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Angel meets OJ some random Thursday in the first semester of senior year.
Em needed help running her lines for Agua Dulce Secondary's upcoming play, and Angel, being a relatively aimless member of the stage crew and frequent victim of her freakishly magnetic personality, got dragged to Haywood ranch like a sopping wet kitten out of a rainstorm.
Angel is toeing his shoes off at the door when he sees OJ— the guy is just standing at the kitchen counter, a half-eaten pear in his hand. Em mentioned having a brother (a year older than them, already graduated, helping run the family business) but Angel wasn't prepared for this.
He’s seen a lot of guys before, he sees guys all the time, he's in fucking highschool. But this guy is different. OJ Haywood is gorgeous. Drop dead; tall, dark and handsome; filling out the forest-green shirt he's wearing in a very distracting way; gorgeous.
Angel is staring. His left foot is still half in his sneaker.
“Dishes in the sink are still dirty,” OJ reminds Em. He doesn't look at Angel, not in the eye, but Angel still gets the feeling he's being watched. Assessed, like a jewel beetle under a microscope.
“I told you I don’t have time to do alla that nasty stuff before school,” Em kicks off her own shoes and gestures in Angel’s general direction. “I’ll do ‘em when Angel leaves.”
“Hey,” Angel says, raising a hand, awkward and gangly and already developing the most cliche fucking crush on his friend’s older brother.
OJ nods at Angel in swift acknowledgment and tells Em, “Pops said to keep your door open.”
Em kisses her teeth. “Man, even if I liked boys I wouldn’t go for Angel.”
Angel opens his mouth to defend himself, then doubles back and closes it. If he says something and Em retaliates by pointing out all his less-dateable qualities in front of her hot brother, he's fucked.
“Pops said it, not me,” OJ drops his pear core in the trash and brushes his hands off on his jean-clad thighs. Angel mouth goes a little dry.
"Whatever, I'll leave the door open," Em says, sticking her head in the fridge. "Angel, you want water?"
"Uh, yeah, sure.”
OJ rolls his shoulders back, shaking off some phantom. "'M gonna get back to work.”
"Aw, man, I thought you were gonna stay and help me with my homework!" Em kicks the fridge door shut, grinning. "What kinda shitty brother are you?"
OJ clicks his tongue, annoyed and a little fond. "Fuck you."
"Fuck you," Em ricochets cheerfully.
OJ mutters something under his breath and heads for the door, fingers flicking against each other unconsciously.
"Say hi to Jean Jacket for me!" Em calls to OJ, and lobs a water bottle in Angel's direction.
For all of Em's many talents, her aim is terrible enough to have Angel tripping over discarded shoes and almost falling on his face trying to gymnast his way into catching the bottle she threw. And if things couldn't possibly be more awkward, he ends up in OJ's path. Their shoulders bump together as Angel straightens from his near brush with the floor.
"Sorry," He blurts out, water clutched haphazardly to his chest.
OJ meets his eyes for a single, electrifying second before his head dips in another nod and he slips out the door.
Angel watches him go, lightheaded.
"Who's Jean Jacket?" Angel asks as Em leads them down the hallway and into her room.
Em shuts the door resolutely behind them. “Old friend,” she says. “Now help me memorize this scene before Ant promotes my understudy.”
OJ is out in the arena when Angel leaves to drive home.
It's late, almost dinner time. The sun is setting behind the house, clouds around the valley washed orange-pink.
Angel raises a hand in another wave. OJ's eyes are shaded by his baseball cap, the rest of him cast in warm red light from the fading sunset as he nods back at Angel.
It becomes a whole thing.
The creak of the staircase up to Em’s room, the specific lines she always forgets, waving at OJ as the sun sets behind him and getting a nod back.
And of course Em notices, because Em always notices, because it's her literal brother and Angel's stupid feelings that he can't seem to be anything but obnoxiously obvious about.
"Hey,” Angel says after rehearsal, “you seemed kinda unsteady during scene five, want to run lines at your house tomorrow or something?”
Em clicks her pen once, twice, and scribbles a line through some stage directions Mr. Holst nixed earlier. Without looking up at him, she asks, "Are you criticizing my performance so you can weasel your way into my home and ogle my brother, Angel?"
The corner they’re in gets very, very quiet.
"Okay,” Angel says, half-strangled. “Sorry, yeah, that's fair."
Em looks up from her script, eyes narrowed. If this were a cartoon the camera would be zooming in, beads of sweat would pop up on Angel's forehead and the kids watching on the carpet in front of the TV would be giggling to themselves. But this isn’t a cartoon and Angel genuinely fears that any second now, Em is going to stab him in the throat with her favorite glitter gel-pen.
Then Em snorts, breaks into a shit-eating grin, and nearly pushes him out of his seat laughing.
"I'm just messing with you, man," she says through a few stray giggles. "My place, tomorrow. It's on."
Angel's got horror stories from the two other jobs he's held, but being tech personnel at a Fry’s store sucks. It honest to fucking god sucks absolute balls. At least scooping ice cream for bratty kids was interesting. The TV section at the Fry's electronics in Burbank is cold and impersonal and so, so boring.
Angel has spent most of today's shift tapping out overcomplicated drum beats to whatever song is echoing through the age-old speakers above him. Right now they're playing one of Wham!’s less popular hits, if Angel is remembering their discography right. Sixth track, Make It Big; If You Were There.
Goerge Michael is going on and on about being wound around some girl’s finger when Angel sees OJ pass through a gap between aisles a few lanes down.
Angel immediately drops his pen and leans all the way over the desk, craning his neck to watch OJ’s Haywood Hollywood Horses cap bob around halfway across the store. A few seconds later he realizes how weird he’s being and falls back into his seat.
OJ's here. That’s normal. This is a Fry's electronics; everything about this place is normal and casual and deeply average. So it’s all cool. Angel’s cool.
Three minutes pass, the song changes, and Angel’s bitten his pen enough that the cap won’t pop off anymore. After a few attempts, he gives up and throws it at the nearest trashcan. It bounces off the side and onto the floor.
Angel hisses a sigh through his teeth, eyes falling shut. Great. Now his hand-eye coordination is suffering too.
There's a cough from in front of him.
Angel's eyes fly open.
“Hey,” OJ says. His gaze flickers from the floor to somewhere over Angel’s shoulder, then back down again.
Angel’s head starts buzzing at a frequency that is probably scientifically impossible. “Hi.”
OJ slides his basket onto the counter. He could have easily gone to the standard checkout lanes by the front of the store, but he didn't. He very much on purpose came over here instead.
Angel tries not to think about it too hard. Whenever he does that— overthinks— he always ends up anxiety-ridden or delusional. Neither are great states to be in. He reaches for the largest item in the basket, a hamilton beach toaster, but the plastic handle on the box doesn't hold up under the toaster's weight proportions and the angle is also wrong, so OJ ends up helping him lift it onto the counter.
Angel grimaces a smile. “Thanks.” He flips the box onto its side, searching for the barcode, and asks, “Is this because of the knife Em stuck in your guys’ toaster?”
“Yup.”
Angel swipes his scanner across the barcode. “Did the outlet actually spark? She told like thirty different people she almost burnt the house down."
OJ hums. "Nah, she's just playin' it up. She twisted the metal wrong, shocked herself a little. Tha's all."
Angel nods along. “Yeah, I figured. She kept changing the story every time; by the end of the day she told some freshman that her heart stopped and she was legally dead for thirty seconds."
"He believe her?" OJ asks.
Angel grins. "He didn't just believe her, man. He told her that he was never going to use a fork again in 'solidarity'."
OJ snorts, lips quirking up, and Angel forgets how to breathe for a second. It feels like cupid stuck a fish hook in his throat. He clears it, swallows back his infatuation like cough syrup, and carries on. "I gotta do my whole spiel so bare with me.” He clicks at a few things on his computer screen. “Thank you for shopping at Frys, did you find everything you’re looking for today?”
“Mhm.”
“Do you have a card with us?”
“Nope.”
“Would you like a card?”
OJ shakes his head. At least he doesn’t look annoyed. Just complacent.
Angel picks up the next item, a charger for… a flip phone?
“This for your dad?”
“Nope,” OJ says. “'S mine.”
Angel laughs once, quick with disbelief. “Seriously?”
OJ clicks his tongue, eyes tokyo drifting to the side. Angel can’t tell if it’s in confirmation or dismissal.
Angel presses on. “So when a girl asks for your Insta, do you pull out your flip phone and ask for her number instead?”
“Girls don' really ask for my Insta.”
Angel’s pulse picks up, fish hook digging in right under his Adam's apple. “Guys, then?”
OJ shrugs. “Ion’ really date much.”
Angel nods quickly, ”Fair, fair.” He scans the charger and goes to stuff it in the already cramped bag, “Well, your total is 31.54. Cash or card?"
texts with Em(inem)
do you know anyone who dyes hair?
like professionally?
more like casual
i don’t rlly want to pay for it
UR GONNA DYE YOUR HAIR!?!??:OO
WHAT COLOR
probably like blond or something idk
so do u know anybdy??
ME bitch!!!
wait fr
you dye hair??
I DYE HAIR .
and all itll cost u is some sourpatch
u free 2night?? >:D
Em and Angel pick up a basket full of hair supplies and sourpatch— the watermelon kind, from walgreens on the way to Em’s house.
Getting his hair dyed isn’t actually that bad. Stings a little, and the dye smells weird, but Em's constant chatter makes it a lot more fun than Angel thought it would be. They even squeeze together on the bathroom counter to watch UFO videos on Em’s phone while they wait.
After the last rinse, Angel raises his head out of the sink, Em wildly ruffling a towel through his hair, and he has just enough time to register the new color, how extreme it is; corn-silk bright and saturated and awesome, before there’s a knock at the door.
“You two good?” OJ’s voice carries through.
Em grins at Angel in the mirror, edging towards the evil side of devious, and turns to throw open the door.
“OJ, perfect timing!” Em pulls the door open further. “Thoughts on Angel’s new hair? We need a third opinion.”
OJ stares at Angel in the mirror. Angel stares back, heart thudding, hair dripping once, twice, into the sink. He feels like he’s at the top of a rollercoaster, waiting for the second he drops hundreds of feet down.
“Looks good,” OJ says, voice low and sweet, syrup-thick. Angel wants to taste it right out of his mouth.
“Hear that, Angel?” Em turns around to face the mirror, smile dangerously smug, “He thinks you look good.”
A few months go by.
The play is as much of a hit as it can be in a Los Angeles suburb, March sweeps in with more dusty, chill to the bone cold, and OJ starts wearing more hoodies. Brighter ones, that make him look soft to the touch.
Today's is tan-brown, strings worn to fine threads.
The only thing OJ places on the Fry's electronics counter is an eight-pack of double A batteries.
Angel tries to think of something cool to say, like a one-liner, like something Spider-man would say to MJ when they meet up after Peter saves the day, but OJ speaks first.
“You and Em goin’ to prom together?”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Angel says, thrown off. “I mean, she just got out of that whole messy thing with Jess, so I guess she wants to go with a friend and have a good time without worrying about all that drama, and it's not like I had any other plans. But it's pretty cool that she chose to ask me, since, y'know, really anyone would have gone with her—“
“You know it ain't," OJ cuts himself off, drags his tongue between his lips. "Y'know it ain't like that , yeah?”
Angel’s mouth clamps shut. The lightbulb flickers on in his head.
OJ thinks he's is into Em. OJ is telling Angel to back off.
It's weirdly endearing, how devoted OJ is to his sister, but it's also kinda heartbreaking that he thinks Angel is that kind of guy.
Angel swallows, eyes dropping to the cash register. “Yeah, I know, man, I would never.” He says quickly, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “It’s definitely not like that, I totally respect that she’s a lesbian, I’m—”
Angel stops short. I'm not straight either, I think I'm bisexual. This would be such a funny misunderstanding if I wasn't head over heels for you. But protective as OJ is of Em, guys can be weird about it sometimes, when it’s one of them. OJ definitely doesn’t seem like the type, but Angel doesn't seem like that kind of guy either, at least he hopes he doesn't. And either way, Angel doesn't really feel like opening up again anytime soon.
He holds out the forty-one cents of change for the batteries and avoids letting their hands brush, even when OJ's palm hovers right under his.
“It's all good," Angel says, even though he doesn't feel good at all. "You don’t have to like, shovel-talk me or anything. I get it.”
OJ nods, shifting on his feet. He's stalling, weighing the change in his hand, like he's working up to saying something else.
But Angel doesn’t want to hear a forced apology. “Thank you for shopping at Frys,” he says, giving OJ an out. “And I’m sorry if I came off like, y’know…”
OJ shakes his head quickly. “Nah, you didn’t. Just had to make sure.” He holds up the batteries. “Thanks,” he murmurs, then turns heel and leaves.
Angel exhales hard, pulse thudding with nervous energy. He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes, ignoring how they sting, and wishes his shift would just end already. Cupid's line is pulled taunt enough. Angel's throat feels raw.
“Did anyone you know run out of batteries this weekend?” Angel asks Em on Monday.
“No?" Em looks at him weird. "What is this, one of your weird lil’ conspiracy theory things? What does being out of batteries have to do with anything?”
“Nothing," Angel says. "Just wondering.,"
Em eyes him for a bit, then shrugs it off and goes back to her Spanish worksheet.
Angel tries really hard not to think about what the batteries thing implies and scribbles out the hearts someone doodled in the corner of the textbook open on his desk, wishing vehemently that everyone could just be normal when they had a crush. Next time Angel sees a statue of Cupid, he's going to push it over and watch it shatter on the ground.
By the time prom rolls around, Angel's buried OJ’s battery purchase/shovel talk as far as he could in his graveyard of love-related failures.
He heads over to Haywood ranch around six. After dinner ends, Em's dad tells them to have a good, safe night, holds eight terrifying seconds of eye contact with Angel, —like seriously terrifying, the Haywoods do not fuck around— and excuses himself to take care of the nightly rounds with the horses. He tells OJ to stay behind and take some pictures of Em and Angel before they leave.
“I said we’re doing a silly one, Angel, stick your damn tongue out," Em grits through her teeth.
Angel holds up bunny ears behind Em's head and his heart beats a little faster when OJ smiles behind Angel’s phone and takes the picture.
Em heads to the bathroom to touch up her makeup for the last time, leaving Angel with OJ, alone, in the foyer. They’re idly swiping through the photos on Angel's phone, compiling the best ones to send to Em, when OJ says, “You look good,” all low and profound, flipping Angel's whole world over in a second.
It’s literally just one word. Good. OJ said the same thing about Angel’s hair months ago when it was fully blond and not just the frosted tips it’s dipped into now.
Angel's heart is stuck in his throat and working overtime. “I—uh, yeah, thanks, I mean—this old thing?” He spreads his arms, chuckles half-heartedly, and then kind of wishes he was dead. The suit is in fact not old at all, it's very obviously new, and his delivery was off. Stupid. Angel's hand rises to the back of his neck. “Sorry, bad joke.”
OJ nudges at him, shoulder to shoulder. “You're good."
Angel nods. “Okay,” he says, lovesick.
Em’s taking way too long in that bathroom. She’s probably taking pre-prom selfies or something, with no regard to her best friend who she’s left alone with his earth-shattering, life-ruining, absolutely gorgeous crush who also happens to be her literal fucking brother.
Angel rocks back on his heels, nervous energy creeping up his neck like a spider. He shifts forward, back, an up-down seesaw, the floorboards creaking in harmony until the small of his back meets something solid and warm.
OJ’s placed his hand against Angel's spine in a gentle request for him to stop.
Angel's breath catches and he wobbles back to solid ground. OJ's hand stays even after Angel goes still. Angel's barely breathing at this point, and OJ hasn't moved, palm steady against Angel's back, thumb in the divot of his spine.
Em sweeps out of the bathroom, beaming. “Alriiiight, our ride's here! Angel, how we feelin’?”
OJ’s hand quickly drops from his back.
Angel feels like he's bin fire. “Good,” he says, tongue heavy in his mouth. “Feeling good.”
OJ calls Fry's electronics the Tuesday after prom. He asks for Angel, specifically.
Apparently, he needs help rewiring the new wifi router at Haywood ranch, since his dad installed it wrong the first time and Em hasn't stopped complaining about it since. It's the most words Angel has ever heard out of OJ's mouth consecutively, and he's pretty sure it's going to end in OJ handing the phone to Em, but he doesn’t. He has Angel walk him through the whole thing.
So Angel's settled, criss-cross applesauce at the empty TV section desk, talking OJ through wifi router maintenance procedures.
OJ responds to instructions with muffled mhms, and Angel goes off on a few tangents in between explaining steps, but they're making really good progress up until miscommunication strikes and they have to backpedal a few steps to fix a mistake.
“This would probably be a lot easier if I was over there,” Angel says into the receiver, mostly as a joke.
OJ makes a soft noise of agreement on the other end of the line. “Next time.”
Angel's heart is college-sorority partying and black-hole collapsing and red-bull vibrating all at once. “Yeah,” he says, trying so very hard to sound normal about it. "Sure, next time.”
As they’re wrapping up, in the middle of Angel explaining the many layers of his cousin’s seventh wedding anniversary and the never-ending dramatics of his extended family, OJ hangs up without a goodbye.
Angel blinks down at the screen. The pixelated ‘call ended’ fades back to his home screen.
“Oh,” He says, voice small. The empty Fry’s electronics TV section echoes silence back at him.
Angel’s moping. There’s no other word for it. He's half buried in his own arms, rolling a pen around on the slightly tilted angle of his desk. It always rolls back into his hand after he flicks it away. Like Sisyphus's fucking office supplies.
A four-pack of Reese's peanut butter cups slips onto the counter next to him and Angel straightens, already embarrassed, until he registers it’s OJ in front of him and everything gets exponentially worse.
"Phone ran out of battery,” OJ starts before Angel can say anything. “Wasn't me hanging up. Sorry if it seemed that way.”
“Oh,” Angel says intelligently.
“New charger’s still faulty, like the last one. Can't tell what the deal is."
Angel blinks. “It’s probably just the battery pack in your phone, then. Chargers— they don’t really affect that kind of stuff.”
“Oh.” OJ shuffles his feet, eyes on the ground.
“Yeah,” Angels says. "Oh."
They're on equal footing now. OJ suitably awkward, Angel's head full of static.
“Welcome to Fry’s” he says weakly. “Did you find everything you were looking for today?”
OJ hums a laugh. “Mhm.”
There’s nothing but the peanut butter cups. This is an electronics store.
“You don’t want a Fry’s card.”
OJ shakes his head in agreement.
I want you, a voice in Angel’s head whispers. “I want you,” he says out loud.
OJ stares at him.
"I mean—" Angel breathes in, hard, Cupid reeling him in. "Am I imagining things? Because I don't want to cross any boundaries, but I like you. A lot. I like you so much, and I know you don’t really date so this is probably me imagining things but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I saw you in the dining room when I came over to your house the first time, you were wearing this green long sleeve shirt and— it was just, inevitable, all of this, everything, I'm kinda surprised I held up this long because, I really, really like you. I like you so much Em won’t stop teasing me about it, it’s like, ruining my life how much I like you.“ Angel finally exhales, slowing down. "And you don't have to say anything if you don't want to, this is seriously a lot to just dump on you out of nowhere and if you never want to see me again that's cool too, I just, y'know," Angel risks a glance at OJ, "thought I'd let you know."
OJ's watching him. Like the first time they met, but different. It's the observation, again, but it's less reserved now. This time, OJ is looking at Angel like he wants Angel to look back.
"You gotta lean forward," OJ says.
Angel swallows. "What?"
"Can’t reach you over the counter. Lean in."
Angel leans in, as far as he can over the counter.
OJ does too, and his palm finds Angel’s cheek, cradles it gently, thumb swiping under his eye.
Cupid's fish hook tugs firmly in Angel's throat. "Are you about to kiss me?" he asks, hopeful and incredulous and barely more than a whisper.
"That cool with you?" OJ murmurs.
"Yeah," Angel says, heart beating out of his chest. "It's cool with me."
OJ nods resolutely, leans in one more time and—
Cupid's line snaps.