When it came to Milhouse and Bart, there was hardly a dull moment. You could ask anyone in town about the two and they could tell you about the time they tried to see if they could drive blindfolded and rammed through the front doors of the city bank, or how many times they made Zeil's Truck Stop explode. You could even ask about how they single handily caused the biggest food fight GreasePit had ever seen. Muncie was so scornful of her cousin after that, she banned him and Milhouse from the Concho Bolo for a couple of days. You'd think that would kill their spirit, but they just laughed it off. Water off a duck's back. They had a knack for just not giving a shit when it didn't matter. They also had a knack for being inseparable. Bart Simpson and Milhouse Van Houten were always seen together and were always so loud about it. One's voice was never accompanied without the other chiming along. Constantly joking, constantly laughing, and constantly talking even when there was nothing left to really talk about. Although sometimes on very, very rare occasions, they shut their mouths and enjoy each other's company.
This was one of those moments. It was about 10 p.m. on a Saturday night without a soul on the southbound highway out of Greasepit. A half moon cast a dim light over seemingly endless plains. The only thing you could hear was the Rabble Rouser guzzling outside city limits, leaving behind clouds of exhaust and remnants of classic rock blaring from the radio. This is what Bart liked to do sometimes. After winning the weeknight races, he'd pick up some cheap beer with Milhouse and drive about 15 minutes outside of town to park somewhere in nowhere and just drink. It comes to show you that even local celebrities with burning passions for their hometowns needed to get away from it all, too.
Bart had one hand on the stirring wheel and the other propped on the top of their seats. Milhouse sat in his usual passenger seat, unbothered by Bart's arm behind his head. It was something that happened so often that he never gave it any thought. It felt...natural. And that was it. Their closeness had always felt genuine. From the moment they found each other in the same GED class to Bart inviting Milhouse to look at his first vehicle, to founding Thunderstruck Trucking Co., to now. It's like they've always been old kindred spirits. They had a mutual understanding and never gave a second thought to being as close as they were.
Between the both of them, nothing much was said. And it wasn't a bad thing, in fact, it was pretty comfortable. It's nothing they really thought in depth about when it happened. It felt nice to have only the company of each other do just fine. Nothin' but an open road in the dead of night. Bart slowed down a little and turned right off the highway.
The Rabble Rouser's size and power made it suitable to be an all-terrain vehicle if need be. Milhouse made absolutely sure that the semi was well maintained and would take care of Bart if he were ever in a tight spot. The gravel crunched and popped under the tires as they drove further and further into a big, empty plot of land. Bart liked to drive as far away as possible but to be close enough to where they could still see the highway lights to get back home. He knew what he knew, and unfortunately, that didn't include a good sense of direction. Go figure.
The boys parked and set up a temporary camp. There wasn't anyone around for miles and the night felt pretty calm. It was especially quiet in the country tonight. Bart opened the doors, turned the keys of the vehicle to the second ignition, and turned up the radio so they could hear it while perched on the hood. The crack and fizz of the first two beers cut through their atmosphere, followed by two hands lifting cans overflowing with suds.
"To another flawless victory," Milhouse called to the toast.
"A stupid easy win, if I do say so myself." Bart chimed, clanking his can loosely into Milhouse's. "Ka-boom."
They chugged the cheap alcohol, following with hearty belching. They drank like heathens, and when they were done, they crunched their cans and made a lazy game out of who could throw them the farthest. It never really mattered, but it was fun anyway.
"Man, I'm tellin ya," Bart exclaimed as folded his arms behind his head, "I never get tired of Junior's face when he loses." He lounged his back on the windshield and relaxed. Milhouse swallowed his mouth full of beer so he could properly chime in.
"Yeah, he's all like 'Waah, I'm Danielle "Dani" Fenton. and I'm probably the biggest crybaby sore loser in AALLL of Greasepit.'"
"Ha! 'Probably'? I think you mean that he is, definitely, without a doubt the BIGGEST crybaby sore loser in all of Greasepit. Why, if I didn't like the money so much, I'd keep winnin' just to see him throw a tantrum on the speedway. " Bart finished his second can and threw it accordingly.
Milhouse lifted his can to sip but suddenly remembered something. His face lit up and he chuckled as the words came out.
"Y'know, I think you'd do it for more girls throwing their unmentionables on the track, too, huh?"
The mutt instinctually started laughing hard, slapping his knee and almost spitting his beer all over himself. "I had TOTALLY forgotten about that! From last week? Can you believe that actually happened?!"
"The only thing I can't believe is that it JUST now started happening. The ladies like you, Bart."
"Shoot fire, you know they do if they're throwin' their panties everywhere. I leave 'em all, I guess you could say, Thunderstruck."
Milhouse snorted. "Yeah, you think she'd want you to bring on the thunder?"
"Bless her heart, I bet she does."
Bart and Milhouse had a few secrets about their friendship that they liked to keep between themselves. While they have to keep up being the best role models as possible for the good people and children of Greasepit, the two come with their own vices. The first secret is that they frequently talked dirty and never held back while joking about absolutely filthy things in private. Nothing was safe when they were on a roll. It was something they never grew out of in high school and provided some of the times where they laughed so hard they puked.
They laughed about it for a while; this poor truckstop woman who felt compelled to take off her underwear in front of everyone while cheering for him. She felt inspired enough to throw her gently used g-string in the stadium. They added on and on to it, like if Bart actually kept them as a souvenir to look back on when he's old. Or what part of her body she'd ask for him to sign, or even more crude, what Bart would do to her if she ever convinced him to come to bed. The laughs kept coming and the beers kept going. They were delightfully buzzed and almost through the first case before they eventually calmed down and took a break from immature sex jokes.
Milhouse caught his breath and leaned back on the windshield by Bart. He was halfway through another can and knew his limits before continuing. Bart, as expected, would keep going. He opened another one and sipped from it while looking at the sky. An underrated thing about living in a small town in farming country was that there was very little light pollution at night and the sky seemed massive compared to the flat land. You could get the most out of stargazing from here, which Milhouse suspected Bart liked a lot. Why else would he drive in the middle of nowhere to drink when they could do it from the comfort of their garage?
On the other hand, that's something he loved about Bart. He can be particularly unpredictable and it kept him on his toes. Every day was an adventure and Milhouse wouldn't give it up for the world. He never wanted their shenanigans to end. Otherwise, he would be just a mechanic. Still a damn good mechanic, but not a Thunderstruck Trucking Co. Mechanic. Not Bart's mechanic. Still, it became apparent to him sometimes that he would eventually have to slow down. One of these days, whenever it may come, they'd probably stray away from the racing life. Hell, maybe even start families. It was just something that people do when they get old, he guessed.
"Hey Bart, weird question, but you ever think you'll settle down?"
"What, like with a wife and kids and such?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Milhouse was expecting a boisterous rebuttal, a "Hell no" or a "Hell yeah" at least. Instead, it got quiet. The ferret turned his head to look to his friend, who kept looking up at the sky. Bart's expression was focused; his eyebrows were furrowed as he envisioned Milhouse's question.
"I do not know," he said before glugging the last of his current can. He lazily tossed it on his side of the truck hood, eyes not leaving the stars. "Eventually, I reckon..." His answer was so uncertain to Milhouse. Usually, Bart's decisions were the product of a one track mind, but this made his friend wonder if there was something else he was considering.
"Besides," he continued, back to his normal tone, "what with racing and the company 'n stuff? It's like that's all I need to worry about right now, y'know?"
"Yeah, I getcha. Bart Simpson don't need anyone tying him down."
Bart didn't reply. He grabbed yet another can and began to study the logo haphazardly.
" 'n how about you? You ever think about gettin' yourself a girl one day and havin' a bunch of little Milhouses runnin' around? Picket fence, all that."
Milhouse laughed despite the sudden lump in his throat. It was a subtle thing that always hounded him every time he thought about this kind of stuff. It wasn't that he didn't mind thinking about having a wife in the future. It was more or less about how he never really gathered the courage to tell Bart face to face about his sexuality. He knew it wouldn't change anything between them. From the way they act already, in private and public, he'd think that Bart probably already knew. It was funny though; he trusted Bart more than his own family, but the thought of saying he was bisexual was nerve-wracking for him. He came close many times but always chickened out.
"Ooh, I get it." Bart's words interrupted his friend's train of thought. With a snaggle-toothed grin, the mutt swung an elbow around Milhouse's neck and pulled him close. "Y'already got me, right?"
Another well-kept secret between the two of them is that Bart Simpson, the most prolific individual in Greasepit, couldn't hold his liquor to save his life. He was such a lightweight that two bottles of pale lager could set him off like a firecracker. Lord knows how many times Milhouse had to help a staggering Bart into the garage after these little get-togethers. He couldn't even climb the stairs. And least we forget how many times Bart would shamelessly flirt with anyone around him when he was drunk at the Concho Bolo, including Milhouse. Especially Milhouse. He didn't really mind, he knew to an extent he didn't know what he was doing. Tonight, however, he might as well entertain his friend while they were both hustling through a 12 count case of beer. Milhouse would be lying to himself if he said it wasn't fun to flirt back. After all, he'd been drinking, too.
"Yeah Bart," Milhouse laughed, "you're the ONLY man I need in my life."
Bart snickered, his tongue between his teeth. " Aw c'mon, you really mean that? You ain't gotta be shy with me, Milhouse." His tone was teasing, his words began slurring, and he stank like alcohol.
"When have I EVER been shy with you? I tell you everything. And I'll tell you right now that you're drunk."
"Okay, shoot," Bart said, slapping the metal of the hood underneath them, "If you tell me everythin', riddle me THIS, smarty pants: Why'd you done build me this AMAZIN' vehicle out of the blue like that? All them years ago."
"Uhhh, duh, 'cause you wouldn't tell me what you wanted for your birthday."
"So y' built me the best damn truck I've ever had the pleasure of drivin'? Masterpieces like this don't jus' appear overnight. Wuz yer secret?"
"Well EXCUSE ME for putting my excelling skill set to good use for you, Bart Simpson."
As they play argued, they somehow got closer. Bart was reclining on his side with an arm propped up. Milhouse was just underneath him on his back. They were laughing through it all. Milhouse's eyes flicked up at Bart as he delivered sarcastic comebacks. Bart had a stupid, shit-eating grin on his face. The ferret even felt a hand gently grab his waist. He was so focused on Milhouse and he found himself eating up every second. Every time this happened, he indulged shamelessly in the one on one attention.
"We talk about this every single time you get wasted, what's your deal?"
"Don't be like that, baby, that's not th' only thing."
"Okay, I lied, sometimes you ask me if you can touch my hair, but you know damn well the answer is 'No.' I don't care what we've been drinkin' or how much you lay that sweet talk on me."
"C'moonnnn Darlin'...c'mon baby..." He squeezed his waist and brought himself a little closer. "My lil' monkeywrench."
"You're DRUNK, Bart." Milhouse chuckled, crossing his arms and looking away from him. Bart moved his head so he would be in his line of vision, but Milhouse would look somewhere new every time. If Drunk Bart loved anything, it's when he played hard to get.
"Now wait just a hat pickin' minute, what's a man gotta do t'know yer secrets 'n whatnot? 's been killin' me ever since you first gave me this ol' truck."
"Well, Bart, I guess you're shit out of luck, there's nothing you could do t-"
His words were interrupted by a small, sloppy kiss on the cheek.
Another secret, probably the biggest and most well kept of them all, was that the line between friendship and romance was significantly blurred when they drank. They would flirt and they would make suggestive body language, but it was all fleeting. They had never gotten intimate from it. Nothing so much as a kiss even happened until now. That's what shocked Milhouse the most; they were all talk, but when it came down to the thought of making anything of whatever this was, well, it simply never happened. But Bart finally crossed that line in one second. That's all it took for Milhouse.
There was a pause as they made eye contact. He noticed just how close Bart was to him. Their noses almost touched. Bart's eyes were so focused on Milhouse, and his expression was sleepy-eyed, yet almost expectant. He opened his mouth to say something, but he just laughed to himself before anything could be said. Stupid drunk. The ferret's whiskers perked a little.
"Jeez." Milhouse chuckled. He couldn't help it, he didn't know how else to react. "What's...what's with you?" He intended to use his usual abrasive tone. Instead, what came out of his mouth was soft.
"I, uh..." Bart stumbled these words out while rubbing the back of his neck. His lips curled into a sheepish smile. "Y'know, 'bout all that settlin' down stuff I said earlier...I was kiddin', I didn't mean it."
Milhouse knew that it was probably the result of the many cans of alcohol he'd consumed within the past hour, but he wanted to believe that something he couldn't explain happened within the universe to evoke such a strong emotional response to this. Was he actually causing the Bart Simpson to melt right in front of him? It made Milhouse's tail bristle on end. His stupid little heart did cartwheels in his ribcage.
"Oh yeah? What did you mean?" He found his hand planted on his friend's chest.
Bart bit his lower lip and slid his hand up Milhouse's waist. "I'm drunk."
"Bart, why'd you think I built the Rabble Rouser for you?"
They didn't know if it was the alcohol anymore at this point. With a clear mind, Milhouse would consider his options before making decisions for himself, even if most of them wound him up in trouble anyway. He acted on impulse. He grabbed Bart by the collar of his racer jacket and pulled him in. His breath tasted awful, but he didn't care. He gave his all into that kiss. If they already crossed that bridge, why stop where Bart did?
Force met with force. There was something about the way he kissed back that was unbridled. It was wild and hungry. By the way he grabbed the back of Milhouse's neck, it was even desperate. They were caught in this moment unhinged, and mutually willing to put down any walls for each other. Milhouse pulled Bart fully on top of him. He was grinding against him and he could tell it was working him up. Hands felt everywhere. Cheeks, waists, thighs. Feeling broad chests under orange t-shirts and unfastening the worn out belt of a mechanic. Everything seemed to happen so fast. Bart broke the kiss to suck on Milhouse's neck. His breath hitched and a moan forced itself out of his mouth. It encouraged him to leave bites in between heavy panting and sloppy kisses in his fur.
'This is happening'
The increased heart rate made the alcohol affect his body quickly. Everything was spinning to Milhouse as he felt teeth let go of his neck. He watched Bart prop himself over his body and take off his shirt. The radio seemed louder than it actually was, playing some old southern rock single with a long, crazy solo. He closed his eyes and felt eager fingers unbutton his work uniform and slide his undershirt up. He couldn't help grabbing Bart's fur and breathing his name when he felt him lean down and leave a string of kisses on his chest. This was too much. Next thing he knew, his pants were being unzipped. There was something about Milhouse being unwrapped like this and Bart being over him like that. The way his fingers slid down his boxers and the way he groped him. The way he looked up at him with that snaggle-toothed grin when he jolted at his touch. Milhouse felt so vulnerable to Bart, yet so willing to obey his touch. He felt his waistband tug down. Bart's kisses trailed lower and lower.
No one was prepared for the jarring, overpowering light that invaded the scene from the left. The two flinched and scrambled to find each other within the blinding headlights. They were swearing and shielding their eyes.
The whooping of a police siren and the crackling of an intercom system was heard. A familiar, rutted voice followed:
"Bart Simpson, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA THAT YOU ARE TRESSPASSIN' ON PRIVATE PROPERTY?"
Milhouse was never really an athletic person perse, but ferrets are notoriously nimble. As a kid growing up in Detroit, he and his friends would sneak into abandoned buildings to, for lack of better words, break shit. He was the first person to escape through any cracked doors or broken windows with ease whenever the police came. If he had enough motivation to do it, Milhouse could disappear in seconds. That's why when Sherrif Lisa Simpson suddenly came in the picture, he weaseled his way out from under Bart's weight as soon as he realized it was happening. He hid on the other side of the Rabble Rouser, plopping into the grass below.
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, FUCK, FUCK.
He was still a little dizzy from moving so fast on instinct and it made everything more terrifying. Everything was happening so fast. His anxious tendencies released paranoid thoughts in his head and a cold sweat overcame him. The sheriff just caught them in the fleeting throws of drunk lust. Everyone knows that small towns mean small town gossip. Word's going to go around; Everyone's going to be talking about how hometown hero Bart Simpson and his mechanic were fooling around 15 minutes outside of town. How was this going to affect his reputation? Or even worse, their friendship? He'd have to leave town. He'd never talk to him again. If he'd known it would end up like this, if he'd known, if he'd only known...
A drunk Milhouse with his pants down to his ankles sat against the tire and held his head, trying to stunt the impending anxiety attack. He had to try to fix this, and Bart was in worse condition than him. He focused on the conversation going on behind him.
"Dadgummit, Lisa Simpson! Ya sumbitch, how'ddya find us?" Bart exclaimed with a slur to his words. The creaking of a truck door opening was heard, followed by Lisa Simpson's voice. "Gee, I ain't sure...it was probably from the tire tracks I noticed goin' off Highway 35 onto Private. Property." He slammed his door hard. The jingling of metal was heard, probably either keys or handcuffs.
"Shooooot, them's good tires ain't they, honey? SAY, while yer here, howzabout ya come join in on th' fun!" From the sound of it, Bart rustled in the case of booze.
"Bart Simpson. Are you meanin' to tell me that, not only are you trespassin' on privately owned land, you are also intoxicated while trespassin' on privately owned land?!"
Bart started wheezing. He was laughing harder than he should have been. "Wull when y' say it likethat, of course it sounds BAD. I ain'tno bad dog, sheriff! Don'tchu tattle on me now, okay? In fact, lemme give y'somethin' to tattle about, cmere~"
The vehicle shifted weight. Milhouse assumed that Bart tried to hop off to the best of his ability. Judging from the sound of a body plummeting to the ground, he didn't do a good job catching himself and fell off the hood instead. Bart laughed really hard at that for some reason. At this point, Milhouse had to peek behind the tire to fully grasp what was happening.
It looked like this: Lisa Simpson had stepped out of his vehicle and was standing over Bart, who was shirtless, laying in the dirt, and breathlessly snickering at nothing. The county sheriff seemed dumbfounded and slightly entertained. He massaged his temple. This was almost too easy.
"Bart," he sighed, "I don't know why you're out here in the state you're in, and why you're...indecent, but you cannot stay here. In fact, this is all highly illegal." His hand lingered around the handcuffs on his belt.
Oh boy, this is going to be awkward for everyone. Not only did Milhouse had to act as sober as he could, he also had to pretend nothing remotely sexual happened a few moments ago. He quickly adjusted himself, zipped his pants up, fastened his belt, and fixed his hair in the reflection of the hubcap. The ferret took a deep breath and stepped into view. He squinted through the loudly bright headlights and surveyed the situation up close. Bart looked so pathetic, half naked on the dirt, face down. He was laughing and squirming as Lisa Simpson tried to put handcuffs on him.
"Yer ticklin me!" He gasped
"If you would just hold STILL, I wouldn't be! And I ain't ticklin' you! ... Bart, just HOLD still!"
"Ican'tyerticklinme"
Eventually, Bart dragged his face over and looked up at Milhouse. A huge grin crept onto his blasted face.
"Hey baby, where'd you run offto?"
Oh, Bart.
Milhouse was a pretty good actor, despite being overwhelmed. He explained to Lisa Simpson most of the details: They came out here to celebrate the big win of that night's race and Bart got too carried away. The area wasn't fenced off, so they had no idea that the land was privately owned, which was all true. The usually ornery Sherrif just listened and nodded. He said he was pretty tired from dealing with a situation with Robbie Burgles at Zeil's earlier and didn't feel like dealing with the responsibility that was Drunk Bart. First, he commented on how compliant Milhouse was by himself. Second, he agreed to let Bart off with just $200 fine if they left immediately. Next thing they know, Milhouse's hauling his friend in the back seat of the Rabble Rouser. He was scream singing some miscellaneous Molly Hatchet song through the whole ordeal. There was even one point where Bart grabbed Milhouse and tried to get him on top when he was finally in the back.
"C'mere I wannatasteyouagain" He growled incoherently.
"Lisa Simpson is Right There, are you crazy?" Milhouse whispered coarsely. He was fortunately too slippery for the hindered mutt and escaped his grasp. "I'm taking you home."
It was expected for Bart to be very, very, VERY possessive of the Rabble Rouser, and more importantly, who drove the Rabble Rouser. There came a point in their friendship where he gave Milhouse permission only, and he enunciated ONLY, in extreme emergency situations to drive his baby. Situations that included driving his ass around when he was too intoxicated to stand by himself. It never stopped him from singing his little heart out from the back seat. Lisa Simpson offered to escort them from the property to Auntie Uncle's garage so he could give them the ticket in a more appropriate place. The two semis drove off and headed towards town at a reasonable speed.
Milhouse was stressed. Anxiety was clawing its way back to the front of his mind. Millions of 'what if' scenarios popped in his thought process as the reality of the past hour started hitting him. Will word get out? Would Bart remember this? Did he mean to kiss me back like that? Did Lisa Simpson catch on? Did Bart mean any of that? Why didn't he charge us for littering, too? Does Bart really swing that way? What's the town going to say if gossip happens? Does Bart actually feel anything towards me? Will we have to skip town? Do I ...wait, what am I saying?!
With every hypothetical question, the thought of literally having deeper feelings for his best friend became more intrusive. Milhouse noticed how hard he was gripping the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths. Seven seconds in, seven seconds out. His grip slacked and he allowed himself to loosen up. He had to think through things realistically and rationally.
'It was the alcohol. Plain and simple. It didn't make us think clearly. Bart always flirts whenever he drinks, it doesn't matter who he does it with. He's like, probably the straightest person in all of Greasepit. Probably. It just so happened that I was there and...wait, does that mean he used me? No no no, think Milhouse, he's STUPID drunk and doesn't know what he's doing. He didn't know...he couldn't have known? Could Lisa Simpson have known? If he did, he thinks we're...I mean I'm...but Bart's not...I would never...this isn't working.'
Seven more seconds of deep breathing. Milhouse just tried his best to ignore his frantic thought process at this point. He had to focus on the road until they got home. The rumble of the engine lulled Bart into a drunken slumber over time and it felt like forever until they reached Greasepit city limits.
The heavy, blacked out body of Bart hit the hand-me-down sofa. As expected, he was unphased. He was even snoring a little. Milhouse caught his breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Jesus Christ, he does NOT look that heavy. He took a moment to look around the garage they carved out for themselves. Vintage ads printed on tin adorned the walls, along with old license plates and trophy shelves. His eyes circled around until they met his shirtless friend again. He caught himself riding another wave of anxiety, so he promptly left to meet Lisa Simpson outside.
It was calm and windless outside, which was very uncomfortable to Milhouse, who stood in awkward and deafening silence alone with the county sheriff. He rubbed his arm and looked around as the sound of the pen writing the fine took the place of dialogue between them.
'Alrighty then," Lisa Simpson eventually said, ripping the pink piece of paper from the pad. "Tell Thunderstruck that he has about 10 days to pay this to the county clerk's office." He promptly handed it to the ferret.
"Uh, y-yeah..." Milhouse couldn't bring himself to say anything else. He gingerly took it without making much eye contact. Lisa Simpson could have left, but he stayed there for a few seconds, thumbs shoved in his belt and shifting his weight on his feet. The silence was even louder than ever. Milhouse fidgeted with the paper and read the same few words over and over on it. He could feel the sheriff visually searching him. The officer cleared his throat.
"Listen, I uh..." Lisa Simpson said, voice low and stern. "I don't particularly care about, uh...what folks do behind closed doors."
Milhouse clenched the ticket in his hands.
" 's none of my business. It ain't anyone's business, that's what I think. Now, what is my business 's when y'all are trespassin' on other's land and whatnot. Don't let me catch y'all out there again, y'hear?"
Milhouse couldn't say anything. He just nodded promptly. Lisa Simpson stayed for a beat, studying him before tipping his hat and walking bow-legged to his vehicle. So much for worrying about if Lisa Simpson saw them or not, because chances are, he probably saw his junk illuminated by his irrationally bright headlights.
God, what a stupid night. Milhouse closed and locked the garage doors, afterward throwing the keys and ticket on a nearby tool chest. He yawned and rubbed his neck. The rubbing caused him to wince at the sore spot where Bart sucked on his neck. Oh yeah, that happened, huh? Snoring and stirring on the couch caught Milhouse's attention. He sighed and took this moment to live in the present. Bart's blacked out on the couch, but he was safe and sound. He was probably going to have a nasty hangover in the morning. He might even throw up. Don't people throw up while they're unconscious? You know, that's how Jimi Hendrix...uh...
Taking a moment to flip Bart over eased Milhouse's nerves for a second. "Jeez, why do I scare myself like that?" he muttered to himself.
Exhausted emotionally and physically, the ferret climbed up to the loft and took the liberty to strip to his underwear before burrowing in bed. He couldn't help the intrusive flashbacks as he took off his clothes. He kept picturing the way Bart took them off earlier. He kept remembering the smell of his musk mixed with his cologne. It was so strong on his neck.
Milhouse turned off the lights and slipped into his familiar bottom bunk.
The taste of amber beer on Bart's tongue was still so fresh. He breathed so hard in his ear and, God, it was so hot. It felt amazing that, despite being sloppy drunk, Bart held and touched him deliberately. It was like he knew exactly where to go on his body. All of these would have been fleeting fantasies on any other night, but they had been tangible.
One moment that had resonated with him was right before they became intimate. More specifically, Bart's stupid face. His expression after kissing his cheek and how genuinely coy and flabberghasted he looked. The way he flashed that dumb smile before looking off, lost in his own thoughts of what he had just done. How his stupid, dumb eyes looked compared to the stupid, dumb, idiot moon. Milhouse covered his face as he felt it get hot. He was so embarrassed in himself for feeling this way about it. He was over that stupid, dumb, idiot moon.
The point was that Bart never looked that way. The confident, over zealous racer stopped in his tracks and tripped over himself over someone that wasn't...well, him? Unheard of! Though somehow, Milhouse felt like he did that. No wonder he was lingering on that moment. He allowed himself to indulge in that for a moment. How they could make each other feel like this all the time. Milhouse ran his fingers over the sensitive area on his neck. A small, satisfied smile crept on his face. If only...
If only...
"Why am I so stupid?!" Milhouse thought to himself. "So impulsively, stupidly stupid. How am I going to explain this to him tomorrow without it getting weird? 'Haha, hey funny story but remember last night when we made out and you shoved your hand down my pants? Crazy, right?'" He wrinkled his nose and shook his head.
He mentally fought with himself for another hour, trying to overcome the deep-rooted fear of abandonment from Bart, given he didn't want to hear about what happened. Slow blinking, tired eyes gazed at the geometry of the top bunk above him. In the end, he knew that he needed to be true to Bart and to himself. He needed to come to terms with his feelings towards his closest friend, but he also needed to come to terms with the very real possibility that Bart would reject or dismiss those feelings. Besides, he was under the influence. Ugh. He would feel so shitty if it came down to that.
So it all came down to tomorrow. If Bart had questions, he would answer them truthfully and as carefully as he could. He knew that he was going to be confused, but that's something the both of them will have in common at least.
"Milhouse?"
A weak call from downstairs conjured the ferret from his sleep. Milhouse pried his eyes open, groaned in an attempt to reply, and closed them again. He had been up all night in a fit of restless insomnia. It was a miracle that his body finally allowed him to sleep after hours of tossing, turning, and playing mindless smartphone games in an attempt to soothe the racing thoughts. Despite being the source of his anxiety, a sleep deprived Milhouse couldn't even be fucked with his friend's inevitable awakening. After all, the pillow he was spooning was soooo comfortable.
"Milhouse...? You here, man?"
The more Bart called, the more pathetic he sounded. It was enough to finally coax Milhouse out of his short slumber. He haphazardly felt around for his phone as the mild hangover slowly embraced him. He groaned at the glaring brightness of his screen and squinted to read the time. 10 a.m.? Is that what it said? Good Lord.
The creaking of someone slowly climbing to the loft caught his attention. Milhouse rolled over to face Bart's lumbering presence and took a moment to take it in. Bless his heart. He was disheveled and had somehow taken off his shirt during the night. He was rubbing his face roughly in an attempt to ease the relentless headache he was probably experiencing. Regardless, the sight of him flipped a switch inside of Milhouse. The feeling of anxiety rained over his body as he started remembering where his thoughts left off. And even so, after thinking about how to go about this interaction, he had no idea what to say. Where would he even start? It was too early for this to be happening. If only he had a few more hours to think about it, maybe even rehearse...
"Hey. Scoot over." Bart mumbled, collapsing on the bottom bunk next to Milhouse. Nope, this is apparently happening now.
He watched his best friend sprawl to his comfort level beside him, spreading his legs and covering his eyes with his forearm in an attempt to block out whatever light was in the room. The situation wasn't too unusual of Bart; whenever he felt even the least bit sick, he'll try to be as close as possible to whoever's around. Muncie said he was always like this as a kid and it's something he never really outgrew, from the flu to the common cold. She would tease Bart about it every time she heard him sniffling or sneezing. He would deny it every time, but Milhouse could see that it was true. It was subtle, but he noticed. How couldn't he? Even now while reflecting on how to talk about last night, Milhouse found himself comforted by the habit. It was the validation of having him physically close that convinced the ferret to start talking, even if it was small.
"You look like shit, dude."
Bart stifled a small laugh. "Y'know, for once I believe you?" He rubbed his eyes hard, dragged his fingers down his face, and groaned. "We don't have anymore of that, uh...what's it called...the hurty-go-bye-bye juice?"
Milhouse thought for a second.
"...Alka-Seltzer?"
"Yeah, that. We ain't have any more."
"I don't think we ever bought any in the first place, Bart."
"Dagnabit, Past Bart." The mutt sighed to himself "Curse you and your indifference for over-the-counter pharmaceuticals and such."
"We should really pick some up next time we hit up Zeil's."
Bart shifted his feet and groaned in agreement. He opened his eyes and slowly looked around the loft. It wasn't as bright for 10 a.m. and they had the monsoon season to thank for that. It was pouring outside the garage, creating the ambient noise of rain hitting the tin roof. Of all days to have a hangover, the timing couldn't have been better for feeling like a sack of hot garbage around the house. Bart closed his eyes again.
"How much did I drink last night?"
Milhouse perked at the question, feeling a dull pang of anxiety. Still, he tried to play it cool. He could do this.
"You know it doesn't take much for you, Bart." He quipped, laughing a little as he felt Bart's fist playfully hit his arm.
"Cut it out, man," Bart smirked "I'm serious. Ain't you hungover?"
"Well, yeah but I, uh..." Milhouse shifted in his spot on the bed, rolling to face the ceiling of the top bunk. He kept his arms close to his chest and fiddled with his fingers for comfort. "I didn't drink as much as you did, Bart."
Bart chuckled. Though Milhouse couldn't see him, he could hear his smile through a tired voice.
"Did I hit a new chuggin' record or something? Do you remember?"
Milhouse paused.
"Don't you remember?"
"I dunno, thinkin's too hard right now. Refresh my memory?"
Milhouse couldn't help but feel what he was trying to suppress start to boil over. Did he really black out? How could you forget something like that? Especially when it meant so much to...well...
The ferret chewed on his cheek and took a deep breath.
"Well, um...we started annihilating cases of beer and, uh...Lisa Simpson came in and-"
"Shoot, I missed out on Lisa Simpson? Did he try to drive us outta town again? Did he try to handcuff us, or maybe..."
Though hungover, Bart picked up on the long silence. He glanced over to his closest friend, who was looking up at the ceiling with emotion in his eyes that he couldn't explain or analyze. He was feeling the fur on his neck. His hair, which was always so well groomed, was frayed and breaking away from the hair sprayed Pompadour.
"Bart, do you really not remember anything from last night?"
Milhouse was searching for anything, absolutely anything, to validate the way his friend looked at him in that moment. He waited with baited breath in hopes that maybe he would remember what he did and tell him how he felt while doing it. He hoped it was genuine and that his feelings weren't a product of a fleeting impulse.
"Let's see..." Bart tried to wet his tongue in an already dry mouth. "I remember talkin' about settlin' down and...and...shoot."
The more he thought, the foggier his memory became. It was something that was beyond his control and it frustrated him. He knew something happened. Was it good? Bad? He tried hard, despite how impossible it felt to focus let alone on specific details. He shook his head and rubbed his muzzle. Bart looked to Milhouse for answers, but instead found a distraught expression and a glossy pair of eyes searching the wall beside the bed. He didn't know how to respond, but he couldn't just sit there.
"Did I do somethin' stupid?" Bart asked, turning over to face his friend.
"Well, no...I mean..." Milhouse was having a hard time swallowing the inevitable reality of the situation. He knew he just needed to say it already. He knew he had to if he wanted closure, even if it was the kind he feared. The kind that kept him up last night. He was still scared, even if he was so close to saying it. His voice wavered.
"You know how you get when you're drunk...right?" Milhouse said.
The rain pattering against the window took up the space of conversation. It was excruciating as Milhouse anticipated a response.
"Milhouse," Bart said softly above a whisper "I didn't...I didn't hurt you, did I?"
When Milhouse rolled over, he met with Bart face to face for the first time. He didn't plan to be this close to his chest, yet here they were. He could feel the radiating warmth of his body and the sensation of Bart's exhale on his fur from this distance. The flashbacks raced back as his heart pounded. They hadn't been this close since that moment.
"No, of course not."
Milhouse caught himself hung on meeting his gaze.
"W-we just.."
The voice screaming inside Milhouse to confess was loud, but the thought of rejection was ultimately louder.
"Um..."
How bad do you want this, Milhouse?
"I remember lookin' at you."
Bart's voice sliced through Milhouse's muddled thoughts.
"W-what?"
"Just now, by lookin' at you, you reminded me. I remember it bein' dark, but I could see you drinkin' beer and laughin' at something. I remember talkin' about the Rabble Rouser and you looked really happy. 'N your hair looked really good last night...and you smelled good? And..."
There it was again. Bart scratched the back of his neck and laughed nervously to himself, sorting through this embarrassing newfound memory. Little did he know, Milhouse was desperately hanging on every word.
"This sounds stupid but... I remember you lookin' at me too and I remember thinkin' how much I really, uh...love you, man."
Milhouse felt his heart about to burst through his chest. It was no longer just a speculation when he noticed how close they were. A finger slightly brushed against Bart's knuckle. Their mutual gaze was unbreakable.
"Bart, last night we kissed."
"I was about to get to that part." Bart chuckled.
A shaky white paw was stabilized by the touch of Bart's. Milhouse hoped to God that Bart couldn't feel how hard his heart was pounding as their chests touched. He felt the warmth of a paw holding his waist.
"Y-you remember now?"
"'I guess so."
Their whiskers crossed.
"Do you remember what happened next?"
Bart wet his lips a little and gave a small grin.
"Refresh my memory?"
When they kissed again, it made Milhouse's fur stand up on end. He absolutely melted as he delved into this moment, something he wished would come true in the back of his mind. It's happening, and this time inebriation isn't the cause. Though gentle at first, the ferret didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around the mutt's neck, pushing himself closer. His efforts were met with Bart's arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him in as he rolled on top. Milhouse couldn't begin to describe this explosion swelling and pouring from his heart. His body shook as Bart kissed his tears away. He couldn't tame his smile even if he tried. Their secrets were out.