swallowed some watermelon seeds and some dirt hoping to produce a delicious fruit harvest inside my belly though."
"That's ridiculous," Dale laughs in a slightly condescending way. Cappie tries to decide if he's offended. He doesn't think he is. "Your stomach acids are far too inhospitable an environment for-"
"I was five," Cappie interrupts.
Dale shakes his head. "Even a five year old can understand the basic concept of photosynse- Photothenth- " He takes a deep breath, still doing the drunken head shake, before carefully enunciating. "Photosynthesis."
"That's why I stood outside with my mouth open for twenty minutes a day." Cappie taps his forehead. "I knew they needed sunlight."
Despite the dark, he can see Dale's skeptical forehead furrows. "I find the entire premise┘" Dale trails off, his brain sluggishly poking around for the right word.
"I couldn't help it," Cappie says when he realizes Dale seems to have forgotten that he was talking and instead appears to be counting the holes on his watchband. "I've always been a nurturer."
Only now he harvests new pledges instead of imaginary belly fruits. He's done it for many pledges, and he expects to do it for many more. Spitter is no different from any of the others, and Cappie isn't the type to get possessive. The pledges don't belong to him. Even his little brother doesn't really belong to him. Just because he's meant to take a little extra care of one doesn't change the fact that the pledges belong to the frat, to all the brothers. He's always believed that. He's kind of a communist that way.
"I'm kind of a communist," he says to Dale.
"It's okay," Dale says. "Jesus tells us to hate the sinner, not the sin." He clasps Cappie's shoulder warmly. "If you just repent-"
"I don't really believe in repentance," Cappie says. "Or regret."
"They believe in you, buddy," Dale says with supreme confidence and a kind of slurry compassion. "They believe in you."
It's not really that he's jealous of this Max guy. Just because Spitter looks up to him with the same wide-eyed awe he used to reserve for Cappie. Because that look doesn't belong to Cappie any more than Spitter does. It's communal property or something about the proletariat possibly or the expropriation of landowners or- God. He is seriously, seriously drunk. He only thinks about the proletariat when he's really, seriously drunk. Which has led to some admittedly odd dirty-talk on occasion.
But he also has to admit that despite his most strongly held convictions on why jealousy is not something he feels, Rusty has that same specialness that all the Cartwrights have for Cappie. Not the SAME specialness obviously. The specialness that Casey has is more of a naked specialness. Rusty's specialness is less naked. And thank God for that because Cappie has at some point considered briefly, for reasons he can't remember now, what it would be like to share a bed with Spitter and he's pretty sure there would be a lot of flailing and way too many elbows involved. Not very promising. Cappie has, of course, at some point considered briefly what it would be like to share a bed with basically everyone he's ever met. For reasons he can't remember now, but probably have something to do with the fact that fortune favors the prepared mind. There are only about three guys in Kappa Tau he thinks would even be worth the effort.
"I'm pretty sure Beaver would be a considerate lover," he says to Dale.
"Which one is Beaver?" Dale asks.
"Big blond one. Not the sharpest tool, but has a great heart." He blinks up at the sky. "And surprisingly soft hands."
"Moisturizer," Dale says sagely. Two fingers are suddenly poking against Cappie's nostrils. "I have this shea butter kind. My mom makes it." It's kind of nice. Antiseptic sort of. But mellow. Woody. It reminds Cappie of the hamster he had when he was six. Mr. Puddles.
"Nice," he says fondly. Fuzzy. "Wuzzy."
"Wuzzy?" Dale laughs, the cracked wheezy chuckling contagious. "You are too much."
Cappie laughs too. "I'm delightful."
"You are delightful," Dale agrees. He leans in to whisper loudly. "I don't hold your promiscuity against you."
"Thanks, Dale. I don't hold your celibacy against you either."
Dale pulls back in round-eyed surprise. "You can tell I'm celibate just by looking at me? Is it my haircut? Do I have an air of righteousness about me?"
"Spitter told me about this," Cappie says, taking Dale's hand and tapping his fingernail against the metal band on his finger. The one that means he doesn't have sex with anyone ever. Cappie shudders a little. "I'm not going to pretend I understand your belief system, but I respect your right to it."
"Yeah," Dale says. "Being in The Lord's Abstinence Army is pretty awesome. Except-"
"Except?" Cappie can sense that this lost soul has a need for his wisdom.
"Not a lot of girls have tried to have sex with me. Or actually, to be scientifically accurate, none have. None girls." Cappie can hear the frown in his voice.
"But you would say no anyway," Cappie points out comfortingly. And wisdom delivered.
"The true test is in resisting temptation," Dale says a little petulantly. "It hardly counts when you aren't given the opportunity to stray." His voice get a little quieter. "Saying no to something you don't have, or to something you don't- Can't- Don't want┘" He trails off vaguely. "Maybe it's better." He nods his head once with sudden determination. "Constant vigilance," he says. "Root out the temptation."
"Dale," Cappie says cautiously. "Do you want to be tempted? Because I'm pretty sure I can help with that. There happen to be more than a few fairly indiscriminate ladies in my circle of acquaintance."
"I want-" Dale says, the determination gone, leaving an absent drifting. Cappie hears the alcohol in his voice, hears it make him vague and honest and not entirely who he is. "I want to want-" He trails off again, lost, and Cappie checks to make sure he's still awake. He is, staring and blinking behind his glasses. "Sometimes I get really tired," he says flatly, his voice small but blunt. "Sometimes I want a break." His thumb traces a little path over the lip of Cappie's pocket.
Cappie isn't sure exactly which words of wisdom a drunken pseudo crisis of faith, or whatever this is, deserves. He pats Dale on the top of the head. That's for humans too, he thinks. Not just for dogs. "Okay, buddy," he says. Dale is still for a while, but Cappie can tell he's awake by the tension in his back.
He sits up with a sudden jerk. "I'm going to take off my pants now," Dale explains carefully, solemnly. "My bottom itches." Cappie lifts himself up on an elbow to watch as Dale wriggles around, revealing blue boxers and white legs. He bites his lip a little to keep from laughing because the look on Dale's face is so serious. But then there's something so vulnerable about the way Dale's pants catch on his sneakers before he thinks to toe them off his white socked feet. He doesn't feel like laughing anymore.
When Dale snuggles back in against his side, Cappie puts an arm around his shoulders. Dale moves his socked feet against Cappie's ankles. Their knees touch. Dale looks up, and Cappie looks down, waiting for him to ask the question he seems to be holding in his mouth, waiting for him to send it out into the expectant space between them. Cappie can see the outline of Dale's lips in the moonlight, the glint of his glasses masking his eyes. He looks like he's concentrating, calculating, trying to solve a math problem that just doesn't compute.
"Should we kiss?" he says finally, with a tentative lilt in his voice. It's not the question Cappie was expecting. He blinks a few times as things start to fill the empty, broken spaces between the words Dale's said out loud. Ah, clarity. Sort of. He considers the question for a moment before he decides he likes it. It's a good question. A valid question. Should they?
Dale looks up from his nook underneath Cappie's chin, and Cappie touches his hand lightly to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He considers briefly what it would be like to share a bed with Dale. He thinks it would be overwhelmed and unsure. Inexperienced, definitely. But generous, giving, the kind of laughing sex with rounded edges where the fumbling around only makes it sweeter. He's halfway to thinking this is actually a very good idea before he realizes that's not all it would be. Sweet yes, but guilty too. There would be regret. Repentence. The morning after is not something he thinks about often because the entire point of being at a party like this, of getting this drunk, of embracing irresponsibility to the fullest, is that you don't have to think about what comes later.
But looking at the trusting angle of Dale's neck, he does think about it. And he thinks if Dale remembers any of it, he won't remember laughing or the easy comfort of touching or how good the wet, hot closeness of two bodies moving together feels. Dale would only remember that he'd done something wrong. The worst kind of wrong there is in the big book of wrongs he carries around with him everywhere. Of course, chances are Dale won't remember. But maybe he will. Cappie doesn't want to be the one to take anything from him, to break anything in him.
"You know, Dale, I don't think we should." He smoothes his hand along the top of Dale's head, pushing back the slightly spiky hair and presses his lips to Dale's forehead like a benediction. Dale's hand closes around a handful of his t-shirt, fingers pressing against his hip. Cappie can feel the push of his breath, soft and boozy against his neck.
"Okay," Dale says compliantly. Cappie wonders at how much the alcohol has emptied him out, and how much it's knocked down inside him, that everything in him is so easy and open and peaceful. He wonders how many hidden things he could see if he reached inside, how many secrets he could know and empty spaces he could fill. He wonders, but not enough to push, to test, to risk hurting. Dale settles, his head resting against Cappie's collarbone. Cappie strokes a hand over his hair one more time, feeling Dale relax, sleepy and boneless, breathing slow. He laughs quietly in the dark, music and yelling loud all around him, eyes staring blindly up at the stars. This party is so lame. But he doesn't even really want to get up, go look for a drink, go look for the music, go look for a fuck that won't give a shit about tomorrow morning. He just kind of wants to stay here with a warm armful of drunk boy snuggled against him. Trusting him.
It doesn't mean he's being responsible.
It's just that there are some people you have to take a little extra care of.
end