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There may come a day when one Racetrack Higgins will abruptly leave home through his bedroom window. He will walk nineteen minutes from his house to someone else’s. He will knock on the door at 11:17 at night and he will wait until someone he hopes still recognizes him answers.

Now, Race won’t intend to run away. He won’t set out to knock on that someone’s door. He definitely won’t mean to speak with them.

But, these are events that will transpire, and Race will feel almost powerless to stop them.

Almost like the universe is trying to put him somewhere.

—

The door swung open with a noise that could’ve raised the dead (and it certainly raised memories, but Race didn’t dwell on those).

“What do you want,” Spot said. Even Race could tell he didn’t mean it as a question.

Still, with or without an invitation, Racetrack Higgins was a man of many words. And this was a situation he had accounted for repeatedly over the years.

It’s been a while.

I need your car.

I miss you.

Fancy meeting you here.

I love you.

What are you doing up at this time of night?

I never stopped loving you.

Hi.

I want you back.

I’m sorry.

He settled on this: “Remember eighth grade?”

Spot didn’t respond. He stood with a hand still on the door frame, and Race could tell he was losing his patience. He sped up.

“We were fourteen, and I was the last one left at your pool party. My mom didn’t think to pick me up, I didn’t think to walk home. I don’t think either of us minded. And we took the leftover watermelon and tried to eat it with ketchup and spat the seeds in the pool and you said as soon as you could drive, we would get out of here. Go on a road trip. Just you and me.”

Spot sighed. “Tony…”

“You’ve never been one to break a promise, Spot,” Race said softly.

They didn’t break eye contact. “Why now?”

There was a pause, and Race said in an even quieter voice, “I had to get out.”

Something softened in Spot’s eyes, and Race dared to believe he’d won. “Wait here.”

Race took a seat on the grass, not because he normally sat on other people’s lawns, but because he had walked nineteen minutes to get there and he was emotionally exhausted. He deserved to sit down, he thought.

Spot returned what seemed like hours later, and in that time Race had procured a flower crown for him.

Spot started. “Where the fuck did you find dandelions in October?”

Race shrugged. Spot left the flowers on a garden gnome (“My aunt will hate it,” he explained).

Spot lifted a ring of keys. “Ready?”

Race only beamed in return.

–

Race frowned from beside Spot. “Do you have any music?”

“Not until we leave this godforsaken town.” Spot buckled his seatbelt and side-eyed Race until he followed suit. “Where are we going?”

Race pointed ahead, which was enough confirmation for Spot.

They talked without break for the next hour, which was mostly on Race. Spot doubted he minded. They made fun of signs and told stupid jokes and it was almost the same as before, except Spot was still waiting for closure on what “before” had been.

They didn’t stop until they reached the city limits of their tired old southern town. Spot pulled over into an Aldi parking lot and turned to Race.

“Tony,” he said, a nickname Race had never let anyone else use. “Are you sure? Are you sure you want to run away in my uncle’s half-dead Prius with no plan and nothing but the clothes on our backs?”

Race met his gaze with an intensity that Spot hadn’t anticipated. “Spot,” he said, his eyes full of stability and chaos. Race had always provided a wild comfort that Spot reveled in. God, he had missed that. “I never want to come back.”

–

Race never ended up asking Spot to play music. He enjoyed talking with his friend him too much to fill the air with anything but the sounds of their voices.

They parked behind a Walmart around four thirty, and Race promised that he’d pay for groceries in the morning. Spot was asleep before five.

Race was up another full hour and a half, sitting alone with his thoughts in the passenger’s seat. The adrenaline hadn’t faded yet. His mind was a little blurry, but there were worse things.

He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was here, in Spot’s car, miles away from home–miles away from home, but with Spot nonetheless, and so did it really matter where he was? Simultaneously he felt like it had always been this way; like life wasn’t worth living if he wasn’t living like this.

There were worse things.

Race didn’t let himself glance at Spot in the backseat. He had no way of knowing what Spot was doing this for. It could have as easily been pity as nostalgia as the same urge that had come over Race the day before; or rather, that had come over him every day for months. All Race wanted was this. And that thought, in the dark of the morning, sparked in him a hope that he could fix this.

–

Spot was awake by 10:45, which left him with more rest than he’d hoped for. In that time Race had–apparently–made good on his promise and bought a trunk full of groceries at the Walmart.

Spot shifted in the backseat until he was sitting in something relatively close to an upright position. “Race?”

Blond curls peeked out from the passenger seat. “Oh. Morning, Spot.”

“Did you go to Walmart?”

“We are currently in a Walmart parking lot,” Race pointed out astutely. “The entertainment around here is pretty sparse, unless I wanted to scare pigeons.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Spot said. He pushed himself up and reached for his phone, before realizing it was almost certainly out of battery.

“Oh, but I did. It was time for breakfast, I was hungry, and I had a hundred bucks from babysitting. It’s not a big deal, Spot.” He paused, glancing back to briefly meet Spot’s eyes. “I also got us toiletries. The food should last, and I found the cheapest reusable water bottles I could, which have”--he held up his–“fun children’s TV designs.”

Spot rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t Monster High get canceled, like, three years ago?”

Race snorted. “You would know that. Come on, I need to sort out where to put everything. It’s in the trunk.”

Spot followed him out of the car (You’d follow him anywhere. You followed him out to a Walmart in who knows where, his brain told him, to which he replied–in his usual fashion–Shut the fuck up) and they started sorting through plastic bags.

Race put all the packaged food (was it food?) on one side of the trunk. Spot pulled out a bag of birthday cake Oreos. He raised his eyebrows at his companion.

“Gay Oreos,” Race said, by way of explanation. “They were on sale.”

“I’m–I’m pretty sure they’re not gay Oreos,” Spot said, but he placed them with Race’s stack of glorified astronaut food. Other gems discovered included a lighter, a phone cable, dinosaur oatmeal (“We don’t have a microwave, how the fuck are we going to eat this?” “Oh, ye of little faith”), and a box of CheezIts with wonderful designs from Disney’s Frozen.

“So, all this stuff” –Spot gestured to the area of the trunk with the items he’d deemed appropriate– “I can understand. But, for all of this…care to explain, Tony?”

Race hopped up onto the edge of the trunk. “Okayokayokayokay. That camping light was already there actually–but I didn’t know how long they lasted so I got a buncha batteries and a flashlight. The food…well, I just got the cheapest stuff. We can get food anywhere. Phone cable, notebooks and pens, travel shampoo and other toiletry stuff–oh and. They had free umbrellas at the door.”

Spot held up his Paw Patrol water bottle. “You’re a dumbass,” he said, “but I have to admit, you did cover all the bases.”

Tony Race pointed a finger at him. “Except! We still need clothing. You know Texas weather is wack. We must prepare.”

Spot scooted next to him and sighed. “Where do you propose we do that?”

He grabbed Spot’s shoulders and turned him towards the store across from them. “Salvation Army Family Store.”

—

“We’ll want two more pairs of pants, each, depending on prices. Jeans if we can get them.” Race paused to look at Spot. “I will warn you now. We’ll probably be wearing stained t-shirts with bad puns on them.”

Spot shrugged. At this point, he was entirely committed to whatever would go down on this trip, stained t-shirts or not. “Do we need, like…socks? Shoes?”

Race squinted at the sky as if it could give him answers. “If you can find them.”

Spot took a cart and Tony (Race. His name is Race) insisted on driving it, leaving Spot trailing behind like a tired older sibling. Race flipped through the jeans at an honestly astonishing rate until he found a few pairs to toss to Spot.

“I think those’ll fit. Wanna go look at shirts?” Race was pushing the cart before Spot could respond.

—

“Our best bet is Jesus merch,” Race said, shuffling through the small section. “There’s a lot of it, and nobody ever buys it.”

“Jesus merch?” Spot deadpanned.

Race held up a church camp shirt that proclaimed “Fun with the Son!” in bright letters. “Jesus merch. You wanna look for jackets? Mediums are our best bet since most’a’them are smaller than they used to be.”

“Sure. I…” If Race didn’t know better, he would’ve thought Spot was hesitating. “Sure.”

Race threw more garments in the cart as Spot stalked off to be emo somewhere else. His personal favorite had a print of celery with the word “Stalker” underneath. There was also a line of matching marathon t-shirts, and he took two, knowing that having coordinated outfits would piss Spot off.

(He also picked up something–it had undoubtedly come into existence as a gag gift–that had white letters saying “Catch Flights, Not Feelings.” He left it in the store; the irony was a little too on the nose.)

—

They emerged from the Salvation Army fully equipped with the most budget outfits they could manage. Spot had, surprisingly, found tennis shoes for both of them; Spot’s had been previously owned by a soccer mom, if Race had to guess.

They sat in the front seats of Spot’s car–Spot’s uncle’s car. None of the tension between Spot and Race had fizzled out; at least, not on Race’s end. He still had unanswered questions, and fuck, he was still furious with Spot for any number of reasons. But once you all but run away together–actually. They did run away together. Once something so momentous, something so personal happens, that you share…

Well. The tension wasn’t gone, but it was masked by anticipation.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

Race blinked and turned towards Spot. “Huh?”

“I said, did you–”

“No, I heard you, I just…” I didn’t think you cared. “Yeah, I did.” It was a stupid thing to get worked up about. “Hey. Spot?”

Spot sighed. “Tony?”

“I–never mind. I’ll tell you later.” Race unlocked his phone, opened Spotify, and put it in a plastic cup that had been lying at the back of the trunk–the radio in this car was broken, along with a bunch of other shit, but he didn’t really care.

This was his life now. He was in a car with Spot Conlon, and they were gone. They were gone, just like they had talked about since middle school. Race leaned his seat back and smiled.

—

Race had been off all morning.

Spot knew he couldn’t properly gauge this. He knew he’d been away from Race for two years and that he had no right to say when he was acting different.

But.

The Race from last night had been impulsive, and intense, and maybe a little solemn. And today he seemed…almost reasonable. But then, Spot himself was feeling a little impulsive. Maybe they balanced each other out. Maybe that was the magic of Racetrack Higgins.

(Race was no different that morning, but Spot didn’t know that yet.)

Spot didn’t let himself dwell on that.

He didn’t ask Race before starting the car again. He backed out of the parking lot and he drove. He drove until they got somewhere. He drove until he didn’t think about his aunt and uncle and home and school and all this bullshit Race had put him through.

He drove until he didn’t think.

—

Spot drove until Race forced him to stop at McDonald’s.

There were plenty of reasons for Race to make him park the car there.

I love you, but I love chicken nuggets more.

McDonald’s is cheap. Whataburger is not. We are broke children.

You need a break. Please eat some french fries.

He voiced one: “I want a cheeseburger.”

It was truly a wonder that Spot hadn’t ditched him to hitchhike with some kind tourists yet.

—

“Spot?”

Spot started and locked eyes with Race. “Sorry.”

“Is something wrong?” Race propped his elbows up on the table. They had long since finished their food, and at this point it was a matter of time until someone kicked them out. There was a genuine air of concern around Race, and Spot looked back down at the table to distract himself from it.

“It’s just…I haven’t checked my phone yet. My aunt…”

“If you’re worried about it, just don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t. Check it, I mean.” Race gestured at where it was resting between them. “Your aunt and uncle…they’re pretty shit, Spot. You don’t owe it to them to talk to them.”

Spot faltered, then sighed. “You’re right.” He put the phone back into his pocket and headed towards the door. He turned back to Race, who had been looking out the window. “You coming?”

“Right. Yeah. Let’s go.”

—

Spot had the music taste of a thirteen-year-old who shopped at Hot Topic.

Now, Race wasn’t one to call names, but he wasn’t going to lie. After listening to what Spot played in the Prius, he was surprised that he didn’t have dyed-black hair, eyeliner, and Doc Martens.

Actually, Spot did have black hair (well, it was a brown dark enough to pass for black) and Doc Martens. Race squinted at him. Eyeliner next. One step at a time.

(Spot was, once, a thirteen-year-old who shopped at Hot Topic, but he would rather die than let Race know that.)

Sitting in the car and watching Spot drive (not because he was watching him on purpose, but because he had nothing else to watch) was an interesting situation. Spot seemed to be stuck in his own world, and Race wasn’t about to interrupt him.

When they were friends before, Spot had been Race’s impulse control (Race had set his down somewhere in elementary school and it hadn’t turned up since). But now, here they were, and Race was making him stop at gas stations to rest.

How far they’d come.

Race didn’t particularly want to think about the past two years. He didn’t want to think about home, he didn’t want to think about school, he didn’t want to think about their stupid little hometown, and he would rather do anything than think about living without Spot.

But it was inevitable.

Because everything Spot did reminded Race of how they used to be, and the emotions of their fight–their stupid fight, he recalled, it was pathetic, what had torn them apart–came rushing back, and he was left dizzy with the memories. Of crying and laughing and understanding each other without saying a word.

There had been other friends, too, but when Race split off from the group he forced himself to forget about them, their faces, their names. Spot had been the first. The most important. The only one he couldn’t scrub from his mind.

But it all came flooding back to him as they sped down a road he didn’t recognize. They’d stayed over the most often at Jack’s house, because Jack’s foster mom didn’t give a shit what was happening at home for either of them. They were so young.

And there was David. Race missed David. God, he missed him. Missed both of them. David was smart and sarcastic and he didn’t care that Race loved Spot or that he was a goddamn disaster because of it. David never made Race feel stupid.

Names and details and fragments of faces, voices, feelings ran through Race’s head and he was sure tears were running too; he’d given it all up, and for what? What good did it do him?

What good did it do them?

No, he reminded himself, it did them a world of good. Because they didn’t need him there. They had Charlie and Albert and Buttons and later Specs and Romeo, and they didn’t need him.

(What Race didn’t know was that the rest of the group splintered off in the following year. Boundaries were crossed and trust broken, and if Race had known the details, he would’ve taken it to be his fault.)

When Race loved, he loved with his whole heart. He was overwhelmed by it all, every fucking time. With every one of these people. And he’d loved Spot more than anything. More than anything in the world, more than anyone. So much that it scared him, that he was worried he’d bury himself in it and never escape. So much that he almost did. And it didn’t matter how he had loved him, at what point; it mattered that he did. That he always had, it felt like.

And Spot probably hated him now.

(It didn’t matter to Race that Spot had been civil–kind, even–to him that day, or the day before. His emotions had been unrelentlessly bent out of shape so many times that he was worried they might not function any longer.)

“--Race? Racer. Tony. Oh, thank God.” Tony–Race, his name was Race, why did Spot call him that?--right–only Spot called him that--blinked open his eyes to see that Spot had parked them outside of a truck stop.

“Spot?” Race hated how he sounded. His voice broke on the syllable. Had he been crying? Had Spot been crying?

“Racer, you were…do you know what happened there?” Spot’s hand was on his shoulder and it was all Race could think about.

“I don’t…it was…I was just thinking, was all.” He looked down at his hands. Spot must’ve unbuckled his seatbelt for him.

“You weren’t responding. Race, I’ve been trying to get your attention for” –he glanced at the clock built into the car– “five minutes, now?”

“Shit,” Race breathed. His sight was blurry.

Spot laughed humorlessly. “Yeah. Don’t…What got you so messed up?”

He took a breath and tried to focus on Spot’s face. “I just, you reminded me of…of before, and I thought of Jack and David and…” Race paused. His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? “I guess…it got out of hand.”

Spot seemed to go through a catalog of emotions before settling on something he didn’t recognize. Race dropped his head onto his shoulder. It only took a moment for Spot to fully embrace him, and shit, Race had missed this. All of this.

“Tony,” Spot said slowly, “do I need…do you need me to take you back home? If this–if I–”

“No,” Race said, as forcefully as he could. He pulled away. “No. This won’t…it won’t happen again, I swear.”

—

Spot glanced at his phone, which had been abandoned on the dash. “If you’re sure.”

Race followed his eyes. “Were you texting someone?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Look, you weren’t responding, I’d pulled over, I was freaking out, and–maybe I texted Jack, okay? Because you were crying and you couldn’t hear me and shit, Tony, I was panicking, I–”

“It’s okay,” Race said softly. “I–It’s fine.”

Spot blinked. There was so much tension in this scene they were in, it felt like he might combust–like everything would shatter like glass if he made one wrong move.

He couldn’t afford to make a wrong move.

“Do you talk? You and Jack?”

“Not…really. He knows–he knew you, and I thought maybe he might know what to do.” Spot wanted to take Race’s hand, wanted to hug him again and assure him that he would be alright, but–he couldn’t. Not yet. Not ever, his brain reminded him.

“Did he?”

Spot met his eyes. “No.”

There was a silence filled with electricity and the static from the faulty radio. Race didn’t break eye contact.

They were closer together than Spot had realized. The first thing he’d ever noticed about Race was his eyes. It was something Spot was sure everyone noticed about him; tall, bold hair, impossibly blue eyes.

Race was noticeable. People noticed him.

So if Spot spent a little too long looking at his eyes, that wasn’t a problem. That wasn’t unusual. Was it?

Race stammered something that Spot couldn’t make out.

“What?”

Race leaned away and turned back towards the windshield. “Nothing.”

Spot was almost vibrating with anxiety, and god, he needed to get out of this car. “I’m gonna–get something from the gas station.”

Race nodded, but he didn’t look to watch Spot walk away.

—

(Race said “You’re fucking beautiful.”)

—

Spot put his weight against the outside wall of the building, where Race couldn’t see him. Shit. The first time he’d talked to Jack in almost a year, and it was after he fucking ran away with someone that they’d both tried to ignore the absence of for far too long. Racetrack Higgins.

Antonio Higgins.

He didn’t want to think of their fractured relationship. He didn’t want to think of the friends he’d lost over it. He didn’t want to think of anything but the here and the now, but–

Here was somewhere uncharted. Now felt all too familiar.

They’d kissed the summer after ninth grade. Spot couldn’t remember the context. But he remembered in sharp detail the feeling of Race–-of the person he loved most in the world–being so close to him. He remembered thinking he could die happy if he could do this again.

He remembered the world falling away.

Spot checked his watch. Twenty-three minutes. It had been twenty-three minutes since he’d parked behind this gas station. It didn’t seem like long enough.

Something else, more recent, was playing in his mind, too.

“Spot. I never want to come back.”

Race wanted this. Race wanted to be here, to be away from it all. He wanted to be with Spot. He never wanted to come back.

—

Race let out a breath. He’d gotten out of the car as soon as Spot was out of his line of sight. The pavement wasn’t comfortable, and it definitely wasn’t sanitary, but it was grounding. So, he sat.

He watched his breath materialize and float away. It normally wasn’t cold enough for that this time of year.

Maybe they were just special.

Race knew Spot was sitting beside him before he said a word. He looked up from his knees. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Spot laughed. Race almost didn’t look at him.

(He wouldn’t admit it, but he knew he wouldn’t look away.)

Spot’s eyes were brown.

“Are you ready to go?” Spot said softly.

Race’s heart ached. He ignored it. “Only if you are.”

—

They didn’t end up going. They parked behind another superstore for the rest of the day, because Spot was tired and Race was worried about him and Race was tired and Spot was worried about him.

Not many words were exchanged, but it was enough.

—

The next two days were uneventful.

Well.

There were no more course-changing events or bonding moments or tears. But to Race–to Race, every time he made Spot laugh, it was eventful. Every time he felt like they were getting somewhere–on the edge of something, he didn’t know what–it was eventful.

But there wasn’t a real one, a concrete event, until two days later.

—

“We’re in Oklahoma.”

Spot didn’t respond, he just looked over at Race and reveled in the smile on his face. He matched it.

“Spot, didn’t you hear me? We’re in Oklahoma!” He beamed.

Spot wanted to kiss him.

He didn’t. Obviously. But he wanted to.

Race had been acting more toned-down than usual, which was not strange for most people; but when you are near Racetrack Higgins, not being himself for forty-eight hours, and Racetrack Higgins is the most important person to you–it can be a little off-putting.

But with that smile…

Spot grinned. “I know.”

“Spot,” Race whined, leaning over to rest his chin on Spot’s shoulder. “I need your car. I wanna take a picture with it in front of the sign.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I can barely remember where we started.”

“Texas, you dumbass.”

—

It was strange, really.

Race hadn’t talked to Spot in over two years. And here they were, acting like best friends again. Years of unresolved arguments, unresolved tension–and they’d discussed none of it.

It was strange. Not entirely unwelcome. Not entirely healthy.

It felt wonderful, though.

—

Sixteen minutes into Oklahoma (the state, not the musical, although Race had been singing more than necessary), Spot pulled over and turned to Race. “Do you think we can find a laundromat? And, like, another shower stop?”

Race nodded. “Probably. We can just…drive til we hit a town, I guess.”

“That’s gonna be on your tombstone.”

“Damn straight.”

Spot chucked a Goldfish cracker at Race. “You’re not though.”

Race stuck his tongue out. “Neither are you.”

He froze. “I never told you that.”

A look of confusion crossed over Race’s features. “What? Oh. I just thought…cause–”

“No, you’re right, it’s just.” Spot took a breath. “I haven’t really. Said it to anyone, you know?”

Race paused as he pondered this. “Well, I’m gay.”

“I know, Race.”

—

They did end up finding a town, eventually, the name of which Race couldn’t remember and Spot couldn’t pronounce. After locating a laundromat and taking a shower at a truck stop as quickly as he could, Race was back in the Prius. This thing was truly a work of art. Race had to twist the handle to the passenger door just so every time he closed it if he wanted it to stay shut.

“Hi,” Race said. It was truly incredible how quickly they’d learned wordless communication. Only, it hadn’t been quick, had it? It was five years in the making. (Seven, he reminded himself. Seven years in the making.)

Spot closed the door on his side. “Hi.”

“We have two hours.” Glancing over and seeing Spot’s expression, he added, “Until our laundry is done. What do you wanna do?”

“I dunno. Walk around?”

Race smiled. “Consider it done.”

—

An hour later they were sitting at a patio table in some nice, picturesque park somewhere. The chairs were supposed to be across from each other, but they’d moved them so that they could sit next to each other and watch the same squirrel. Race halfheartedly tapped his fingers on the table.

Spot shifted his chair to look at Race. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. ’M’sorry.” He didn’t meet Spot’s eyes.

“You got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I do, though.” The tapping stopped, and he tightened one of his hands around the other. “I fucking left you. And I come back, out of nowhere, and I take you and the car who knows how far away from home. You don’t deserve this.”

“Race,” Spot said. “You’re right. I don’t deserve you.” He paused until Race looked up. “Tony, I never want to go back.”

Tears pooled in Race’s eyes, and he buried his face in Spot’s shirt. Race was significantly taller than Spot, and this shouldn’t have reasonably worked. But Spot wrapped his arms around him and pulled him impossibly closer and shit.

Spot didn’t bargain for heartbreak.

—

Race was up too late that night. Late enough that he didn’t sleep at all, but he didn’t really mind.

Spot had insisted that Race sleep in the backseat; there was enough room for two, after all, and it wasn’t fair that Race sleep in the front. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but when Spot grabbed his hand in his sleep, he figured it was worth it.

Spot woke up at 3:49.

“What are you doing up at this time of night?” Race asked as innocently as he could.

Spot snorted. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Go back to sleep,” Race said softly.

“You first.”

Race only smiled into the cheap pillow they’d found at Target.

—

They left the town the next day. Spot felt oddly sentimental about it.

—

“It’s been a while,” Race said quietly. They were in a stupidly picturesque spot to watch the sunset, and Race could only look up. “How many days has it been?”

Spot glanced at him. “Five.”

Race hummed.

Spot heard his phone ring and a jolt of anxiety ran through him, replaced with confusion when he saw the caller ID. “It’s David,” he said.

Race froze.

“I’m gonna accept it.”

“No, you can’t–Spot, I–”

“Tony. I’m going to accept it.”

Spot shared a look with Race, just long enough to convince him to stop putting up a fight.

He accepted it.

“David?” he said, and his voice sounded strangely broken.

“Hi.”

“Why…why are you calling?”

“I just…Jack said you texted, and you were with Race, and I…it’s nothing.”

“Race is here. If you wanted to talk to him.”

“I…”

“I’ll put you on speaker.”

Race shrank back into his seat.

“Hi, Race.”

He audibly choked back a sob. “I miss you.”

There was a pause.

“I miss you too.”

—

Spot could hear Race crying later that night.

It hurt more than the first time.

—

“Spot.”

“Tony.”

“It’s been a week. We’ve been gone for a week.”

“Yeah.”

—

Race was falling apart. But he felt more like himself than ever.

Spot grounded him. Spot made him feel like a real person. It didn’t matter if everything he’d worked for over the past two years was falling apart. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t forget everything before then. It didn’t fucking matter that he was in love with his best friend–his best friend?

Because he was here.

Spot was here. And Race was here.

That’s all he wanted.

—

It was not, Race would later admit, one of his best ideas to walk into IKEA with Spot.

Now, Race knew that when the two were together, they had almost one functional sense of direction. But he had a tendency to get distracted by shiny objects and kids’ toys, and at this point he wasn’t convinced that Spot would follow him. And if they were split up in this monster of a building…

Bad things happened, it turned out.

—

“Sean Conlon? Can Sean Conlon report to the front desk? Thank you.”

—

“Race,” Spot started, “you did not just ask an employee to find me over the intercom.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Spot rolled his eyes.

—

“What are you thinking about?”

They were sitting in the front seats of the Prius, as had become second nature over the past week and a half. They stole glances at each other so often that Spot wondered how long it would be until Race found him out.

Race leaned back in his seat. “I dunno.” He shifted. “You. How the fuck I managed to survive without you for two years.”

Spot hummed. Surely Race knew what he was doing.

“I can barely remember why,” Race said, looking out the window. “Why we fought, I mean.”

“It was you.”

“What?”

“It was because of you. I thought I was hurting you, so.”

“So you pushed me away.”

“Right.”

“You weren’t.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You weren’t then, you aren’t now. You did after you left.” Race turned to him. “I was hurting, Spot, but not because of you.”

“Yeah. Well.” Spot paused. “It’s funny. That was the worst breakup I ever had.”

“We weren’t together.”

Spot stared at him. “Sure, I know.”

“Maybe you were hurting me,” Race said. “Maybe it was the kind I could handle.”

“Race, I couldn’t see you like that. You almost…I couldn’t do it.”

“I know. Still kind of shitty, though.” Race put his forehead on the window. “Do you ever wish we hadn’t?”

“Every day.”

—

The ground wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than sitting in the car. Too often in the last week had Race found himself in this position. It was getting colder, especially here–away from home–and he was left wishing he’d brought an extra jacket.

Race stared at the gravel like it could tell him something. He still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to get here. In the middle of nowhere with Spot Conlon.

Except Spot wasn’t here right now. Spot had left again.

He couldn’t fucking keep a good thing, could he?

Race’s fingernails dug into the skin on his arm. He should’ve known better, really.

Spot slid next to him and handed him a root beer from the convenience store. Race didn’t take it.

“What do you want, Spot?”

“You want the truth?”

He didn’t. He wanted Spot to say he loved him and that it would be fine and that they would be okay. He didn’t want to hear that Spot was going back home, because surely that was coming.

“I want you back,” Spot said plainly. Like it was a fact. Like it was something he should know already.

Race squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his arms. “No, you don’t.” He couldn’t, he didn’t.

“I do,” Spot said quietly, and Race knew he would be making heavy eye contact if Race looked up. “I’d follow you anywhere, Race. I followed you out of the state, for God’s sake.”

He blinked away tears. “Spot,” he started.

“Tony.”

“Spot, I need to–I never stopped loving you. You’re not…if you’re fucking with me, I need you to–”

“I’m not.” Race sobbed a little and Spot moved closer to embrace him. “I’m not.”

They didn’t say anything for another few minutes until Spot spoke again. “Race, I don’t…if something’s bothering you, you need to tell me.” Race nodded into his shoulder.

They stayed that way on the pavement for longer than either of them would admit.

“Are you ready to go?”

Race pulled away and wiped his eyes. Screw jackets. Spot was warm. “Yeah.”

—

“Nine days.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

—

They found another stupidly picturesque sunset viewpoint at the next town they drove through.

Race had bought a torn-up picnic blanket of sorts at the Salvation Army. (It had Clifford on it.) Race, being Race, had also bought Cheetos Puffs, and they broke out the gay Oreos, which Spot had forgotten about.

It was comfortable. Race talked about a TV show Spot hadn’t seen, and Spot leaned heavily into his side. It was warm and familiar and oh, Spot thought he could live this way forever.

Race stopped talking for a few minutes and rested his head on top of Spot’s. “Spot,” he said.

“Tony.”

He pulled out of the hug and shifted to face Spot. “Can I kiss you?”

He faltered. “What?” Race leaned back further, but Spot cut him off before he could say anything. “No–it’s–please do.”

Race looked up at him. “You’re sure?”

He nodded.

Spot’s eyes fluttered closed as Race ran his fingers along his cheek, brushing his hair back and cupping his jaw. He shivered involuntarily; maybe he could blame it on the cold. (He wouldn’t.) Race left a kiss on the top of his head, and Spot could live on the memory of that alone for days.

He opened his eyes so he could look at Race when he pulled away. Shit. How did he get so lucky?

Race leaned forwards and pressed their lips together. Spot took a moment to gather himself before wrapping his arms around the boy.

Race kissed like he talked: fast and excitable and laughing a little at how ridiculous this was–that they had taken so long to do this again. There was something else there, too; everything he did had an air of intention. It was something not enough people gave him credit for, but something he had so readily that it surprised even Spot.

Race kissed him, and Spot wondered how long he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Race kissed him like he meant it.

But there was also an undercurrent of pain. Of longing and loss and sadness at how fucked up the world was–at how fucked up they were. Spot sensed this and felt a searing pain in his chest, and he was sure tears were running down his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Because loving Race didn’t mean that he could ignore this. Loving Race was what kept him going (what had kept him going since they’d met), it was the thing that everything else centered around, but it did not dull the pain.

Race brought beauty to everything that had gone wrong. Race helped him see the beauty that was already there. Race was the beauty in the chaos–he was both–he was everything, at least a little bit. (At least to Spot.)

It circled back to Race. Every time. And Spot was here, and they were so close, and he didn’t have an excuse to think of anything else. It had always scared him, how much he cared about this boy, how he dove headfirst into this without a second thought.

Race pulled away first, leaving Spot to chase after him for a moment. Somehow they’d come impossibly closer to each other, and Spot shifted to give Race room to breathe.

Race let out a breath that materialized in the air. Spot had forgotten it was cold out. “I think that was better than last time.”

Last time…meaning…Spot blinked. Ninth grade. He didn’t think Race had remembered that. “I’d say so.”

“Do you…” Race closed his eyes and slid his hand down to join it with Spot’s. “Spot, what is this for you?”

He almost laughed. (Almost. But the weight of the situation wasn’t lost on him.) “I meant what I said the other day, Tony.”

—

“What are you saying?” Race dared to look at him. Spot was, in reality, much shorter than him, but Race had shitty posture and tended to sit so that they could meet eyes regardless.

“Tony.” He leaned forward just enough to rest his head on Race’s chest. “I’m saying I love you.”

It was not, by any standards, a shocking revelation. Race beamed and snuggled closer to him. Of course Spot loved him. But that did nothing to stop the burst of euphoria Race got to hear him say it.

“I love you too,” Race said into Spot’s hair. “If that makes any difference.”

(It made a world of difference to Spot, but Race didn’t know that.)

—

Race found himself crying in the passenger seat the next day, which he probably should’ve expected.

“S’nothing,” he said when Spot found him. “M’just…emotionally hungover. I’m fine.”

Spot kissed Race’s neck and it was so sweet that he thought he might die on the spot (hah, get it, spot). “You’re not,” he said, “but I’ll let you tell me when you’re ready.”

“Yeah.”

—

“I miss them.”

“Who?” Spot asked, knowing full well who.

Race looked down at his hands. “David. And Jack. And Charlie and Albert and Specs and Romeo and you and me and us together, Spot. I miss us.”

Spot pulled over at the first place he saw, which was a bagel restaurant attached to a strip mall. “Yeah. Me too.”

They paused for a few minutes, just existing in each other’s space. It was a feeling Spot had grown accustomed to.

“Do you still have Jack’s number?”

Spot closed his eyes. “Yeah. I do.”

“Can I…”

“Race, you don’t need to apologize to him.”

“I do.”

“It’s my fault, anyway. He knows that.”

“He’s wrong.”

“Race.”

“Spot.” Race turned towards him, and there was a wild look in his eyes, like he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t do this. (He never would.) “I have to. He needs to hear it from me.”

He sighed. “Fine. I just…please don’t hurt yourself over this, Tony. You can’t…Jack’s not perfect. I can’t tell you how he’ll respond.”

“I won’t.”

—

Race had retreated to a somewhat sketchy corner around the strip mall they’d stopped at. Faint green light glowed from a neon sign that Race couldn’t see, and an empty beer bottle lay abandoned across from him.

He’d been staring at the phone for eleven minutes. Eleven minutes that he could’ve spent talking with Spot, or kissing Spot, or sleeping. God, he probably needed to sleep again soon. But instead, he looked at a blank screen for eleven minutes, the anxiety creeping over him until he forced himself to start the call.

He let it ring.

(Jack was facing a similar moral dilemma to Race back at home. Against his will, he’d memorized Race’s number, and he’d anticipated a call since Spot had texted him.)

“Jack.”

Jack sighed on the other end. “Hi, Race.”

“I’m…Spot didn’t think I should call.”

“I can see why.”

“I miss you.”

A pause.

“I miss you too. Where are you now?”

“Who knows…Oklahoma. Somewhere. Far away.”

“Hmm.”

“Is…you still talk with David, right?”

“Yeah. He’s in the other room. We’re moving in together, after high school.”

“Oh. Good for you.”

Another pause. “Race, I know it was shitty of me not to talk to you after you and Spot broke up–”

“We weren’t together.”

“Right. I just…you put me through a lot, back then–do you know how hard it was to see you guys hurt? And there was nothing I could do about it, because you didn’t want to hear it. Race, I loved you. Both of you. You were two of my best friends–my only friends–and I…I was mad. And I think I deserved to be. But.” He sighed again, and it sounded like he’d dropped something and was going to pick it up. “I caused most of that pain for myself, by cutting myself off from you–you can tell Spot this, too. So. I’m sorry.”

Race laughed bitterly. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

Jack followed suit, and shit, it felt good to hear him laugh again. “Yeah.”

They stayed on the line for a minute without speaking, just being and taking up space. It wasn’t the same, but…it was a start. It was something.

“Are you ever coming back?”

Race inhaled sharply. “I don’t…I haven’t really thought about it. I don’t want to.”

Jack hummed. “It’s better for you out there. You and Spot…I’m happy for you. I think you should take advantage of it.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Did you want to talk to Davey?”

Another jolt of anxiety ran through Race. “I…sure.”

“Hi, Race.”

“Hi, Dave.”

“I–sorry, I’m shit at talking on the phone. It’s weird to hear your voice again.”

“I know.”

“I love you. I’ll text you later.”

Race choked on a sob. “Love you too.”

Jack’s voice came through the speaker again. “I’ll…I’ll call Spot later. I’m gonna talk to the others.” He paused. Sighed. “Contrary to popular belief, I miss you guys, too.”

“Bye, Jack.”

“Bye.”

There was a moment where neither of them hung up, and Race wondered if he was going to say something else. But the phone clicked off, and he was left to look at it and his reflection in the discarded beer bottle in disbelief.

—

Spot looked at Race questioningly.

“It went okay, I think.”

“Did he yell at you?”

“What? I–no.” Race tucked his feet up into the seat. “He said…he thought he deserved to be mad, but that he shouldn’t have cut himself off from us.”

“Oh.”

Race sighed. “I’m tired.”

“I know, Tony.”

“No, I mean I’m tired of–of this. Of life.” He gestured halfheartedly out the window. “Spot, why can’t everything be easy?”

Tears pricked at Spot’s eyes. “I dunno, Race.”

—

Race felt more than a little off-center in the following days.

He had Spot. He had Spot to rely on, and talk to, and cuddle with. But something was missing. Always.

With the months of heartbreak that led to this trip–this experience–Race had forgotten how to feel. And suddenly he was driving away with Spot Conlon, with his favorite person, and he was okay for the first time since…he couldn’t recall.

Spot might’ve been perfect for him, but Race wasn’t perfect. He had bad days. A lot of them. And as right as it felt to kiss Spot, to be away from it all, not to have to worry about his family or school that he’d already given up on or anything but the here and the now–as right as that felt, there were things missing.

There were people missing.

Because the more times Spot found him crying in the morning, the more Race’s regret grew. He had fucked this up. He had lost his friends, it was his fault…

—

On one night Race rolled over to face Spot in the backseat of the Prius. “Spot,” he said softly.

Spot’s heart fluttered, like it did whenever Race said his name. “Are you okay?”

“I–no. Not really.” Race sighed. “I love you, Spot.”

He reached out a hand to place on Race’s cheek. “I know. I love you too.”

“And I love being here. I just…” He closed his eyes. “I love them, too.”

Race, Spot knew, loved easily. It took longer to gain his trust. And once that trust was broken–

No. Spot had confidence in Race. If anyone, if anyone could bring back these friendships and promises long broken–it was him. And if he wore himself down in the process, well, he had Spot. He always would, as long as he needed him, and longer.

“Of course you do.” He dropped a kiss on Race’s forehead. “So do I.”

Race sighed. “Goodnight, Spot.”

“Night, Tony.”

They weren’t okay, per se. Spot didn’t believe that they ever would be, in every area. But they were making steps. It was incredible, really, how far they’d come. Spot was proud of them. He was proud of Race.

He didn’t wish for them to stay this way. Because if Spot had his way, if he stayed with Race, they’d get better. They’d have ups and downs and everything in between, and Spot would never leave his side.

It was a long way to go in a Honda Prius.

“I love you,” he whispered again. Race couldn’t hear him. That was fine.

He’d tell him in the morning.