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Charlie is the first to start the music but the last to join the band. It’s mostly because he’s always fidgeting—use that energy on the field, Charles, his mom says constantly—not because he was trying to start an impromptu jam session in detention, or a band, or a revolution. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be paying attention.
Wen is cheering when the coin lands heads up, is out of his seat and next to Charlie and hugging him with barely a beat in between. Wen, Charlie is learning, is very tactile. He smells differently than Charlie would expect from someone who shows up to school in a flannel with the buttons improperly aligned with the holes, always one too low or too high but without any discernible pattern as to which it’ll be, and looking like he’s never encountered a hairbrush. Not that Charlie expected him to smell bad, exactly, but. He must genuinely have five of the same flannel, because it always smells like detergent and name-brand deodorant.
*
Wen drags him to Mudslide Crush’s performance before the Halloween Bash, acting the whole time like he’s infiltrating a high-security concert instead of a free show in a high school parking lot. It shouldn’t be endearing. “We need to scope out the competition, you know?” he says. “Get a feel for what we’re dealing with.”
Charlie doesn’t point out that they could’ve looked on YouTube, doesn’t ask why the rest of the band isn’t here, just folds his arms because Wen is insistent that they can’t look supportive or like they’re enjoying themselves.
Charlie kind of is enjoying himself, though, surprisingly. Even though the music is redundant and full of sports metaphors, and every song is composed of 90 percent bragging and 10 percent guitar solos. Even Wen’s early stuff wasn’t this self-absorbed, and it’s been changing dramatically ever since the time Charlie looked up from the lyrics and said, “You know you don’t need to tell us how awesome you are, right? We already think you’re cool,” and Wen had faltered and nodded and smudged blue ink all down his arm without noticing.
*
“Man, I wish they’d just get together already,” Wen says. Stella has walked out to get another lemonade, which she’s been doing every time Olivia looks at Mo when she sings, which means she’s also been regularly interrupting discussions about the set list to go to the bathroom. Charlie kind of gets it, but also, Olivia looks at everyone when she sings, and Stella’s always the one going on about band unity, so it’s getting kind of old. He was planning on being home by now, which means he’ll have to tell his parents that soccer practice ran late, and he’ll have to get a ride…
Charlie focuses back on the conversation at hand. Wen’s flannel is identical to the one he wore yesterday; it’s probably really soft from being washed what seems to be six times a week. “Wait—I kind of thought you liked Olivia?”
Wen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Nah, man. I mean, I like working with her, she’s a fucking amazing writer and a great friend, but—you didn’t know I’m gay?”
Charlie very consciously keeps his jaw from dropping and shakes his head. “I do now.”
*
It’s ridiculous, because Wen is vaguely self-obssessed, even though he’s gotten better since that first meeting when he wanted to name the band after himself, and he’s still insecure as hell despite that, and he spends absolutely zero time on his hair and wants to hug people all the time and is basically completely different from Charlie, who doesn’t talk much about himself at all, positive or negative, and is only vain about his hair, and usually isn’t very interested in the whole human contact thing. Usually.
He always hugs Wen back. It’s ridiculous.
*
“If a guy doesn’t call you for a few days, should the girl worry? Do guys do that?”
Mo looks like she’s going to worry no matter his answer. “You’re a guy, right?” she asks, and it’s so hard not to take it the wrong way because she knows, and she knows not to say something rude, so he knows that’s not how she means it, but still.
“Hah,” he manages. “Wow.”
She rolls her eyes. It should probably be a good sign that this isn’t a big deal to her, but he can’t bring himself to be relieved by that. “No, I just meant, like, you’re my friend,” she says. “You’re not a guy guy.”
“That’s not really any better.” Before he can decide whether to explain that that’s something he’s heard for years from far less friendly people in only somewhat different contexts, Wen materializes beside their table. “Hey, guys.” He seems to notice their expressions, or at least, Charlie notices the way Wen’s expression changes. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Nah,” Charlie says, “Mo’s just saying how I’m not a real guy because I’m her friend.” He makes sure to smile teasingly as he says it, and she laughs, but Wen’s face turns serious.
“Dude, what the fuck? There’s no such thing as not being a real guy, man. And if there was, it’d be Ray or some shit, not you.”
Charlie takes a bite of his sandwich to hide his smile.
*
Ray is right in his face, is grabbing him by the shoulders, and this is every reason Charlie never wanted people to touch him until Wen showed up with his stupid flannel and his stupid hugs, and all he can think is At least it’s me and not Olivia and Why the fuck is no one doing anything?
“Can’t—can’t we talk this through?” he asks, and he knows it’s not going to work, but he is so out of plans. Ray laughing in his face doesn’t buy him enough time to think of a new one.
“Wen?” He tries to see how close Wen is out the corner of his eye. “Wen? Wen.”
“Yeah?” Wen asks, entirely too casual.
“A little help here, please,” Charlie says, like, please get this asshole off of me, and Wen looks fucking terrified.
“No, no, I’m a lover, not a fighter, bro,” Wen says, and Charlie just barely doesn’t curse out loud, and he really can’t think of a new plan now because his brain is occupied by echoing, Lover.
Stupid gorgeous pacifist idiot.
Lover. He’s a lover.
*
It’s eight minutes before the Halloween Bash, and everyone else is in the girls’ bathroom. It’s not that Charlie doesn’t want to be there for Olivia, he really does, but—he just can’t. Wen claps him on the shoulder and nods. “It’s okay, man. You can just, like, guard the door.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he can hear Wen telling Olivia. “We’re all scared.”
Charlie steps slightly further in, and they all drink lemonade in the bathroom, which is so incredibly unsanitary that the bonding moment had better be worth it. Charlie can’t help but grin at these ridiculous, beautiful people.
“I like when you smile,” Wen says, quiet, and Charlie almost thinks he’s talking to someone else—Stella, maybe, or Olivia—until he looks over and Wen is looking at him, the corner of his mouth raised, awkward and self-deprecating.
“Thanks,” Charlie says, and takes a sip of lemonade.
*
“It’s Wen and I’m heaven-sent,” he raps, and yeah, that one is merited. He’s glowing with a holy fire beneath the spotlights. Charlie wouldn’t trade this for anything, but he can’t help but wonder what it’s like in the crowd, making eye contact with him, looking up at all that energy.
*
After the Bash, girls start staring at him in the halls, in class, in the cafeteria. He figures it’s because he’s in the band, but Olivia and Mo have other theories. He stares at them blankly.
“Give it up, you guys, this one wouldn’t know heterosexual flirting if those girls walked up and kissed him,” Stella says, rolling her eyes.
Olivia tries to elbow her, which doesn’t really work since they’re holding hands. “Okay, but I noticed, so he has no excuse.”
Charlie can feel Wen staring at him and looks over.
“You’re—uh, are you—did they mean—”
“I’m gay,” Charlie says, raising an eyebrow. Wen coughs.
“Cool, man, cool, cool, cool. I’m, uh, going to get one of those fucking power drinks, be right back.”
*
Their song is on the radio. Their song is on the radio and Wen calls him even though Charlie was already with Stella and Mo and the three of them are blasting it on his speakers and jumping around. Their song is on the radio and the doorbell rings. Their song is on the radio and Wen is at the door saying “I can’t fucking believe it holy shit can you believe it,” and wearing the same goddamn flannel and hugging him. Their song is on the radio and Wen looks at him for a second and mutters “God, I hope this doesn’t fuck anything up,” and his face is so close and his lips taste like lemonade and his mouth that is normally moving so quickly, recklessly, confidently, is slow and hesitant and cautious.