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Los Diablos stretches out below you like a blanket of lights. Covered in fog after all the fireworks. Now and then, you still see a few stragglers go off in the distance; colorful sparkles and dull noises.
Ortega’s phone buzzes, breaking your little bubble of silence. You give him a glance and take a swipe of your beer, as he rifles through his pockets, muttering curses under his breath. The first thing he did after getting off the bike was to throw his tie into the bushes and his suit jacket on the ground, and it seems he left the phone in it. He looks better like this, though, you think—less immaculately styled, his curls breaking free from the products and the shirt rolled up to his elbows. It’s made of some sort of flimsy material that seems to float over his skin, and the pants are… Well, you told yourself you wouldn’t think more about that tonight.
You’re dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants. You aren’t supposed to be at a fancy party—you hadn’t even planned on leaving your apartment, but Ortega showed up at your door and now here you are.
He finally finds his phone, and then sits down next to you again and frowns at the screen. For a second you think the phone is about to join the tie in the bushes, but then he sighs heavily and flops onto his back on the ground.
“What’s happening?” you ask.
“Nothing important,” he grumbles and shoves the phone back into a pocket, frowning at the sky. Then he sighs. “It’s Riley,” he admits. “She’s asking where I went.”
“She’s still at that party?”
He nods.
“Didn’t you tell her you were leaving?”
“No,” he answers sullenly.
You snigger a little at his petulance. He was already tipsy on champagne when he picked you up and has had a few beers since. I want to see the fireworks, he’d said, hanging over the handlebars of a bicycle you strongly suspect he’d stolen. Let’s get up on the hills. And it’s not like you had other plans.
You sit in silence for a bit; him staring up at the sky, and you desperately trying to think of something to say. He ditched a whole party to sit out in the cold with you; ditched his gorgeous girlfriend and the lights and the action to sit on top of a hill and drink cheap beer. With you. And you can’t even think of anything to say.
He speaks first.
“Do you know what’s it’s like to be in love?” he asks, abruptly.
Any words you could have possibly said get stuck in your throat. You stare at him and the way the lights from the city below outline his neck; his jawline; the curves of his slightly parted lips.
Then he looks at you, and you quickly turn your head away. “Why are you asking me that?” you snort, pulling your knees up into a hug. “You’re the one with the girlfriend.”
“But you’re the telepath,” he says. “You can…” He waves a hand in the air above him. “You know—tell what people feel and stuff.”
“And stuff,” you mumble, shaking your head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No,” he admits, rolling over on his side. “That’s why I’m asking.”
He’s ruining his shirt, you think, trying to focus on something mundane. That shirt is probably more expensive than anything you own, and he’s just rolling around on the ground with it.
“Look,” you say as dismissively as you can, “all I know is that sometimes people meet and get stupid, and then all they think about is smushing their bits together. I don’t know shit about love.”
You drink your beer and avoid looking at him as he laughs at you.
“Such a romantic,” he sniggers. “Come on.” He lightly jabs your thigh. “There must have been someone in your life that you like. A pretty girl. Pretty boy?” His voice lifts and trails of expectantly.
“Don’t fish for compliments,” you mutter, glad that it’s dark, hoping that your blush doesn’t show.
“I wasn’t…” he starts but finishes with a sigh.
Then he’s quiet—quiet enough that you dare risk taking a look. It’s not fair how pretty he is.
“Did you always know?” he says, so quietly you can hardly hear him.
“Know what?”
“That you… you know.” Abruptly, he pushes himself up to sitting again, shoulders covered in dirt. “That you liked boys. Men. I mean, that you weren’t straight.” He looks at you, quickly, just once, before returning to stare intently at the skyline.
It’s a good question. When did you know? When he kissed you, that time, and you realized that kissing wasn’t so bad? That it might be something you wanted?
“Not always,” you say. Your mouth feels dry. “When I was younger, there were a lot of expectations. There wasn’t really space for… that.” Not a lie, not really. In the distance, another firework goes off—thud, thud, thud. “I guess I realized pretty quickly, once I started thinking about it.”
He turns to look at you, intently; more intently than you’re comfortable with. “You’re not into girls at all, are you?” he asks.
“No one yet, anyway,” you say with a fake grin, and then try to hide your blushing by having more beer.
When you bring the bottle down from your lips, he speaks; “Hey, Lilo?”—quiet, close, much closer than before, and when you turn your head, you turn right into a kiss.
Warmth; soft lips on yours; hands around your face.
Oh shit, you have no idea what to do—so you just do what he’s doing. Trying to mirror him; he’s kissing you so you’re kissing him, and you can’t think anymore; you’ve entirely run out of thoughts. He shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t just him pressing his lips against yours; that’s his tongue and oh shit—you feel like the fireworks are going off inside you, now, and your heart is trying to beat its way out of your ribcage and you’re absolutely panicking. You shouldn’t let him do this. But, oh—you don’t want him to stop.
When he pulls a little on your lower lip and then moves away, it’s like you’ve forgotten how to do anything; how to be a person. He leans his forehead against yours, the smallest smile playing on his lips, and your brain is sputtering nonsense.
Fuck.
You need to salvage this somehow. Maybe you’re just a horrible kisser and he won’t want to do it again? He’s not moving away, though—you think he’s trying to catch your eye. You have to say something; make him back off.
“I’m not going to smush bits with you, you know,” you declare—and cringe at yourself when he laughs at you.
“U-huh,” he grins. "But how about more kissing?"
“Not sure your girlfriend would approve of that,” you mumble, trying not to look at him although he’s filling up your whole field of view.
A heartbeat of silence. Then – “Ha!” he exclaims, and shoves at you, throwing himself back onto the ground. “You’re such a little shit, Lilo.”
“I’m not the one ditching my girlfriend,” you point out, “at New Year’s. To make out with someone else.” You brush your hair back and try to figure out where your beer went. Deep breaths. When he’s not so close the air is less suffocating.
He grimaces. “I should break up with her,” he mutters, “shouldn’t I?”
“What, don’t want to smush her bits anymore?” you drawl, and he slaps your arm.
“Stop saying that,” he grumbles, “it sounds ridiculous.”
“Then why?” you ask. “Thought you two were doing well. You said she was ‘amazing’ just last week.”
“Well, she is.”
“And you said your mom likes her.”
“She does.”
“So why do you have to break up with her?”
He sighs, and stares morosely at the sky. “I ditched her at New Year’s to get drunk on a hilltop, Miles. And make out with someone else. I’m just not in love with her.” He picks up a stone and throws it. “I don’t know if I’ve ever really been in love.”
“Oh, poor you,” you huff. “I guess you’re doomed to be alone forever, then.”
Ortega sputters. “You little…” You hear him scrambling, so you have time to brace yourself as he dives for your waist and tackles you to the ground. “You’re such a bastard,” he snickers, leaning over you. Arms on each side of your head.
Shit. Shit, he’s warm and very close and this is very bad for you. He’s looking at your mouth now. You need to deflect before you lose your mind again.
“If you want to break up with her, you should,” you say sternly. “She’s still waiting for you to answer, isn’t she?”
With a groan he drops his head, muttering in Spanish.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “Fine! I’m doing it.” And he leans back onto one arm, fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts typing.
“You’re the absolute worst, Ortega,” you laugh. “Breaking up with a text? On New Year’s?”
He just glares stubbornly at the phone screen and draws in a deep breath. “There,” he says, and presses a last button. Then he actually tosses the phone away; you think you see it sparkle. “Happy now?”
“I really hope you didn’t do that for my sake,” you say and raise an eyebrow. “I already told you I won’t—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t rub it in.” He drops onto his back again.
For a few moments you lie there together in silence.
“Hey Miles?” he says, bumping his elbow into your arm.
“What?”
“When you do get a boyfriend, I’m going to be absolutely insufferable. I hope you know that.”
The thought of introducing someone else as your boyfriend, to Ortega, makes you laugh. Absurd. “How do you know I don’t already have one?” you say, grinning at the sky. You don’t know what that would even mean for you, to have a boyfriend, it’s not like you can—
“Then I demand you break up with him,” Ortega declares. “Via text. You just made out with someone else on New Year’s.”
You laugh, and he laughs, and then someone sets off a load of fireworks close enough that the noise would drown out any answer you might have had. The sky above erupts with color. Over and over again; loud and bright and beautiful.
When it fades, Ortega announces he’s cold and that you need more beer. He insists he’s still sober enough to ride the bike down; insists you climb onto the rack. You do, after some feigned protesting, and you hold on tight to his waist as he takes you back to the city, and the lights, and the new year.