Chapter Twenty-Eight: June, 2001

.

.

"Did you buy flowers?" Simon lolled on Aaron's bed, one ankle hooked over the other and an unlit smoke hanging out of his mouth.

Aaron nabbed the smoke with a smooth sweep of his hand as he turned, the other still expertly knotting his tie. "Smoke in here and I'll make you eat it," he warned his housemate, "Aren't you quitting?"

"I've quit," Simon replied pertly, grabbing one of Aaron's pillows instead and tossing it up to catch it again, endlessly restless. "I'm just proving my willpower. Resisting the temptation to light it, see? You didn't answer my question."

Rolling his eyes, Aaron turned back to the dresser, tugging at his hair. One small bit seemed insistent on flicking up and out, no matter how much of Kate's hair products he tried to use to stick it down. "No, I haven't bought flowers, because I'm not going on a date. I'm going out with a friend."

"Some friend," Kate commented from the doorway, appearing with a comb and a spray bottle. "Stop fidgeting. Are you wearing cologne?" Turning to her, Aaron got a face full of the spray bottle as she drenched his hairline, going at it with the comb, standing on tiptoes to reach. "Are you wearing Simon's cologne?"

"Of course he is, I'm classy," Simon drawled, appearing another smoke from somewhere on his person and resting it on his lip, a smirk curling around it. "And helpful. You should buy flowers."

"It's not a date," Aaron yelped, turning on him and getting a smack from Kate as it messed up whatever she was doing to his hair. "And—wait, is the cologne too much? Should I wash it off? Simon, give me the fucking packet."

"I don't have a packet," Simon lied, right as Kate leaned in and sniffed Aaron's shirtfront loudly, proclaiming, "Well, it's nice cologne—"

"Obviously, I only buy nice cologne."

"—but unless your end goal is taking this gal home, maybe wash it off. Because it's nice cologne, and nothing goes right to the pants like a nice cologne."

"She's right," Simon added in the awkward silence that followed, placing a battered packet of smokes into Aaron's palm; adding three more loose ones from various pockets around his jacket when Aaron frowned. And one more from his belt.

"It's not a date," Aaron repeated, turning that frown on his reflection in the mirror. "I'm meeting up with Spencer for dinner, then we're going to do… something."

The silence deepened. Aaron glanced at Kate, saw her eyebrows up, Simon looking just as surprised.

"Nice restaurant?" he asked slowly, gnawing on another smoke. Aaron sighed and let him go. "Then home to do each other?"

He flushed. He'd never… they'd never… "No," he mumbled, knowing he was red. "He said he has a diner he likes. Greasy burgers, shitty soda, you know. Ice cream that can't legally be called ice cream but 'vanilla'. Not a date. I'm not gay." He added the last almost defensively.

He didn't date. Not… at all. He didn't want to. He'd almost made that mistake once, throwing his heart into the open. Fuck that. And fuck what he'd be opening himself to if he dated men.

Kate tugged his tie. "Maybe lose the suit, then," she suggested quietly, her eyes downcast. "Because greasy diner doesn't really require dressing up, unless you're dressing for the person not the location."

He really didn't want to do that. The suit, this suit, it was… clean. Neat. Meticulous. Some aspect of himself that he had absolute control over. Nothing of the raw, bleeding Aaron from two years ago showed through the pressed cuffs or the simple knot of the tie. Only what he wanted to show.

"You know," Simon said suddenly. His feet thumped loudly on the floor as he sat up, running his fingers through his rakish hair. "This one lady one time, I made these dinner reservations. Fancy joint. No prices on the menus. Tasselly bits on the waiters. Real smick place."

"Did you then 'do her'?" Aaron asked bitterly, still glaring at his reflection. What if he gave Spencer the wrong idea and he ran a mile?

"Not exactly," Simon replied. "She nixed it. Said it was swanky and fake. So I told her 'fine, you pick a place' and she took me to this dive off the side of the highway. Cook was this great cantankerous old woman with knobby fingers and a runny nose, the whole place smelt like burnt fish, and I'm pretty sure the fries were more peanut oil than potato."

They stared at him. "Going somewhere with this story?" Aaron asked finally, as Simon bit down leisurely on the smoke, mulling over his thoughts. "Is this the bit where you go into whatever lewd events the night spiralled into?"

"Oh god no," Simon said, blinking. "I started that date expecting sex, no lie. Then we went to that diner. I ended up dating her for two years; absolutely fucking fell head over heels for this woman in her slinky black dress eating fries with her fingers and licking the grease off. We didn't even sleep together until a month and a half in, I was so scared of cocking it up." Another pause. "Just saying."

"I'm not gay," Aaron repeated, giving up and grabbing his phone, wallet, keys. "And I'm not in love with him. We're friends, hanging out. That's it."

"If you say so." Kate and Simon exchanged a look that Aaron bristled at. Kate twitched her head. Simon sighed. "Want a lift to his place? I'm going out anyway. And you'll get grubby on the metro dressed like that. Or jumped."

Aaron swallowed, pushed the last five minutes out of his mind, and nodded slowly. "Thanks."

It wasn't a date.

Honest.

.


.

The walk to 6K was slow. Aaron paced himself, edging around two women asleep in the stairwell, until he found himself on the grungy floor where Spencer lived.

And stopped.

"Walls so fucking thin in this place you can hear people fucking from three floors up," grumbled a man perched on the window at the end of the hall, leaning out with a cigar and his foot on the fire escape. "But that shits not so bad, really. Least the posh wank knows how to play."

Aaron smiled tightly, nodding in the man's direction, receiving a gappy, yellowed smile in return before the man turned back to his cigar. From the apartment across the hall, music floated through the thin door. Aaron edged closer, knuckles brushing the wood without tapping down. Finally, he knocked, the man's rough cough behind him spurring him on.

The door swung open immediately, releasing the strains of some jazzy keyboard tune that Aaron had absolutely no idea how to quantify further into the hall. Spencer stood on the other side, half-dressed in slacks and a shirt buttoned crookedly, bare footed on the manky carpet with his hair leaving damp trails across the dark purple material of his shoulders.

"Hi," he said breathlessly, rocking up onto his toes and nodding twice, before jerkily stepping back to let him in. Nervous. Something tight in Aaron's chest loosened at this sign of Spencerness, this irrepressible desire to please. "Hi, hi, uh, come in, hello. Uh. Ethan, Aaron's here."

The music paused. Ethan looked up from where he was sitting on the couch with a battered keyboard resting across his knees, fingers darting over to press pause on the stereo playing the backbeat to his music. Long hair loose now like it hadn't been when he was working, his dark eyes were impossible to discern under the shadowed curtain drifting forward.

"Yes, I see that," he said finally, leaning back, one finger tapping on a key and making a repeated note. "Good observation skills, Sherlock. Are you done fluttering now?"

"No." Spencer proved this by 'fluttering' more, bouncing from the door and deeper into the apartment, dancing twitchily back and forth with his gaze sweeping the empty floor. "I can't find my shoes, my socks aren't right, where's my watch and my wallet—"

"You're a hot mess," Ethan grumbled, sliding out from under the keyboard and scooping up an empty whiskey glass as he stood, almost-melted ice clinking wetly in the bottom. "Shoes in the bathroom where you were cleaning them, socks I have no idea get your life together man, watch is in my room because you left it there when you were trying to show me a magic trick with it last night, wallet is—" Aaron stared as Ethan tugged open the broken cupboard to reveal a wallet sitting on top of the instant coffee tin. "—right here, and no, I don't know why."

"Thanks!" Spencer grabbed the wallet and bolted up the hall, shirt loose and flapping around. "Back in a minute!"

Aaron shuffled in, awkward, and pushed the door shut with his heel as Ethan silently poured himself a drink from a label-less bottle of what looked like scotch. "Want one?" Ethan offered suddenly, breaking the quiet as the pipes suddenly banged loudly up the hallway. "If you're half as skitchy as he is, you'll need it." There was nothing in his face that revealed his emotions on the subject, just a quiet blankness as he poured another drink into a Batman mug without waiting for Aaron to reply, and slid it across the table. Aaron took it, choking the finger of scotch down, grateful for the warmth that followed the burn.

"Thanks," he said, nodding. Ethan shrugged, putting his glass down and pouring another generous measure, topping Aaron's up with considerably less. "I haven't eaten yet though. I shouldn't have much, I need a clear head."

Eyebrows lifting, Ethan snorted. "I'm aware. I live with him." His eyes skimmed Aaron's suit. "Which is why I'm recommending drinking that."

The door banged open again, Spencer reappearing—dressed this time, only a shade shy of Aaron's formality, and something low and hungry in Aaron's belly uncurled at the sight of the slim man dressed to the nines with his hair brushed neatly.

"Ready," he breathed, smiling tightly. He glanced at Ethan, back to Aaron, eyes widening at the suit and throat working up and down in a harsh exhale, before his head snapped back to Ethan and the bottle. "Ethan…"

The man turned the bottle on the counter with a scrape of wood, tapping his finger on a neat marker line just below the level of liquor. "I'll leave it on the counter," he said quietly, waving his hand at them. "Now, shoo. Keys on the hook. Have fun, don't talk statistics, if there's a sock on the door when you get back, me and my Yamaha are finally taking it to the next level. Isn't that right, baby?" He touched the keyboard gently, trailing his fingers down the keys in a slow slide before tapping out a quick tune. "Oh, I love you too, darling. Listen to you purr."

Spencer's mouth twitched. "Time to go," he said with a hiss of held back laughter, shambling around Aaron, a careful distance between them, grabbing keys from next to the door and diving out. "Come on!"

The door banged behind them, the bolts drawn moments later.

Aaron followed Spencer down the stairs, heart in his mouth. Here it was. Him and Spence.

Trying again.

.


.

Dinner was… delightful. And a mistake.

Absolutely a mistake.

Simon was right. Aaron sat across from Spencer in a dinky diner that was cleaner than expected, What's New Pussycat playing on a tinny jukebox nearby, and they talked. About everything unimportant: college—Spencer was actually Dr. Reid now, and while not really surprising, it was a weird thought—their respective oddball collections of housemates, music, movies—Lord of the Rings was coming out at the end of the year, and Spencer didn't even stammer as he invited Aaron to watch it with him—work. Spencer talked about working the bar, a startling image to picture, but he was distant with details. He didn't talk about his mom, so Aaron filled the silence with stories about Sean and his medley of various part-time jobs he'd picked up over the years.

And the whole time, Aaron couldn't look away. Didn't want to look away. Not from his friend's fingers shredding a napkin into tiny pieces, his stack of pancake oozing syrup onto the plate in front of him, not from his wide smile, not from his bright eyes. Aaron brought up psychology, a topic he'd taken as an elective the previous semester and found an unexpected love for, and listened hungrily as Spencer delved into tangents and tales and rambled happily on, eyes alive with the type of passion that only came from deeply understanding a topic.

And the years slipped away. Their food went cold, Spencer absently stealing Aaron's fries and dipping them into the globs of syrup on his plate, the ice melting into his soda. He declined a soda or shake, instead drinking from a bottle of water he'd brought in with him. It took three hours to go from stiff strangers to the two boys who'd once built a home on the side of a quarry.

The lights dimmed, the waitresses cleaning up. In unison, they got up to leave, walking close. Close enough their shoulders brushed, their faces flushing. Aaron felt warm, happy, a little unsettled from the greasy food. The warm air outside was a punch to the face, both of them inhaling slowly before walking to the car that Aaron knew wasn't Spencer's—the tiny stuffed miniature Shetland hanging from the rear-view mirror was one clue, as was the fact that the car floor was invisible under enough fast food rubbish, empty envelopes, and half-filled bottles of water that Aaron wasn't even sure what colour the carpeting was.

"Where to now?" Spencer asked, flipping the keys cautiously in his hands, hair frizzing with the humidity. "It's late."

Late, perhaps, but Aaron wasn't ready for the night to end. Wasn't sure he'd ever be ready.

Was pretty sure Spencer felt the same.

There was a rolling boom overhead, startling them both. They looked up, the sky darkening to a deep indigo purple. A violent colour, moving in.

"Storm is about three hours away," Spencer murmured after a moment, leaning against the car, one arm draped on the roof. "Remember when we used to…" He trailed off, and Aaron ached. "Aaron, do you trust me?"

That was a… loaded question. A loaded question with only one answer.

"Yes."

Spencer nodded. "Right." Looked uncertain, then determined. "Okay. You don't have plans after?"

Suspicion began to brew. "Noooo…" he said, trailing off. The humidity pushed down on him. Aaron shivered, despite that heat. "Why?"

Spencer smiled. A cat-like smile, that Aaron couldn't help but grin back at. "Can I borrow your phone? I don't have one."

Of course he didn't.

.


.

TO: UNSAVED NUMBER

HI ETHAN, IT'S SPENCER. DO YOU MIND IF I BORROW YOUR CAR FOR THE NIGHT? I'LL FILL THE TANK FOR YOU. WE'RE HEADING JUST OUT OF TOWN, DON'T ASK WHERE OR AARON WILL SEE WHEN-

.

+1 TO: UNSAVED NUMBER

-I GIVE HIS PHONE BACK. THANKS HEAPS, SORRY TO BE A BOTHER. S.R.

.

UNSAVED NUMBER

KK DNT MAKE A MESS ND DNT CRASH IT. C U TMRW. BRNG HME LNCH

.


.

They stopped once for gas on what turned out to be a two-hour drive south-east of DC.

"Do you want a drink?" Aaron asked, insisting on paying for the drinks since Spencer was paying for gas. Spencer hesitated, fingers tapping on the empty bottle by his side, before nodding cautiously.

"Just water, please," he responded. Aaron watched with interest after as his friend fiddled with the cap for an inordinate amount of time, fingers trailing on the seal, before cracking it open and taking a shaky gulp. Expecting some kind of rambling tirade about the quality of bottled water vs. tap, instead there was silence and a hasty twirl of the radio dials.

Aaron didn't ask. Instead, he hummed along loudly with the pop channel filled with boybands that he knew all the words to thanks to work blasting it constantly, occasionally pausing to comment on the scenery. It was a comfortable trip as they drove further into the night, the storm moving overhead, the highway darkening as they turned and bumped instead down unsealed side-roads.

"Where are we?" he questioned, when they finally pulled up in a scrubby parking lot made for about three cars, clearly only used occasionally. Tufts of wiry sea-grass poked up through the cracked asphalt, and when Spencer opened his door and climbed out, the air was thick with salt. Aaron followed, shedding his suit jacket at the cocky grin Spencer shot back, disappearing down a winding path.

The path narrowed, thinned, becoming more like a deer-trail than a track. The ground underfoot turned from packed earth to sand, shifting under Aaron's shoes. Finally, it broadened, suddenly widening into an open bay with water only slightly swayed by the brisk wind, the sky a dome of blue-black overhead. A white beach swept from side-to-side, a half-hearted attempt at a pier jutting out rudely into the quiet bay. Outside the bay, the waves crashed against the breakwater, the storm throwing them about carelessly.

"Point Lookout is just over there," Spencer said, pointing towards the thin light of a lighthouse up the bay, around the inlet. "Found this when I came down to the museum one weekend with Ethan. He's fascinated by Civil War relics, drags me half around the country when we're on break."

It was gorgeous. The sand, the water, the sky. Lightning slashed across the clouds, forking, lightning it all up with a brilliant flash of white and throwing Spencer into harsh relief against the black ocean. From here, they could see rain moving towards them; a solid wall of white and grey. "Why?" he murmured. "Why here?"

Spencer shrugged. "Thought we could watch the storm together," he suggested, dancing back and forth on both feet. "It's… well, statistically, we're unlikely to be in danger from lightning strikes, but… there's a risk." He looked to the pier. "It would be stunning from out there though."

Aaron grinned. Stepped forward. Remembered another storm, a shaking fence. Another risk. Held out his hand. Spencer baulked and looked at it, brow furrowed in thought or in confusion. Right then, the storm hit, lashing the water with curtains of rain, swirling around them. Drenched instantly. "Don't worry," he shouted over the downpour, and felt a hand slip into his, squeeze once, release. A beginning. "I'll keep you safe."

They walked into the storm together.

.


.

Aaron woke with the weak morning sun filtering through the car window. He sat up, pulled a face at the dry-hot taste in his mouth, and scrunched his face against the lingering sleep and the bright light.

A shadow moved across the windscreen. Spencer, leaning against the hood. They'd had to wait to dry once the storm had moved away, eventually shedding clothes and leaving them across the hood to avoid the car smelling like damp. Oddly, Aaron had found that time hadn't changed his reticence to undress in front of others, despite it being a long time since he'd had anything to hide. Spencer hadn't even hesitated, completely unconcerned by sitting in his boxers complaining about sand borne pathogens and his distaste for beaches, as a general rule.

There was a towel around his shoulders now, his shirt in his hands. "Still damp," he said, looking up as Aaron opened the door and leaned out. "We can wait an hour before we head back, if you'd rather not rush it."

His head ached slightly from a late night and too little sleep, his mouth tasted gross, the water he choked down was tepid, Spencer's shoulders were red and slightly freckled from the sun…

Aaron didn't want to go home. They hadn't touched beyond their hands. They hadn't even talked about it, a careful distance between them. Friends, hung between them, and they were determined to stick to that plan.

But neither was stupid. The light from the car interior hadn't lit much in that frozen storm-drenched dawn, but it had lit enough for both men to be vividly aware of just how much they wanted the other. Wet boxers hid nothing.

"I have an idea for filling the time," he said, standing and pushing back the temptation to wince as Spencer's eyes skated over his chest and torso. He worked out, he boxed, his body was fine. No bruises to hide anymore, he reminded himself, squaring his shoulders, ignoring the sneaky pleasure at the man's eyes on him, ignoring the queer jolt-shock of his dick twitching with interest between his legs. Hunching slightly over the car door to hide it from that hazel gaze. Ignore it. Ignore, ignore, ignore. This isn't a date. Just us kids being… kids. Being reckless. "Water is calm."

Narrowed eyes met his. "And?" Spencer murmured.

He shrugged. Looked nonchalant. Checked his phone, replied quickly to the where u ? message Simon had sent. "Well," he said, finally, when Spencer looked like he was about to burst from waiting, "we never did finish teaching you to swim."