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Racetrack was in the middle of a breakdown.
Well, okay, that made it sound a lot worse than it actually was.
To back up a little, Anthony “Racetrack” Higgins was a junior in highschool. Right then, he was in his last final.
There was just an hour and thirteen minutes until summer vacation started.
Really, you wouldn’t usually expect him and basically all his friends to magically have the same dance period together. See, even though nobody ever said it, Jack was definitely the leader of their group, and when he’d taken Dance freshman year they’d all joined alongside him. And since all of them were pretty much the only people in the dance program at their school, they all ended up in the same period together. Which made sense, Race guessed. You couldn’t deny the coincidence, though.
And at that moment, Racetrack was really regretting how lucky he’d gotten it. He was regretting moving to this school district when he was ten, he was regretting befriending Jack, regretting taking Dance all the way through junior year because right now it felt like every important thing that had ever happened was responsible for that exact moment.
The class, all sitting along the floor, with Race pressed up against the one and only Spot Conlon.
Why were they all sitting on the floor? Well, the actual final for the dance program was always the spring performance. So when official exams rolled around, the teacher pulled out a projector, sat them on the floor in the studio, and put on Swan Lake.
Race didn’t really care about ballet that much. (Jack, Mush and Spot did, though. Took actual after school classes and everything. They didn’t seem like the type, honestly, but they’d all taken to it like ducks to water and also could all do the splits now. One time Race had to be the one to take Jack to the nurse after he tried to see how many spins he could do and wound up so dizzy he threw up on his way to the water fountain.
He was happy to help, but also, gross.)
Anyways, Racetrack didn’t really have a say in what the class watched, though, so here he was, getting increasingly distracted by the legs on the dancers (and his leg pressed up against Spot’s, but he was dedicated to avoiding thinking about that).
Hey, could you blame him? He wasn’t bisexual for nothing! And could he tell you, those dudes had some cake. You had to be really fucking muscular to do it professionally, and he could tell you firsthand just how muscular ballet dancers got.
No, he wasn’t just talking about the one and only time Jack shaved his legs and let him feel it. Or how every time Spot wore shorts he marveled at how toned his legs were. Or how-- well, okay, you get the idea. Ballet dancers, both onscreen and in real life, were ripped.
And right now, his shoulder and knee were pressed right against one of them.
To be fair, Spot definitely was more than just muscle. Race wouldn’t call him his best friend, that title belonged to Jack, but they were definitely close. They got along more than well, spent free time together, and Race knew they could trust each other with anything when it came down to it. It had come down to it a few times, but that wasn’t really relevant at the moment. Not when he was in a dark room surrounded by others, and Spot’s features were barely visible but unmistakable in the dim light of the projector, less than a foot away from Racetrack’s own face.
Race really liked Spot, and not just because he was hot (although, he couldn’t deny that was a major bonus). He put up an exterior of being all rough-and-tough, but it was common knowledge among his friends that Spot was just as soft-hearted as the rest of them. (One time, on a rainy evening after rehearsal, Spot had given Race his jacket. When Racetrack had unthinkingly worn it to school the next week, Spot had given him a once-over and said it looked better on him. Really, everything looked good on Race, but who was he to complain?)
Race’s internal monologue was cut short by Spot shifting just a little. For a second he was worried he would move, which would suck because Race was rather enjoying the contact, but it turned out he was just pulling out his phone. Fucker. Race had left his in his backpack, which was all the way across the room. (He should really start being one of those guys who takes his bag everywhere. Hell, the side of his body that wasn’t occupied by Spot was next to a backpack. Blink’s, it looked like, but it was dark and everyone had a black backpack these days. Blink was on the other side of said backpack, though, so Race guessed he was probably right.)
Anyways, Spot. His phone teetered right inside his backpack, so the teacher couldn’t see it, but he definitely could. Racetrack could, too, if he was willing to take the extra step of closing the 2-inch gap between them.
Well, Racetrack was nothing if not impulsive, so close the gap he did.
He had to say he admired Spot’s taste in TV. Well, okay, movies. Shazam, which Spot had just started around the halfway mark, was definitely a movie. But Race also knew Spot liked Adventure Time, and Lucifer, and Stranger Things, and they even watched the first few seasons of Flash together. Those were all TV shows, and they were all really fucking good, in Race’s correct opinion.
So Spot was watching Shazam. And Racetrack was pretending to watch, because he couldn’t really focus when he couldn’t hear any of the dialogue. Or when, y’know, the only thing separating his and Spot’s bare thighs from touching were two shitty thin pieces of denim.
When Racetrack moved his head just that much closer to try to “watch” the movie, Spot’s gaze flickered over.
Race’s heart was nearly brought to a stuttering stop when Spot plucked out one of his earbuds and handed it to him without a second thought. Race stared at it for a second, uncomprehending. Spot probably rolled his eyes (not that Race could see, because as soon as they’d made eye contact he’d busied himself with looking everywhere but Spot) and moved his phone just a little to give Racetrack a better view. “You gonna use it, or can I watch my movie in peace?” he asked.
Spot’s breath ghosted across Race’s face as he whispered. When did their faces get so close? (His breath kinda smelled like mint. Was he chewing gum? No, Race would’ve noticed, probably. Although if he chewed gum that would explain his jawline. Tic Tacs? He hoped he had Tic Tacs. Vacation was still an hour and four minutes away, he needed something to tide him over.)
Racetrack gave Spot his signature crooked smile and put the earbud to use. Spot had offered him the outside one— Racetrack jokingly referred to it as “the gay earbud” with Blink, but suddenly that joke felt all too real as he realized that he would, in fact, have to press himself right up against Spot to use it. Race thanked anyone who was up there for Spot’s disinterest in playing by other people’s rules, and leaned just that much closer into the other boy’s personal space. (Because of the earbuds, of course. If they shared the outer one it meant they could whisper to each other about the movie, too, which was always fun.)
Racetrack took a steadying breath to calm his heart. At this rate Spot would be able to hear it, which was less than ideal. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you liked DC movies.”
Spot shrugged, eyes still on his phone. “The shows are still better. Shazam’s different. Actually funny and... stuff.”
“Didn’t know you were one for comedy.”
“You know, if I knew you were just going to talk my ear off the whole time, I wouldn’t’ve shared my earbuds with you.”
That shut Racetrack up. And good timing, too, because Spot whispering heatedly into his ear while the edge of his hand just barely brushed Racetrack’s thigh was sending his mind spinning.
He really didn’t think Spot was all too aware of or bothered by the closeness. He was a very casually affectionate guy— leaning his elbows on shoulders, affectionately ruffling the hair of the elementary schoolers he worked with (not that Race was stalking him or anything. It’s just that, well, Race usually picked his little sister up from daycare, and Spot happened to do volunteer hours there sometimes. He’d jokingly (but also, not jokingly at all) told Race not to tell their friends about his soft side). Racetrack was pretty similar in that respect— casually slinging his arm around his friends and all that affectionate jazz. But for whatever reason, when it was Spot, it sent Racetrack’s heart speeding.
Well, okay, the reason was obviously because he’d been crushing on him for months. Duh.
But that wasn’t the point. The point was that while the contact was dizzying for Racetrack , Spot didn’t seem to give it a second thought— even adjusting slightly so the two were pressed together more comfortably. Once again, of course, sending his heart racing.
Holy shit, Racetrack needed to get a grip.
When there seemed to be an available moment, Race couldn't help but open his mouth again. "Have you seen this movie before?" he murmured. That was dumb. Of course Spot would've, Race knew he never watched new stuff on his tiny phone screen.
"At least three times," Spot replied.
Yeah, okay, that made sense.
"It's not often that I see movies centering around something I relate to,” Spot continued. Wait, was he actually opening up to Racetrack before 11:30pm? They should talk about their interests more often. (Sure, they watched stuff, but they never really discussed it afterwards. It was just a way to pass time between them when neither wanted to do homework.) “Most of the time it's as if it’s an afterthought. I… appreciate it. For going a different route.”
Racetrack listened closely. (Get it? Because they were sitting close? Ugh, nevermind.) It wasn’t often that either of them talked about Spot's situation— being a foster kid and all— since it wasn't really something you could bring up in casual conversation. Hell, it wasn’t really something you could always bring up in serious conversation, either. Him talking about it now made Race’s heart lurch in an all-too-familiar way, a way Racetrack had come to associate with Spot himself.
He nodded understandingly. “I can imagine it probably…” Ugh, he was gonna sound so cheesy. “Hit deep,” Race finished lamely.
Spot took a deep breath. “Yeah. Especially with the whole… running away thing,” he breathed.
Right. That. It was well-known among Spot’s close friends that he’d run away from six different foster homes before he’d been moved to this district.
Racetrack was really glad he’d managed to stick around with them.
Spot’s eyes were still on the movie, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, gaze unfocused. Race gulped, anxious in the silence. “It’s good to be able to see yourself in media and the like,” he muttered, feeling a bit late.
Spot’s eyes flickered towards his again, and he nodded. Silence fell between the two, and Racetrack awkwardly tried to focus back on the movie, wishing he could do something with his hands.
Speaking of his hands, he noticed his were really close to Spot’s. Or, rather, Spot’s were close to his. Somewhere during their talk Spot’s right hand had drifted onto Racetrack’s knee, thumb rubbing absently at the fabric, and Race haltingly realized that maybe Spot could be enjoying their closeness just as much as he was.
Maybe-probably not in the same way. As far as Racetrack knew, Spot wasn’t gay. Sure, he was a pretty guy who did ballet and was friends with almost all the other gay people Racetrack knew, but it still wasn’t necessarily good to assume. Hell, Race didn’t realize he liked guys, well, until he liked Spot. He wasn’t even out yet. (Besides to Jack. But Jack didn’t count. They’d known each other for years, Racetrack would be more surprised if he wasn’t out to Jack.
Even Jack didn’t know he liked Spot, though.)
Finally, Spot broke the silence again, voice just below a whisper as he leaned closer to Race’s ear. “Do you have anything about yourself dear, sweet Hollywood would represent?” he muttered sarcastically. Damn, okay, ask him if he’s gay right after his internalized homophobia monologue.
Naturally, the first thing that jumped into his mind was his bisexuality. He’d been thinking about it right before Spot asked, so of course it came to mind, but honestly, he couldn’t just say that. Talking about his interest in boys to the boy he was interested in seemed like one of his worse ideas.
No other ideas were coming up, though. “I guess… y’know, different types of relationships,” he mumbled.
Spot, surprisingly, seemed taken a little off guard by this. Clumsily, he finally paused the movie (why were they talking over it in the first place? Maybe Racetrack wasn’t the only one with half an attention span). Processing his own reply, alongside Spot’s reaction, Race was almost immediately regretting his decision to say that.
So, of course, he kept going. “I mean, like, we always see relationships between a guy and a girl. A white guy and a white girl. Wouldn’t it— it just be more interesting if, say—“ his mind raced. (Ha. Race.) “Two girls are together.”
Internally, Racetrack cursed himself. A guy, Spot, had asked Race, a guy, about what kind of representation he wanted in Hollywood. “Two guys” was more than definitely what he’d intended to say there. Not that two girls wasn’t just as good! But Racetrack was frustrated that he’d just ended up with another excuse to clamp down on his feelings for Spot.
Well, no way to change the past. Spot (regrettably) pulled his hand away from Race, and turned his shoulders towards him so they could face each other better, grinning. “Y’know, you’ve got a good point with that. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t be interested in something new out of the film industry.”
It really wasn’t that funny, but Racetrack found himself chuckling softly at the comment anyways, heart throbbing. What right did a sixteen year old boy have to be this pretty?
Enthused, Race pressed on. “Yeah, I mean, the least they could do is give it a try. I know I’d be interested in that sort of thing,” he breathed. Spot had his eyes fixed on him like he was the only person in the world, nodding seriously along to Race’s words. Race nearly continued his thought, but the words died in his throat because nice going, dude, that sentence is right next to the textbook definition of “subtly coming out as gay.” Spot wasn’t stupid, he’d know exactly what Race was saying.
Spot, however, didn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. His smile stayed, as did his gaze, although his eyebrows quirked up a little when Race awkwardly pressed his lips together.
“Interested, huh?” Spot asked softly.
God, Racetrack was in trouble. His mind was going a million miles a minute (ha, try saying that five times fast), and Spot’s whole body was still there. His leg was still as ever-present beside Race’s on the crummy dance studio floor, and their breaths had to be mingling at this point because Spot’s face was so close to Race’s he could count all of his freckles if he wanted to. (Which he did want to. Very badly. Not here, not now, but definitely in his awkward sleep-laden fantasies on lonely Friday nights.)
In the brief silence, Spot shifted again, bringing his hand just next to Racetrack’s.
“Yeah,” Race whispered, heart in his throat. “Interested.”
Spot’s smile turned more playful, reaching his eyes. “You know,” he whispered back. “I think I’d be interested in that sort of thing too.”
Their faces were so close. Had Spot’s eyes always been that green? Racetrack couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. His mind was clouded with too many sensations— Spot’s soft breaths gently ghosting across his neck, and the way his eyelashes moved when he blinked, and his thundering pulse as Spot’s hand found his on the floor.
Race wasn’t really sure who leaned in first. One second, Spot’s gaze was flicking towards his mouth, and the next their lips connected.
The kiss itself was chaste, quick and gentle, and something Racetrack wished could last a hundred years. Really, Race wouldn’t have a single problem with it lasting that long, especially with the soft sigh that had escaped Spot when their mouths first made contact.
They break apart quickly, though, Racetrack’s pulse humming steadily in his ears, with Spot wearing an expression that almost seemed smug. Had he wanted to do that for a while? Race was flattered, he was, but there really wasn’t time for flattery when Spot brought his free hand up to brush away the fringe across Race’s forehead and cup his cheek.
There were thirty-seven minutes left until summer vacation, and Racetrack had just been kissed by Spot Conlon.
He was suddenly really, really glad they were whispering to each other in a dark room surrounded by people who didn’t care to try to look. Sure, Race maybe would’ve rather there been an awkward but endearing and romantic confession note stuck to his locker or something, leading him to a chase all summer for his mysterious secret admirer, but it was still leagues better than, say, asking him to prom in the middle of the cafeteria or whatever.
Self-consciously, Race touched his lips. Wow. He’d just been kissed by Spot Conlon. The guy he’d liked since October. For Racetrack, that was a long time. Spot watched with a slightly amused expression.
“Expect something different?” he teased slightly. Race almost laughed at that, leaning just a little into Spot’s soft touch on his face.
“Nah. Read you like a book,” he whispered confidently.
Spot just smirked and leaned in for another short, sweet kiss. Fuck, Racetrack could kiss him for days. He knew how he was spending his summer.
As they parted, Racetrack hummed slightly. “Wanna finish the movie?”
Spot snickered at that, and turned back towards his all-but-forgotten phone, still sitting in his bag. “Why the hell not.”
Just when Spot started reaching for his phone, though, Race stopped his hand. “And, uh, Spot?”
“Yeah?”
“When this thing is over do you wanna go make out some more?”
“We didn’t make out at all. You know what making out is, right?”
Racetrack just smashed his shoulder into Spot’s in response. “You get my point.”
Spot chuckled at that, and, setting the movie on, reached his arm over Race’s shoulders, letting him snuggle into his side.
“Yeah. I get it.”
Race practically melted against Spot’s side in content. Not once this school year (or his whole life, for that matter) did he think he was viable romance material for any guy.
Especially not a guy he’d been (embarrassingly) swooning over for nine months.
Racetrack took in the moment, bursting his own thought bubble. He didn’t want to admit it, but his ass had been fantasizing about this sort of comforting embrace from Spot practically since the first time they met. He was going to savor it.
It made Race sigh to himself. God, he was being so sappy. Cocky track-and-field champion Racetrack Higgins, reduced to a gooey mess by his and Spot’s continued affection.
There were thirty-three minutes left until summer vacation, and Race was happy he was able to spend that time curled up with someone he loved.
(Loved? Yeah. He loved him.)