Sebastian assured him that he didn't do dates. He'd go with him to Scandals and other assorted bars, clubs, and dark smokey places Dave had never even heard of, but he didn't do dates. That's what he kept saying, even as he waltzed into Dave's house with waggling eyebrows and bizarre variations of take-out which he had to have had flown in from Columbus because there were absolutely no Vietnamese/Mexican restaurants in any part of Lima.
He scoffed as he unloaded the food onto the coffee table, "This isn't a date, David."
Dave brought a couple of plates from the kitchen and took a seat on the couch, "Whatever you say, Seb."
"It's isn't," he insisted, "It's just I'm going to develop scoliosis making out with you in my tiny but divine car. And you refuse to go to my place; you'd think I was trying to lure you into a seedy motel."
It's not so much a routine as something that becomes natural. Sometimes, Sebastian is there, something that simply is but is so quickly missed when it isn't.
They kiss, more intense than anything Dave has ever experienced and the tenderest thing Sebastian can remember feeling. They watch TV which actually means that Sebastian mocks a show for fifteen minutes and then switches the channel and repeats while Dave sneaks glances at him from the corner of his eye. They eat the exotic take out (Peruvian, Greek, Lebanese) and Sebastian winks every time Dave asks where he got it. But these are not, Sebastian clarifies, dates.
They stop going to Scandals. They don't talk about it, really, and Dave understands Sebastian might still go whenever he pleases, because they haven't talked about …them. They just are, like the things you know and have no words for. He supposes, then, that Sebastian might still go to dark places filled with smoke and horny strangers.
"Your thinking is obnoxiously loud," Sebastian comments, plucking some sort of cream cheese dumpling from Dave's plate.
He raises an eyebrow, "You can hear me thinking?"
"You get this look on your face," he says, liking a smidgen of cheese from the corner of his lips, "like you're doing long division. It'd be hilarious if it wasn't so adorable."
He set his fork down, "I was just wondering…"
Sebastian waves a hand and reaches for the soup, "I didn't ask."
Dave wasn't deterred, "I mean I know we're not … like exclusive…"
"No," he snaps, glaring up at him, "You assume that."
"What?"
"You assume," he says slowly, focusing back on the bag of odd foods, "that I can't keep it in my pants."
Dave leant forward his eyes wide, "No, of course not, that's not what I'm saying."
"It's what you're assuming," Sebastian shrugged.
He sighed, frustrated, "I'm not assuming anything."
"Fine then," he pushes away from the table, his voice straining in anger, "what were you wondering?"
He went back to his food, because honestly, what was he going to say? Yeah, actually. You remind me of Santana. That's what people say about you, but I'm not supposed to listen to that, right? That's not who you are when we're here. But it doesn't matter anyway because we're not together. Are we together? Can we be?, "Just forget it."
He doesn't look up when he hears the scratch of Sebastian's chair on the floor or the sound of the front door slamming. He just goes up to his room and looks up the performance he would have always missed, even if he hadn't been in the hospital. He tries to picture Sebastian singing to him instead of for him, to picture what it would be like if they were made up of actual interest rather than pity. He never tried to fool himself really, Sebastian felt guilty and he was taking advantage of that, drinking in the attention, indulging in a fantasy. It wasn't fair to ask for more.
His phone woke him, buzzing around on the empty pillow beside him. He blinked, considered ignoring it completely but instead sighed and grabbed at it clumsily.
Seb (1:34 am): I am not throwing fucking rocks at your window like a dumbass, come out to your car.
Seb (1:36 am): Please.
He scrambled out of bed and looked out the window. Sebastian was there, not looking up but sitting with his knees drawn up leaning against the front wheel of his truck. Making sure not to wake his dad he slipped out quietly, wincing at the crunch of grass under his shoes even though he couldn't possibly be heard.
Sebastian looked surprisingly small and Dave felt slightly awkward looming over him, big and clumsy and heartsick, "Are you alright?"
Still curled up the boy gave a dry laugh, "I thought I was doing this right, you know?"
Dave knelt down beside him, "Hey, you told me remember? And I told you, that I didn't know either. No idea what we're doing. I just wanted to know… but I'm being selfish."
Sebastian gave another laugh, harsher this time, "You don't know the meaning of the word."
"If you don't want to do this anymore," Dave sighed, "you don't have to worry about me…"
"That's just it though, I do," his whispers broke through the night sounds, "I want to do this and I'm going to screw it up and I…"
Dave moved forward and pressed his lips to his, gently and without moving. Silencing him. Questioning him. They stayed just that way, frozen for a moment before Sebastian took a rattling breath and let his lips answer the questions he couldn't fathom.
"You're not screwing up," Dave mumbled against his lips, "I'm just scared out of my fucking mind."
"Good. I mean," he laughs, finally with some mirth, "I am too."
"So it's okay if we don't put a label-"
"No, it's not. I mean why so I can keep my reputation of being a douchebag? No," he shook his head and took a deep breath, "I'm… I'm happy. With you. Just doing nothing, next to you, I've never been… okay spending time with a guy that I'm not actively fucking or trying to fuck and I'm …so much more than okay being with you. We can call it whatever you want."
He smiled that shy unadulterated smile that shook the earth from under Sebastian's feet, "Happy. We'll just call it happy."