They spent the rest of his time there like that.
Larry let himself relax fully against her, resting his cheek against the center of her chest. The steady rise and fall of her breaths, the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat — he could hear it all. And damn, her heart was pounding. Knowing he was the reason for it made something warm and smug curl in his chest, the kind of feeling that made him want to kick his feet like a giddy little kid. She was so flustered.
Not that he was any better.
Because yeah, he was very aware of where his face was. It had him fighting the urge to squirm. He should probably move. Probably. But she didn't seem to mind, and honestly? He really, really didn't want to.
Especially not when she started touching his hair.
One hand pressed warmly against his back while the other slid up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair in slow, lazy motions. She scratched lightly at his scalp, playing with the strands in a way that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. He could've melted into her right then and there, could've fallen asleep all over again with how nice it felt.
But then he heard the doorknob turning and he barely had a second to process it before sheer instinct took over, sending him scrambling off of her like his life depended on it. He moved so fast he nearly smacked his head against the wall, barely managing to catch himself before he went tumbling off the bed entirely.
Penguin, still lying there, had both hands frozen midair where she'd been holding him, fingers curled slightly like she was trying to grasp something. She blinked at him, then at the empty space where he'd just been, her face shifting into something hilariously confused.
Then he looked toward the door.
Her mom stood in the doorway, squinting at them.
Her gaze flicked from him to Penguin, then back again. Then, with the kind of slow deliberation only a mother could master, she tilted her head just enough to look down her nose at him. He did the only thing he could think of — he slapped on the most innocent, not-at-all-guilty smile he could muster.
She didn't look impressed.
Her attention shifted to Penguin, who had finally lowered her hands and given a small wave, like that would somehow smooth things over. Her mom's gaze lingered, unimpressed. Then, after one last look at Larry, she exhaled sharply through her nose, shook her head, and left, pulling the door shut behind her.
After that heart-stopping interaction, he decided it was probably time to go before he actually gave her mom a reason to be suspicious.
They cleaned up their supplies, carefully tucking the poster away where it wouldn't get bent, dirtied, or gnawed on by any of the cats. He didn't doubt that one of them — probably Layla — would try to make a bed out of it if given the chance. The whole time, Penguin kept glancing at him, amused, like she was waiting for him to say something about what had just happened. He refused. Absolutely refused to acknowledge it. If he didn't say anything, then maybe he could pretend it hadn't happened at all.
Once everything was put away, they ended up back on her bed, talking about what would happen for prom.
They settled on him picking her up around 6:30, since prom started at 7. Sounded simple enough. When he said it out loud, she huffed and nudged his side, teasing that driving her was the least he could do after asking her so late.
She wasn't wrong. It was an impulsive decision, but not one he regretted. The only thing that made him feel a little bad was knowing she was nervous about what she was going to wear. He hadn't really thought about that part when he blurted out the invitation. Prom wasn't the kind of thing you just threw together last minute, especially when it came to dresses or whatever girls had to figure out.
So he just bumped her shoulder in return, grumbling that it wasn't that late and that she was lucky he had the best timing ever. She rolled her eyes, muttering something about how 'lucky' wasn't the word she'd use, but he caught the little smile she tried to hide.
That was enough to keep the guilt from settling in too deep.
After that, he packed up the rest of his stuff, shoving a few of his extra brushes into his backpack and making sure he had everything before they headed outside.
She walked him to his truck like always, falling into step beside him easily. The night air was cool, carrying the distant hum of crickets and the occasional sound of a car passing through the neighborhood. It was quiet. Comfortable. And when they reached his truck, she leaned in and did that little semi-kiss thing she always did.
And, yeah. He was maybe a tiny bit disappointed she didn't just go ahead and kiss his cheek again like last time. But he wasn't about to say that out loud.
He climbed into the driver's seat, waiting until she stepped back before turning on the engine. She gave him a little wave, and he lifted a hand in return before pulling out of the driveway.
The drive back to the apartments wasn't long, but it gave him just enough time to start stewing over something important — what the hell was he going to wear to prom?
He tried to picture his closet. Failed. He knew he had band shirts. A couple pairs of jeans. Three pairs of shoes, tops — including the boots on his feet right now. Maybe two hoodies? And that was about where his memory ran out.
Did he even own a suit?
Shit.
Half the stuff in his closet had probably been shoved in there and forgotten months ago. He really didn't want to go digging just to find out he didn't have one, but he also really didn't want to have to buy one either. And it's not like he had the money to buy one so close to prom.
And that's when the worst possible solution came to mind.
He could ask his mom.
The thought made him grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
He really didn't want to. She was going to gasp. And celebrate. And tease him relentlessly. She would never let him forget it. But if anyone knew where to find something buried in their apartment, it was her.
So.
He supposed he didn't have a choice.
So now there he was, doing little jumps on the balls of his feet in front of their apartment door, trying to psych himself up.
The basement hallway was desolate at this hour — not that it was even that late, but still. The quiet made it feel later than it was. Whatever. That just meant nobody was around to see him bouncing like an idiot, shaking out his hands like he was about to step into a boxing ring.
With one last inhale, he shoved the nerves down and opened the door.
The first thing he noticed was the sound of running water from the kitchen, followed by the harsh, rhythmic scrape of metal against metal. His mom was probably scrubbing at a pan like it had personally wronged her, the steel wool rasping against the surface in a way that always made his teeth itch.
Good. She was busy.
Grabbing at any excuse to stall, he veered straight to his room. He dumped his backpack onto his beanbag with a heavy thump, then shucked off his jacket, the little metal spikes on the shoulders clattering against the dresser as he tossed it aside. He exhaled sharply, rolling out his shoulders, shaking out his hands — watching the way his cuffs and bracelet jostled with the movement.
Alright. That was enough avoidance. Time to face the music.
"Ma'?" he called, making his way toward the kitchen.
The moment he stepped past the edge of the kitchen, though, he felt like a little kid again. Like he was seven years old, standing in her doorway in the middle of the night, trying to work up the courage to tell her he threw up.
Lisa stopped scrubbing, looking up at him curiously, suds still clinging to the pan in her hands.
"What's wrong, Lar-Bear?" she asked, head tilting. "You look like you're about to sign a deal with the devil."
He might as well be.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets like that might somehow make him look more casual, he cleared his throat.
"Do you know if I have a suit somewhere? That I can use?"
She narrowed her eyes at him immediately. "A suit…?"
"A suit."
"For…?"
"…Prom."
"Prom…" she repeated slowly, drawing out the word like she was rolling it around in her mouth, testing it. Already, he could feel his ears heating up.
"Did you remember now, or…?"
"I, ah… I decided to go now…?" he admitted, voice dropping in volume like that might somehow make this conversation less painful.
"Now?"
Lisa gawked at him a little, giving him a look before turning back to the pan, scrubbing at it furiously — but still keeping her eyes on him. He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass.
"Chico," she started, tone careful, measured, like she was trying not to laugh at him, "don't take this the wrong way, I'm happy you want to go, but… you need time to prepare for prom. What could've possessed you to buy the tickets now?"
Ohhh no.
He wasn't prepared for this. He was prepared for her to ask why he needed a suit, sure. Maybe for her to just nod and tell him where to find it. But her asking why he decided to go at the last second? This was a trap.
Because if he told her the truth — if he admitted he'd asked Penguin to go with him — she was going to be completely unbearable. All teases and cooing and dramatic hand-fluttering, going on and on about how her baby boy finally asked out the girl he's been all moony-eyed over.
He felt like a man standing at the edge of a canyon, pebbles already slipping beneath his feet, knowing damn well there was no way to step back.
His mouth went dry. His brain scrambled for an excuse.
Nothing came.
Shit.
Larry's silence stretched a second too long.
He needed a suit. His mom knew where everything was. There was no getting around this.
Shit.
His hands curled into fists in his pockets as he braced himself. His voice came out stiff, forced, but there was no avoiding it.
"I asked her to come with me."
For a split second, Lisa just stared at him. Then she gasped, loud and delighted, and the pan clattered from her hands into the sink.
He jerked forward, arms twitching up as if he could somehow catch it before it hit the metal basin. "Ma'!"
His mom did not care.
Before he could even think to retreat, she was already grabbing his face with wet, soapy hands, squishing his cheeks between her palms.
"Ay, Lar-Bear!" she cooed, shaking his head side to side just slightly, eyes shining with glee. "You finally asked her! Finally! I was waiting for you to— oh, mijo!"
Larry's face burned. "Ma'—"
"My baby's growing up!" She ignored him completely, pinching at his cheeks, beaming at him like he'd just won the damn lottery. "You asked her to prom! Prom!"
He groaned, hands gripping her wrists in a weak attempt to pry her off. "Ma', please—"
"Oh, oh— tell me everything!" Lisa continued, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, shaking his face once more before finally letting him go only to grab his arms instead. "When did you ask? What did she say? Was she excited?"
He knew this was going to happen. He knew. And yet, somehow, he was still wildly unprepared for it.
"I bought the tickets today, and I asked her today after we woke up," he blurts out, words tumbling over each other before she can interrupt again — not that it really matters.
Because his mom's brows immediately pinch together.
"'Woke up'?"
He freezes.
"Uh," he starts, his brain stalling like a rusted-out engine. "After… After we work a bit, she makes us food, and we take a nap…?"
It's technically not a lie.
Lisa's expression shifts, her confusion sharpening into something far more interested.
Larry does not like that look.
He absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, tell her that they cuddle when they nap. That would be catastrophic. She's already barely holding it together — if she finds that out, she's going to explode into anecdotes and cooing and probably, God forbid, start planning their engagement.
Nope. No way. Not happening.
He schools his face into something as blank as he can manage, stuffing his hands back into his pockets, pretending like he doesn't see anything weird about it.
His mom, however, is still looking at him.
"You… go to the house of the girl you like… work on your project together… she makes you food… and then you take a nap?" she says slowly, like she's putting puzzle pieces together right in front of him. Larry shifts on his feet. Uh oh. "She makes you food," she repeats, eyes narrowing, "and then you nap together?"
"Yup," he confirms way too fast, nodding stiffly like that'll help sell it.
She squints harder.
"You're not sleeping together—"
"Nope!" he blurts, voice cracking slightly as his face goes up in flames.
She presses her lips together, clearly holding back a laugh.
Larry, meanwhile, is seconds away from throwing himself into the nearest wall. Please do not go down this conversation train. Please.
She cannot — cannot! — give him another talk about the birds and the bees. He's already been subjected to one of those in his lifetime, and that was one too many. And now that he's older, it would be so much worse.
Oh God.
He is not about to stand here, at seventeen years old, and have his mother explain condoms to him, again.
Absolutely the hell not.
"The suit?" he squeaks, voice higher than he'd like. "Please?"
Lisa hums, looking way too entertained, but — thankfully — she lets go of his arms and turns toward the towel hanging by the sink.
He takes a breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off his lingering mortification. Okay. That wasn't so bad. Could've been worse. Could've been a lot worse. Maybe she's letting it go. Maybe she's decided to be merciful.
He trails after her as she leaves the kitchen, still wary, but she just tosses the towel onto the counter and heads toward the hallway like nothing happened.
"I think there should be something in your closet," she says, tone casual, like she wasn't just squeezing his face and cooing at him a minute ago. "Maybe that old black suit? You never wear it, but I don't throw everything out, you know."
He exhales, relieved. "Cool. Yeah. Let's go check."
They make it all the way into his room and to the closet door. 'Alright. Crisis averted. We're back on track. This is good. This is—'
"You know," his mom starts.
Larry knows. Deep in his bones, in the very core of his being, he knows that he is in danger.
His stomach drops. "Ma'—"
"I'm just saying," she continues, opening the closet and sifting through the mess inside, "it's good to be prepared, you know?"
He dies inside. "Ma'."
A sinking feeling settles in his gut as she shifts some jackets aside, her voice far too innocent, too pointed for this to be a casual remark. He can see where this is going, and he wants to slam the door on that train of thought right now.
Lisa does not care about his feelings right now.
"I mean, it's not like I think you'd do anything reckless—"
"We're not—"
"—but I was seventeen once too, you know?"
"Oh my God."
"Passions run high, hormones get all crazy—"
He slaps his hands over his ears like a child. "I don't need to hear this!"
His mom just grins and keeps sifting through his closet, completely unbothered. "I mean, I could go buy you some—"
"Stop!" He peeks between his fingers in horror. "Don't even finish that sentence!"
"What?" she laughs. "You're my baby boy, I just want you to be safe!"
"I am so safe! I am the safest person alive!" He shouts, voice cracking slightly.
She finally pulls out a dusty suit bag, dusting it off with one hand. "I mean, if you say so…"
Larry lunges for it, snatching it out of her grasp before she can keep going. "Conversation over!"
She just laughs, entirely too amused. "Alright, alright, I'll let you off the hook. I think the pants are in there too, but you'll have to try them on, see if they still fit."
He scowls, draping the bag over his arm. "Not happening while you're in here."
Lisa gives him a knowing look. "What, shy all of a sudden?"
Larry sputters, pointing at the door, because if he tries to form words, he might just combust. And just as he's trying to recover, just as he's finally about to regain control of the situation—
"Anyway. About protection—"
"MA'!"