Disclaimer: All your Newsies are belong to Disney.
It was clean. It was sleek. It was fast. It was state-of-the-art, and as such, it was expensive.
It was, as far as Dutchy was concerned, a very large paperweight.
"Specs, it doesn't work," he told his friend over the phone, voice edging dangerously close to a whine.
"Did you turn it on?" Specs asked, sounding exasperated.
Dutchy rolled his eyes, then remembered that the other boy couldn't see him. "Yes, James, I turned it on. I'm not that computer illiterate."
"Just checking." Specs said. If he noticed the use of his real name, as opposed to the nicknames they'd given each other back in kindergarten, when nicknames were cool, he ignored it. "Then what's wrong? Blue screen of death?"
"No. Just the desktop and an error message."
"What message?"
"Um." Dutchy adjusted his glasses, which were slipping down his nose, and squinted at the screen. "'Serious error: file name cannot be found.'"
Specs sighed in an explosion of static. "I'm afraid to ask," he said. "I'll be there in a few."
Dutchy hung up the phone, then drummed his fingers against his desk. His parents had gotten him this computer, not realizing--or not caring--that he'd have preferred a new easel. He could barely use the thing, and anyway, most electronic things went haywire around him. There was a reason he didn't even have a CD player. He glared at the offending screen. In fact, the only reason he hadn't already dipped the machine in paint and dropped it off the roof onto a canvas ('Death of the Future', he could call it. New-Age-y, interpretive art: like the empty calories of the artists' world) was because he'd heard good things about computer animation and colouring. Except, of course, for the fact that he couldn't use it.
Specs, on the other hand, was pretty much the school's version of Bill Gates. Anyone with a computer problem--including the teachers--tracked down the dark-haired boy for an answer. Dutchy had little doubt that Specs already had projects from other people sitting on his own computer desk, but by dint of being friends since approximately birth, Dutchy got a pass to the head of the line.
True to his word, Specs bounded up the stairs and into Dutchy's room about five minutes later. "All right, what did you do?" Not waiting for an answer, he leaned over Dutchy, examining the screen.
After a few minutes of muttering and key-tapping, Dutchy asked, "Do you want me to move?" The brunet was half-leaning against him, hunched over and twisted into had to be an uncomfortable position to avoid having the arm of the computer chair digging into his stomach.
"Hm?" Specs turned his head--Dutchy winced inwardly, but the other boy was obviously more flexible than he looked. That, or he'd long ago lost all the tendons in his neck--startled out of his thoughts. "Oh. Naw, this is okay."
"All right." Dutchy settled back, resting his head against Specs' chest, listening to the peaceful beat of his heart. He liked spending time like this with Specs, when they were on their own. At school, they had their own separate circles, and art kids, it seemed, only talking to the computer geeks under extreme circumstances. It sucked, really. And whenever they tried to meet up after school or on weekends or holidays, something came up. In fact, they really didn't see each other as much as they used to, Dutchy mused with a pang of regret as he breathed in Specs' scent, a mix of soap and dust. College applications had to be filled out, studies suddenly became more important than ever as scholarships were discovered, and any spare time left was devoted to part-time jobs in an attempt to make up the rest of tuition. Under the weight of the future, even long-standing friendships started to crack.
"Aha!" Specs cried triumphantly, causing Dutchy to jump guilty. "There." He pointed to something on the screen. "You didn't give a name to this file, so the system had no way of tagging it. You need meaningful file names, Dutch," he added, straightening and trying to relieve the cramp in his back.
"Oh," the blond boy replied, spinning his chair around to face his friend. "Well, thanks, Specs," he said, trying to keep the wistfulness out of his voice. Solving the problem hadn't taken as long as he'd thought it would. "I should pay you or something, for all this hassle…" It was traditional that he offer to pay, the way the rest of the world had to, for Specs' services, and just as traditional that Specs wave his offer off.
This time, however, Specs tilted his head. "All right," he said. "I think I know what I should charge you."
Dutchy blinked, confused. "Huh? But---" he started, but was cut off when the other boy leaned in, braced his hands on the armrests of Dutchy's chair and pressed his lips against Dutchy's.
After far too short a time, he pulled back, blinking rapidly and blushing. "Sorry," he said quickly, turning to go. "I just--I mean, I--" He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and ran his fingers through his hair distractedly, making it stick up. Dutchy could only stare in shock. Specs was never at a loss for words, at least not that he'd ever seen. "I'll just leave," the dark-haired boy said finally. "I just…missed you," he added in a voice barely above a whisper.
As Specs walked through the doorway, Dutchy shook off the paralysis that had gripped him when Specs kissed him. He jumped out of his chair, grabbing the brunet's wrist. "Specs, hang on. You don't have to--I missed you to. And, I--I mean, it's--" There was a reason Dutchy was an artist, not a writer. Giving up on fumbling words, he reached up with his free hand, resting it on the back of the other boy's neck and pulling him in for a kiss that lasted much longer than their first.
And somewhere in the back of Dutchy's mind, underneath the fireworks and the sound of blood rushing past his eardrums and the feel of Specs' mouth on his, he couldn't help but be glad that he'd spent almost three hours sabotaging his computer.