Chapter Four
Sean could hear someone else in the dorm room when he got back after his 4:00 class on Thursday, but when he rounded the closets, it was Jack, not Tony, who was sitting on the futon.
"What're you doing here?" Sean asked, dropping his backpack on the floor and toeing off his sneakers.
"Hello to you too," Jack said, not looking up from the copy of Psychology Today he was flipping through.
"You need something, Jacky-boy?"
"How does Race read this shit?" Jack asked. He closed the magazine and tossed it on Tony's desk. "He's working out with Mush. He told me to go ahead and wait for you."
Sean sighed and flopped down in his desk chair. "And for the third time, what do you want?"
"Listen, Davey's birthday is in a few days," Jack said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Mind if I smoke? Davey won't let me smoke in our room."
Sean nodded, then pulled out his own smokes and accepted the lighter Jack passed to him. Tony had asked him not to smoke in their room either, but if he opened the window, most of the smell would be cleared out by the time his roommate got home.
Jack took a long drag, then tilted his head and blew out a plume of smoke. "Anyway, I'm taking Davey out for dinner for his birthday."
"How romantic. Be sure to get him a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne, too."
"Shut up, will you?" Jack said calmly, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette into the empty mug sitting on Tony's desk. Sean made a mental note to rinse it out later, then frowned. That thought had sounded an awful lot like being considerate. "So we're going out and I'm inviting a bunch of our friends to come with us." He stopped.
"So?" Sean finally prompted.
Jack raised his eyebrows. "So, you want to come along?" Sean opened his mouth to answer, but Jack jumped in quickly. "And look, I want to point out that I'm asking you as a possible friend, not just as Race's roommate."
"You getting mushy on me, Jacky-boy?" Sean said.
"You scared to go out to a little dinner with a bunch of guys who just want to be friendly towards you?" Jack countered.
It was close, very close, to the truth, but Sean glared. "No."
Jack ground his cigarette out in the bottom of Tony's mug. "Look, it's a free meal away from campus. If you've got a half a brain, you'll come along for the real food if nothing else."
Sean tipped his desk chair back on two legs, resting the back of the chair on the bedframe. "What's with you and Davey, Jacky?"
Jack sighed. "We're best friends. He's like my brother. No, we're not gay, with each other or anyone else. Why do people always ask me what's with us?"
"Because you act like you're madly in love with each other, and you hang out with a group of people that appears to be largely gay or bisexual," Sean pointed out.
Jack frowned. "They're not all gay or bisexual. Blink's straight. Sarah's straight. Davey and I are straight. Gabby and Bumlets are both straight." He began ticking names off on his fingers. "And I think Swifty and Del and Teensy are all straight – though they could be bi, I've never asked."
"But Specs and Dutchy are very, very gay," Sean said.
"Well, I can't argue with that one," Jack said, grinning slightly. "And, admittedly, Mush and Skittery are both bi."
"And Tony?" Sean asked, almost too casually.
Jack's face grew guarded. "I think what Tony wants you to know about his sexuality is his business, not mine." He raised an eyebrow. "Besides, what about you?"
Sean stood and went to the sink to grind his cigarette out. "Maybe what I want you to know about my sexuality is my business, not yours, too."
"Fair enough," Jack said, nodding. He stood. "I'm going to go. Dinner for Davey birthday's on Saturday at 6:30 – we'll meet downstairs in the lobby." He picked up his keys from where they lay on Tony's desk. "I'll see you in class tomorrow. It's been – interesting."
It had been very interesting, Sean reflected as he picked up Tony's mug and started rinsing the ashes out into the sink.
Race sorted through his e-mail, deleting spam and advertisements. There was an e-mail from his mother, one from his psych ethics professor about a change to the syllabus, and a forward from his aunt that was probably ridiculously sappy. He opened that one first and sighed. He was right; it was one of those "you've been blessed by an Internet angel" things with the angel all drawn out in the e-mail with parentheses and ampersands and percent signs. Gag.
The message from his mother was slightly more personal, but no less gag-worthy.
Dear Anthony,
How has the weather been up there at school this week? It's been warm and sunny here, but I can tell winter is right around the corner. I spent last weekend planting my fall bulbs and your father put away the patio furniture. We both ached when we went to bed that night, but what needs doing must be done without complaint.
How have your classes been this fall? Have you made any new friends through them? Have you met any nice girls? We do so look forward to meeting any new friends or girlfriends. It's no secret that your father and I are getting on in years, and we hope someday soon to see our grandchildren. Perhaps Mass would be a good place to meet someone with similar values?
I hope everything is well at school. We miss you, of course, and hope that you are making healthy and holy decisions. Avoid temptation, Anthony, and pray for strength.
God's blessings on you,
Mother
Jesus. Race rolled his eyes. A little window popped up in the corner of his screen, letting him know that thewalkingmouth had just signed on. He opened an IM box.
Pokerface1219: hey davey
thewalkingmouth: Hey, Race. What's up?
Pokerface1219: if i ever go loudly insane, i don't want you to be surprised. it's genetic.
thewalkingmouth: …What did your mom do now?
thewalkingmouth: Or do I not even want to know?
Race copied and pasted the text of his e-mail message into the IM box and sent it to David.
Pokerface1219: read that.
thewalkingmouth: Wow. She really lays it on thick, doesn't she?
Pokeface1219: uh, yeah. you know what the translation of that email is?
thewalkingmouth: ?
Pokerface1219: dear anthony, your father and i are working very hard without you here, much harder than we should have to at our age. feel guilty, very guilty. the sooner you get back here to take care of us, the better.
Pokerface1219: paragraph 2: i really hope you've made new friends instead of those loser arts students you used to hang around with. i don't think they were a very good influence on you. so when are you going to hurry up and find a gf so you can settle down and start making grandkids for me? oh, and btw, you're going to mass every wkend, right?
thewalkingmouth: She really has no clue that you're never going to find a nice girl, does she?
Pokerface1219: well, i'm certainly not going to tell her. she and my dad would either disown me or try to get me "help." either that or i'd say, "hey mom, i'm gay," and she'd die of shock and horror on the spot.
Pokerface1219: …maybe i should keep that in mind.
thewalkingmouth: She'd probably blame it on the bad influence of all those arts kids.
Pokerface1219: probably.
Pokerface1219: but the best part of the email's the end: by the way, anthony, you better not be gambling again. it will turn you into an evil, evil person. i will pray for your soul, and you should too.
thewalkingmouth: So, speaking of your lack of a gf, is there anyone – I mean a male anyone – you're interested in right now?
thewalkingmouth: …Race?
Pokerface1219: … yeah, i'm here…davey, have i ever told you how subtle you're not?
thewalkingmouth: blushes
Pokerface1219: lol. look, we've only got a semester and a half or so left. i'm not getting involved with anyone when we'd just get screwed up in a few months.
thewalkingmouth: And you claim Skittery's pessimistic.
Pokerface1219: pessimistic, paranoid… the joys of being a pothead. and hey, you're not exactly in a position to criticize my love life. who're you seeing right now?
thewalkingmouth: …
Pokerface1219: yeah, that's what I thought.
thewalkingmouth: Whatever. Leaving now. Ttyl.
thewalkingmouth has signed off.
By the time Sean woke up on Friday morning, Tony was already gone. That wasn't terribly surprising; Sean had surmised that the guy likely had a job, because he was gone three or four mornings a week. What was surprising was that Sean hadn't woken up when Tony had gotten up and left. It either meant that Tony had been exceptionally quick and quiet as he got ready to go, or Sean was starting to get used to and comfortable with the little noises his morning routine made – the pad of his bare feet over to the closet, soft rustle of his clothes slipping on, the scrape of his razor across his jaw as he stood over the sink.
Stretching out his long limbs – length he'd never quite grown into – Sean dropped from his bunk to the floor. He'd torn a want ad out of the local paper in the library a few days ago; today was as good a day as any to go apply. He briefly considered trying to find something to wear that was more… nice than his usual band T-shirt and jeans, then dismissed the idea and yanked a Led Zeppelin tee over his head. It would have felt too much like lying.
The diner the ad was for was about a mile from the campus, not too far to walk in anything but the worst weather, which meant it would work well for Sean, who wasn't the proud owner of anything that could get him from place to place other than his own two feet. Busing tables didn't sound like the most fun he could possibly have, but it also didn't sound like it would require much thought.
Sweat had just started to bead up on his brow when he got to the diner – it was still pretty warm out when the sun was shining – and Sean was glad to slip into the air conditioning. As soon as the sun spots faded from his eyes, he made his way to the counter. A waiter approached, and he almost laughed. It was too ironic.
"Something funny?" Tony asked, looking annoyed. His white dress shirt was splattered with what looked like oatmeal, and the apron that was slung around his hips was plastered with bits of food and grease stains and juice spills; he'd already had a rough morning, Sean surmised. So he was relatively polite and to the point when he answered.
"Yeah," Sean said. "I'm here about the busboy job."
Tony narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to piss me off?"
"Of course not. I live in fear of your anger," Sean said sarcastically. So much for trying to be polite. "Look, I didn't know you worked here, and I actually do need a job."
Tony sighed. "Fine." He raised his voice. "Wease! There's a kid here to apply for that busboy job." He strode off, and a corpulent, greasy-looking man approached.
"You want the job?" he said.
"What's it pay?" Sean asked coolly.
Weasel snorted and named a wage higher than minimum, but still very conservative.
"And if I have experience?"
Weasel snorted again. "Please. Like you need experience to be able to clear dirty dishes. My five-year-old niece has experience with that."
The man was gross, Sean decided. And annoying. But didn't seem particularly bright, so Sean would probably be able to work him. "I have wait staff experience. I can help cover tables if there's a rush."
Weasel watched him, measuring. "I'm not in charge of the wait staff," he finally responded.
"I am," said a new voice, and Sean turned to see Del standing there. "It's the smart ass," she said, nodding at Sean.
He desperately wanted to respond with, "It's the bitch," but restrained himself since he was trying to get a job. He just nodded back at her in response.
"Bump his salary up by fifty cents, Weasel," Del said, "and I'll use him too when we're busy."
Weasel grunted. "But he answers to me. I'm his manager."
Del shrugged. "Sure, your headache." She headed over to the window into the kitchen, where three plates of steaming food had just appeared.
"All right, kid," Weasel said. "You start next Tuesday, work Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, six to eleven."
Sean rapidly did a mental schedule-check and nodded. "Fine." Tony was standing near the register, refilling salt shakers and not even bothering to pretend he wasn't listening. When Weasel walked away, Sean approached him.
"I didn't know you worked here," Sean said again when Tony didn't speak.
"Fine," Tony said. He went back to his salt shakers.
Sean rolled his eyes. "Look, if it'll bother you that much, I'll look for something else." It was a concession he found he was willing to make – which surprised him.
Looking surprised himself and vaguely uncomfortable, Tony screwed a cap back on. "Don't. It's good pay. You won't find anything better." He wiped his hands on his apron. "I work Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, too. If you're up and ready to go on time, I'll give you a ride." The shakers clinked together as he picked up four in each hand and headed towards the tables. Sean didn't follow, but watched him as he walked away.
Race and Sean hadn't spoken about their encounter in the diner – or about the generous amounts of time they would soon get to spend working together – by the time they started getting ready for David's birthday dinner the next evening. Race was in a foul mood: a lousy morning at work had been compounded by a mountain of homework that he'd barely touched and the fact that Sean was coming to dinner with them. He wasn't sure what it was about Sean coming to dinner that bothered him – if it was that Sean, with his silence and smirks, would be intruding on what Race had planned to be downtime with his friends, or if it was that, again, Sean apparently had no trouble with social interaction if Jack asked it of him.
Whatever the cause, Race was feeling slightly pissy as the hostess led them to a square table in the center of the dining room and the eight young men settled closely around it. The Italian restaurant Jack had chosen for Dave's birthday dinner was small and friendly looking, with the requisite red and white-checkered tablecloths and drippy candles in Chianti bottles. Specs and Dutchy sat at one end of the table, holding hands but otherwise behaving. David on another side, next to Jack, and Blink and Mush sat opposite them. Race and Sean anchored the final side of the table.
Sean hadn't said a single word on the ride over, which hadn't helped Race's mood, but he seemed to be comfortable enough in his seat between Jack and Race. Then Blink leaned across the table to talk to him, and Race held his breath, thinking, Here we go.
"So, Sean, are you liking USU?"
Sean raised an eyebrow. "It's a laugh a minute."
"What did you say your major was again?" Blink asked.
"I didn't."
Blink's usually bright face fell a bit, and out of the corner of his eye, Race saw Jack elbow Sean. Sean clenched his jaw, then said tightly, "I'm in comp sci."
"With me," Jack said cheerfully.
"So, what did you do before you came to school here?" Mush tried.
Sean rubbed his fingers together and pursed his lips, then blew out a deep breath. He was wishing for a cigarette, Race realized, then blinked. When had he started noticing Sean's little habits and personal tics?
"Went to school somewhere else," Sean finally said.
"Where?" Blink persisted.
Race waited, watching Sean, expecting him to slug Blink, but he merely said deliberately, "Somewhere else."
There was a moment of intense silence at the table, then David quickly asked Mush about the upcoming fall show at the campus theatre, and Jack asked Blink about the baseball team's prospects for the next season, and the tension dissolved. The annoyance that had been keeping Race on edge throughout the ride over and the beginning of the meal drained out of him as well, and he relaxed against the back of his chair.
After salads and breadsticks had been decimated and the group was waiting for their entrées, Sean stood. When Jack and Race both looked up him questioningly, he rolled his eyes. "I'm going to the john."
"Actually, I need to go too," Race said, standing. "I'll come with you."
Sean stared at him, then, muttering "whatever," turned and headed towards the back corner of the restaurant.
Race didn't say a word as he and Sean took care of their business – there were some unwritten rules that you just didn't break – but when they were standing at the sinks washing their hands, he began, "So – "
Sean interrupted him. "So, what are you, a dame or something? You gotta have a buddy to go to the john with?"
Race shook his head, watching in the mirror as Sean turned and headed for the towel dispenser. The guy had a nice ass for someone so skinny. Then he blinked and hastily brought his gaze back to his own reflection.
"So," Race tried again. "You totally wanted to jump down Blink's throat back there. Probably Mush's, too."
Sean turned to look at him over his shoulder, their eyes meeting in the mirror. "Yeah, so?" he said finally.
"Yeah, so, you didn't," Race said evenly. "You're playing nice tonight."
Sean snorted, then balled up his paper towel and tossed it into the garbage can. "Is there a point to this?" he asked.
"Look," Race said. "I'm just saying that I know you're making an effort, and I appreciate it. I mean, it would suck for Davey if we got kicked out of the restaurant for brawling."
Sean snorted again, but this time, the snort almost bordered on a laugh. "Well, I wouldn't want to ruin the guy's birthday." His shoulders slumped a bit. "I'm not a complete asshole, after all."
Race considered insisting that he didn't necessarily think Sean was a complete asshole, but it sounded awfully… girly. He thought about commenting on what Jack had told him had happened with Dr. Isaacson and Sean during their comp sci class together, but got the distinct impression that Sean wouldn't be grateful for any more attention. Finally he just nodded and said, "Right."
Sean rolled his eyes. Really, it was a miracle they stayed in his head with the amount of time he spent rolling them, Race reflected. "We done with this touching little love-in?" Sean asked. He headed out the door without waiting for an answer. Race followed slowly, trying to determine if he'd just made their relationship better or worse.
Back at the table, the other boys were digging into steaming plates of pasta. Race slipped into his chair and began to spear his penne, listening to the cheerful babble around him. At the end of the table, Specs, Dutchy, and David were having a loud argument about the changing role of the media in wartime. Race blinked. It was always obvious how smart David was, but sometimes Race forgot that Dutchy and Specs, for all their moony lovey-doveyness and rampant sex drives, were pretty intelligent, too.
Conversation dwindled as the meal went on, and soon the whole table was occupied listening to Jack do dead-on impressions of some the profs. Race chuckled as he listened to Jack's breathy and heavily accented version of Dr. Larkson, the Swedish woman who was head of the theatre arts department, then leaned forward to ask Mush when the fall show was opening. His leg brushed against Sean's – they were seated pretty close together to fit around the smallish table.
"Sorry," he said off-handedly as Mush began to enthuse about the costumes and the great fur-trimmed coat he got to wear in his role as Angel in RENT. Race grinned.
"Mush, sometimes you're just too flamboyant for words," he said.
Mush beamed. "I know. I'm honestly not into wearing the dresses and stuff for the part – "
"Yeah, right," Blink said, ribbing Mush.
" – but the guy who plays Collins is really, really hot. He's a great singer and actor, and he knows a lot about staging and stuff. Also, he's hot."
Race chuckled, then glanced at Sean as he felt their legs brush again. Sean wasn't looking at him.
"What's the performance schedule?" he asked. "I'll come see you."
"Thursday through Sunday, shows at 7:00 and a matinee on Sunday at 2:00," Mush said. "You should come. Swifty's been helping me with my drumming, and I'm getting good. I kick fucking ass on 'Today for You.' "
Blink snorted. Mush looked at him plaintively. "You've heard me practice. Don't you think I kick ass?"
"You're the king of the pickle buckets," Blink said. "Or queen," he added, smirking.
Race grinned, then froze, smile plastered on his face, as he felt it again. Sean's calf rubbed against his, slowly, deliberately, before coming to rest flush against it, his foot cupping the top of Race's.
He felt his eyes widening, and glanced briefly at Sean's face. But Sean didn't look at Race; he simply twirled his fettuccine around his fork and read the wine list as if it were the most interesting document in the world. Anyone who didn't know him would think he looked as innocent and open as a child. But his foot was moving up Race's calf, stroking it in a most unchildlike way, and he had slid over to the edge of his chair so that his thigh was pressed against Race's. A warm tingle followed his foot's path, and Race's thigh was burning where Sean's touched it. He gulped down half his goblet of water and tried to concentrate on his conversation.
"The Mimi we have is really great," Mush was saying. "Our Maureen kinda sucks, but she's kind of a sucky character, so I'm not too worried about it."
The toe of Sean's shoe slipped up Race's ankle and under his pant leg, rubbing above the edge of his sock on his bare skin. He swallowed, and briefly wished that Sean would take his shoe off so he could feel the warmth of Sean's toes through his sock instead of the cool rubber of his sneaker sole. Even so, Race's pants were tightening in a familiar way that had nothing to do with how much he'd eaten.
"So when are you going to come?" Mush asked.
Race's eyes flew to Mush's face, shocked. It took several seconds before he realized that Mush meant when was he going to come to the play, not – uh, anything else.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, praying his voice wouldn't crack. "Um, Friday or Saturday, I guess." He pressed back against the pressure of Sean's foot and slid his own sneaker up so it stroked the back of Sean's calf. Two could play this game.
"The Sunday matinee would be less crowded," Mush said.
Race blinked rapidly, trying to focus on what Mush was saying and not on the heat that was flushing his body; he hoped he wasn't blushing. "Uh, right. Maybe…" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sean's hand slipping off the table and under the tablecloth. He tried not to jump when it came to rest on his thigh.
"Happy birthday to you…" A crowd of singing waiters came over to the table and set a slice of cake with a single candle in front of David. "Happy birthday dear Davey, happy birthday to you!" David alternated between looking thoroughly embarrassed yet shyly pleased and glaring at Jack, who was grinning from ear to ear, clearly the orchestrator of the little surprise. Everyone at the table turned to smile at Dave and wish him a happy birthday, and, to Race's confusion – and slight disappointment – Sean drew his hand and foot away from Race's thigh and leg.
AN: Dum dum dum… okay, so it's a bit of a cliffhanger, but trust me, it was where the story needed to break.
Anyway, I'm back! The splint is gone, my finger is working almost normally, and I'm back from my annual trip to summer camp (my own personal version of HISMSV, but sadly lacking in hot newsies). Now I have a few weeks of freedom left before my next moving/school-starting adventure AND the next chapter is almost ready, so it should be up in a day or two.
Thanks as always to betas Shannon, Amanda, Purple Rhapsody, and B, and to all you lovely people who've reviewed on and The Refuge. If shout-outs were allowed, I'd write each and every one of you a little note.
