Chapter Text
Brett’s sprawled out on the grass, belly down. His cheek is pressed against the ground, and the earth is damp. The sun glints off his glasses and he squints through the blades of grass. The smell is crisp and wet, and his fingers curl into the softness, getting dirt under his nails.
Thudding footsteps and then a pair of sneakers comes into view, kicking up clumps of mud. Brett crosses his eyes as the shoes clomp close, flattening the grass by his nose.
“Yo.”
Brett turns his head at the voice, only a little. A hand, streaked and grimy, is reaching down to him. It is callused and warm. Oliver wrinkles his snub nose and hauls Brett to his feet.
“What are you doing down there?” Oliver points his chin back over his shoulder and across the soccer field. “C’mon, they wanna take a pic of us.”
Brett blinks, then nods. Oliver starts trotting back toward the group and Brett follows. He realizes their hands are still linked and, well, they aren’t children anymore – instinctively, he jerks his hand back, or tries to. Oliver’s grip remains firm for a whole beat, and then another, and then their hands trail apart. Brett is aware that he’s looking at the space where their hands were, his arms now limp at his sides. He gazes down at the scuffed sides of his trainers and at the way the cuff of one of Oliver’s socks droops around an ankle.
“Thought you’d get lost on the way back, y’know?” Oliver’s toothy grin is bright and Brett notices the freckles speckled over his cheeks. “Gotta make sure you’re still here.”
They join the rest of the group and Brett spots Eddy, looking down at some sheet music. The group huddles together, and Brett moves to stay by Oliver. Eddy pops up next to Brett and nudges his side. The conductor huffs, “Oliver, get down or move to the back and stop blocking everyone else.”
Brett looks down at the top of Oliver’s head; his hair is almost brown in the gleaming sunlight and Brett thinks about the grass stains the cellist will be getting on his knees. Brett’s arms move like they’re not part of him, like it’s an afterthought, sliding over Oliver’s shoulders and around his neck. It feels nice, nice to have his arms, his skin, touching Oliver, nice the way ice cream feels nice and cool on his tongue when it’s hot out, nice the way a laugh swells in his chest and throat.
“Your hair.” Oliver stares up at Brett and he reaches up to brush Brett’s bangs aside. Oliver’s hand is rough against his forehead and Brett dips his head forward into the touch. This is nice, Brett thinks. But something in him is snarling and spitting and yowling, and it takes all his effort to keep his arms relaxed, his head bent forward. He closes his eyes and concentrates on this is nice and holds on to green grass and clasped hands and warm sunshine.
The youth orchestra conductor is yelling at them to look at the camera so he does. His arms have gotten stiff and awkward with tension, but stubbornly, he keeps them where they are. This is mine, he thinks. Whatever this is. Just for me.