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“Young lady, where do you think you’re going?”
Anisa turned around with a groan.
“Daddy, I have to go to school!” she whined, stamping her foot for emphasis. Agron swooped down and picked her up, setting her down on the kitchen table.
“Not yet—and not like that. When you said you could get ready by yourself, that didn’t mean just getting dressed. It means tying your shoes and brushing your hair and brushing your teeth—
“I did!” she protested.
“Let me check.” He bent down and sniffed dramatically around her mouth. She squealed, scandalized. “Mm, minty fresh. But not quite ready.” He looked pointedly at her shoes, whose laces were less “tied” and more “squiggly and twisted together,” and her knotted and wily hair.
“My hair’s too curly to brush. And shoelaces are hard.”
Agron made quick work of the shoelaces, and ducked into the bathroom for a brush and a spray bottle. It’s true, Anisa’s dark hair was much curlier than Nasir’s, but only because she insisted on having her bath right before bedtime, so she slept with wet hair that was tangled and impossibly matted by the time she woke up. With practiced hands and liberal application of the spray bottle, he managed to undo most of the tangles. Brushed out, her hair was sleek and wavy, like her father’s. He smiled to himself and divided it into six sections, for braided pigtails.
“Sarah says boys can’t do braids,” Anisa said suddenly.
“Well Sarah’s wrong, isn’t she?”
“She says boys don’t have long hair, so they never learn, and they’re fingers are too big.”
“These fingers?” He poked her in the sides, and she burst into giggles. “I dunno, I think they’re pretty dainty. Did you tell her that Baba had long hair?”
“Yes.”
“And that Daddy’s an expert hairdresser who makes the best braids in the world?”
“Yes, but she didn’t believe me.”
“Then forget her,” he said simply, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Clearly, Sarah’s an idiot.”
“Agron,” Nasir said warningly, sweeping into the kitchen. His shirt was buttoned up wrong and his hair wasn’t even tied back, just left swinging over his shoulders. Obviously, he was late and in desperate need of coffee, so Agron felt justified in ignoring the cautionary tone of his voice.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”
“Morning.” Nasir paused to kiss both of them on the cheek. “I told you to stop using words like that around her—”
“It’s not even a swear!”
“—yes, but it’s really not appropriate for a kindergartener, and I still think the teacher doesn’t like us because of that whole incident last week—”
“If I see anybody making fun of people because of how they look, then I should ignore them and tell them they’re being rude, because they’re assholes,” Anisa recited dutifully.
Agron grinned at Nasir over her head.
“You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“So proud.”
Nasir sighed and addressed Anisa. “Yes, baby, that’s true, but remember we talked about not using any of Daddy’s very, very bad grown-up words.”
“Oh,” she said sheepishly. “I forgot.”
Nasir smiled fondly at her; judging by her exaggerated, innocent expression, Anisa had not forgotten, but was just showing off her new-found acting skills. She had inherited Agron’s mischievous streak, which was very adorable, but also potentially problematic, given that he was the only parent who was inclined to quench it. For now, he dismissed the thought, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Sarah says that boys don’t wear long hair or jewelry and that they can’t do braids,” Anisa repeated, for his benefit.
“Which I say is totally wrong, because I do kick-butt braids,” Agron added. “Right?”
“Absolutely right.”
“And a good thing, too,” Agron said to Anisa. “Because Baba wouldn’t have married me if I didn’t.”
“Really?” Anisa asked, wide-eyed.
“Yup.”
“No, not really,” Nasir laughed. He walked back to the kitchen table and kissed her on both cheeks. There was a suspicious, worried look in her eyes. “Daddy’s just being silly.”
“I am not!”
Anisa giggled and leaned closer to Nasir. “He’s always being silly,” she stage-whispered. Nasir grinned and ruffled her hair fondly.
“Hey, watch the hair—and admit it, my hair-braiding skills were the whole reason we fell in love.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, right,” Anisa scoffed, mimicking him.
Her plaited pigtails were finished, so Nasir picked her off of the table and set her on the ground. It was an exceptionally warm September so far, so aside from a thin sweater, she was had no need of a coat. She slung her brand-new jean backpack over her shoulders and reached up to take Nasir’s hand.
“Baba, are you gonna walk me to the bus stop?”
“No, baby, I’m going to work early today, so I’ll drop you off. Come on—say good-bye to Daddy.”
Agron dropped to his knees and gave her a quick hug and a kiss. Anisa ran off, shouting that she could get into her carseat by herself, and Agron followed Nasir to the door.
“Hey,” he said in a low voice, catching Nasir’s face in both hands. “You know I’m right.”
“Mm-hm.” Nasir kissed him with a smile. “Actually, I think it was more to do with you being incredibly, incredibly drunk.”
“Drunk and charming and extremely talented with my hands,” Agron corrected. He returned the kiss—then returned it again, and again, and a fourth time before Nasir managed to pull away.
“We’re going to be late—I’ll see you tonight. Have a good day.”
“You, too. Kick ass, baby,” he called. Anisa grinned and waved furiously at him.
“So help me God, Agron—”
Agron laughed. Nasir smiled to himself. Agron had never failed to laugh when Nasir tried to police his rampant disregard for politeness. In fact, if you asked him, that was probably how the whole thing had started….
-----------------
“You are drunk,” Nasir said, punctuating each word with a playful punch to his friend’s shoulder.
“You are sexy,” Agron retorted in kind, before collapsing with breathless laughter, his face dangerously close to Nasir’s collarbone.
“You are both annoying,” Crixus snarled. “God, I can’t take another half hour of this.”
“Sorry,” Nasir said apologetically, at the same time as Naevia protested, “Baby, you volunteered.”
“To be DD, not to put up with this fucking idiot.”
Agron snickered. “Hey man, hey—I know you are, but what am I?”
He and Naevia both burst into giggles, and Crixus rolled his eyes. Nasir smiled at them fondly, though he couldn’t help but feel a little bit upset. The entire gang had been excited for this trip upstate, but none more than Nasir. Some foolish part of him had thought that the open night sky, the giddiness of the concert, and the after-party would have been the perfect place to sound out Agron’s feelings. He had kept careful track of his alcohol intake all night—no small task, with Saxa and her fellow drunken German bandmates pushing drinks into his hand every minute—just so he could make a good impression.
Agron clearly had had no such worries. And yes—Nasir would have been positively delighted to learn that his friend was a three-beer-queer, even if there was no dramatic revelation of romantic intentions, but no such luck. If anything, Agron was just an indiscriminating three-beer-whore.
“Don’t listen to Crixus, baby,” Naevia called, looking in the mirror. Her voice was overloud in the car, but neither she nor Agron seemed to notice. “He’s just jealous ’cause you’re so cute.”
“’M not cute,” Agron said, affronted. “I’m a manly warrior, dammit!”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Crixus muttered as Naevia giggled.
“No, no, but seriously.” Her gaze shifted in the mirror, falling on Nasir instead. “You’re lucky. Yours gets all sweet. Mine just gets all grumpy, and then really sad and mopey, and he’s embarrassed ’cause he doesn’t think it’s sexy. But that’s not true, ’cause he’s always sexy,” she cooed, cuddling against his shoulder. Crixus set aside his irritation for a moment and kissed her forehead with a fond smile.
“He’s not mine,” Nasir muttered.
He could feel himself blushing—and the blush didn’t fade when Agron wiggled even closer in the backseat and flung one arm around his shoulders. His half-embrace was incredibly warm and—there was no other word for it—cuddly. Agron’s firm muscles (dear God, did he wrestle bears or something? They were fantastic) were cushioned by the three layers of clothing he wore at all times, and he smelled delectable, like sweat and booze and musky cologne and cinnamon (?). He tipped his head closer, and his blue eyes were alight with drunken sincerity.
“Hey, hey, hey—I could be, you know? Like, I’m always single, so you could totally have me, I’m so easy—”
“Who would want you?” Crixus snarked without taking his eyes from the road.
“Fuck you, I would be a shit boyfriend. I mean, no, I’d be the shit at being a boyfriend—you know?” He looked to Nasir for confirmation.
“I know,” he said quickly.
“Yeah, no seriously, I would. Like, I could beat people up for you, and I’d get jealous all the time and defend your honor ’n shit, and I could get stuff off of high shelves, and buy you your stupid hipster coffee, and, um, braid your hair—”
Nasir couldn’t help it—he laughed. Part of it was nerves because Agron’s arm was still around his shoulders, but mostly it was because Agron was just too damn adorable—he thought that teasing people about their height and offering to braid their hair was the proper way to court someone. No wonder he was single. (God, how was he single? a small voice in his head whispered.) Agron looked wounded.
“Dude, not cool. Totally being serious.”
“No, you’re being drunk.”
“Nuh-uh! You don’t believe me?”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted, trying to extricate himself from his friend’s limbs. Agron only hung on more insistently. “I’m sorry, but you are intoxicated and I don’t believe that you want to woo me by playing hairdresser—”
“Hear me out! I would do—like—whatever. French braid, regular braid, fishtail braid. I could even put ribbons in it. I am fucking awesome.” His other hand suddenly came up and cupped Nasir’s jaw, one rough thumb pressed against his cheek. “I wouldn’t mind. You have really, really pretty hair, you know? It’s all elegant and long—not like a girl’s, or anything, you know, I don’t want you to feel like I’m emasculating you or whatever—”
“Did he just use the word emasculating? Seriously?” Naevia asked.
“Oy, Peanut Gallery, shut it! Anyway, it just looks so soft—can I touch it?”
“I’d really rather—”
“Agron, shut the fuck up and back the fuck up,” Crixus said suddenly, glancing from the road to the mirror and back again. “Nasir doesn’t want you molesting him.”
Agron recoiled. Even in the dim light provided by the street lamp, Nasir could see that he looked hurt. He sighed and pushed away the instinct for self-preservation that said Agron needed to stay far, far away from him. He put one hand on Agron’s shoulders and rubbed at it consolingly.
“Honey, it’s okay.”
“No, I get it—”
“I don’t mind if you…”
“Molest you?”
“No. Please don’t do that. But a hug is okay, if you want. I didn’t mind that; that was just Crixus being a douche.”
“Crixus is always a douche,” Agron said happily, settling in against Nasir’s side. Somehow, he was even warmer than before. Crixus flipped them off in the mirror. “So, is that it? We’re together now?”
Naevia burst into giggles.
“This is too cute!”
“Naevia, hush,” Nasir ordered sternly.
“Are we, though?” Agron asked with wide, questioning eyes. “Are we cute? You know—we? Both of us? Like, us-as-a-couple?”
“No.”
“But—but—”
He looked heartbroken. Nasir sighed and patted his head like he was a large, drunken puppy. This was not the way he had pictured this evening going.
“We’ll talk in the morning, okay? When you’re sober.”
Agron sighed dramatically.
“Fine, whatever. That’s cool. I’m not, like, upset or whatever—not that I don’t care—’cause you know, I do—like, a lot—but not in that way, that much. Fuck, I need to stop talking. And stop drinking, forever. Hey, who wants to sing a song?”
In the front seat, Crixus loudly and ardently wished for death.
---
When Nasir emerged from his room that morning, freshly dressed and showered, Agron was awake and miserable.
“You hate me,” he mumbled.
“Can’t hear you.”
“You hate me,” Agron said, louder, then buried his head in a pillow. “Fuck. Why else would you keep me alive instead of letting me end my misery?” One eye cracked open. “Did you shower?”
“I did,” Nasir confirmed. “I made coffee—do you want some?”
He had started the coffee as soon as he awoke, and the entire apartment smelled of it; that was one advantage of having Agron drunk on his couch, instead of Mira. Mira tended to vomit spectacularly at the mere thought of food when hungover, while Agron only complained of splitting headaches.
“No, thanks, I’m just going to have some water. Here, I’ll get it—”
He stood and almost immediately groaned, clutching his head.
"Sit down,” Nasir ordered. Agron unhappily obeyed, and he went to pour himself a cup of coffee and a tall glass of water. “Aspirin?”
“Dear God, yes. You never shower.”
“Actually, I do it pretty often, thanks.”
He dropped two pills in Agron’s hand and set the glass down beside him. Agron’s eyes opened and flickered carefully around the apartment.
“This is your apartment.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Of course you shower in your own apartment, duh. But never in mine. But I’m not in my apartment.”
“No, Crixus refused to drive with you anymore once you started singing One Million Bottles of Cheap Domestic Shit on the Wall. We were already here, so he told me to take your or leave you by the side of the road.”
Agron snickered. “Million Bottles of Shit. Dude, drunk me is so awesome.” A ray of sunlight suddenly fell on the couch. “Owww.”
“Drink,” Nasir ordered. He held up the glass to Agron’s lips, and he slurped.
“Never again. If you see me with beer, just, like, knock that shit out of my hands.”
“Don’t make me laugh. Come on, take your meds.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled. His head fell back against the couch, and his eyes closed. Nasir smiled fondly. Just as he was standing to make breakfast, though, Agron turned his head. “I—” He hesitated. “You said we’d talk.”
The prospect seemed much more daunting in the light of day, and Nasir had absolutely no desire to see another straight man fumble through phrases like “flattered, really” and “absolutely would in difference circumstances.” He smiled feebly.
“And you promised you’d braid my hair,” he said lightly. “Some promises don’t have to be kept.”
“Hey, I meant that,” Agron said seriously. He sat up. “Do you have a brush?”
“I don’t—”
“Get it and come here.”
Nasir sighed. He recognized that look; there was no arguing it. He fetched a brush from the bathroom and approached the couch.
“Sit down. No, on the floor. Kneel, facing that way.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.” He grinned. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Sometimes I really wish I didn’t,” Nasir sighed.
He knelt on the floor. Agron swept all of Nasir’s hair over his shoulders and started to brush it out. His touch was gentle. For a moment, they were silent. Cool drops of water trickled down Nasir’s back, and he shivered. Then Agron set the brush down. His fingers trailed through Nasir’s hair and lingered for a moment, just hovering over the top of his spine.
“Agron…”
“Sorry.” His hands returned to task briskly. “Half-braid okay?”
“I don’t care, Agron.”
“Right, right. Listen.” He took a breath. “The truth is… I think you’re incredible, and I have since basically the day we met. I’m sorry it took that much alcohol to tell you, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. You’re smart and kind and strong, and I know you’re used to being alone, you know, relying on yourself and everything, but I’m not. I like taking care of people, and there’s no one I care about more than you, so I want to…”
“Take care of me,” Nasir finished. “By reaching tall shelves and braiding my hair?”
He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Agron had blushed. He smiled to himself when Agron fumbled over his next words. “No, just—however you want me to, you know? I just thought that was—the best way—to, you know, describe it.”
Nasir shifted uncomfortably. He knew what Agron was thinking about—Levitus, Nasir’s last boyfriend, who had thought that “taking care of him” meant deciding who he talked to, where he went, when and how they had sex, and what he was doing at all hours. It had been Spartacus who had first pointed out that this behavior was fucked up, but Agron more than anyone else still bristled at even the slightest mention of the guy’s name.
And it was just like Agron to be so wary of pushing boundaries that he hid his feelings entirely, except for the occasional, half-aborted flirtation. Nasir smiled to himself. It was nice having someone take care of him like this, he thought—brushing his hair and offering to make him coffee. The gentle tug of hands in his hair was soothing, and cradled in between Agron’s legs, he could still smell the comforting odors of sleep, sweat, and a hint of cigarette smoke, filtered through the scent of his own shampoo.
It was almost domestic—familiar, certainly, from the other mornings like this when the whole gang had gone out and been too tired to return to their own apartments and dorms, or that one week last semester when they had decided that round-the-clock study groups for midterms were a good idea. Nasir had been new to the group, then, and new to being single. More than once he had ended up huddled with Agron in a corner, bent over a book, somehow both more comfortable and more self-conscious under that light, inscrutable gaze and distracted by the musky odor of his cologne….
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make this awkward,” Agron said abruptly. “Forget I said anything, okay? Your hair’s finished.”
The braid was left untied—Nasir could feel where the heavy plait faded, unbound locks mingling with the rest of his hair. It looked nice, probably. Simple, but decorative. Quickly, he reached back and grasped for Agron’s hand. He pulled it closer, so he could turn his face just a little bit and press a kiss to the knuckles, inhaling the myriad scents clinging to his skin. For a long moment, they remained still. Agron didn’t make a sound.
Nasir turned and sat up on his knees, so they were almost the same height. One hand reached up hesitantly to rest against Agron’s cheek. His stubble was prickly, and his hand fluttering uncertainly down to Agron’s neck. His pulse thudded beneath Nasir’s palm.
“If you make any more height jokes, we’re done,” he threatened.
“Understood.”
Nasir’s fingers wound in the leather chords at Agron’s neck, and Agron’s head cradled his skull, and then they were pulling each other close and suddenly they were kissing. Agron’s lips were firm but undemanding, molded against Nasir’s. The kiss softened and Agron pulled away just slightly. Nasir chased him for another, butterfly-light kiss before Agron touched their foreheads together, lips parted and breath mingling in between them. He was smiling foolishly, his eyes closed, and Nasir knew the expression to be echoed on his own face.
“How’s your head?” he asked absently.
“Hm? Oh, I’m fine—hangover’s completely gone. Of course it is; haven’t you ever seen any Disney movies? You’ve cured me.”
“Are you referencing true love’s first kiss before we’ve even gone on a date?”
“Maybe.”
“My, somebody’s bold,” Nasir teased. Then he ran both hands up and down Agron’s chest (damn, his abs and pecs were as impressive as his arms) just so he could, and because he liked seeing Agron’s amused smile.
“Look who’s talking. Besides, I know something you don’t know.”
“And what’s that?”
“That this is meant to be,” he said simply. His strong fingers wrapped around Nasir’s wrists and brought them to his own face. He peeked between his lashes at Nasir, smiling, and goddamn if that didn’t do funny things to his stomach.
Nasir’s heart pounded. The thought was terrifying, but somehow thrilling—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to push it to the back of his mind or hold it in front to cherish forever, but the wisest course of action seemed to be to kiss Agron again. So he did. And if it was meant to be, he thought, smiling into the kiss, then he just wouldn’t ever stop.