Chapter Text
EARLY JANUARY, 1977
POINT PLACE, MICHIGAN
ERIC FOREMAN’S BASEMENT
As if Eric has ever gotten lucky enough to get clued in on what-the-hell was going on in his life before, anyway.
“What was your New Year’s resolution, Foreplay?” Hyde asks, eyes rimmed red and fingers absently massaging the paint-splattered coffee table to pack a bowl that no longer existed.
“I didn’t have one,” Eric replies. Kelso’s shaking hand swoops in to pass the blunt above him, a sort-of carrot-on-a-stick situation that leaves Eric empty-handed. He’s giggling before he even takes a second hit.
“Mine was to do it 400 times,” Kelso says.
“Why 400?” Eric asks, at the same time Fez asks:
“How far have you gotten?”
Kelso runs his tongue along the bottom row of his teeth and fumbles the blunt over to Fez’s outstretched hand, who still marvels at the smoking stick like it’s some alien technology.
“‘Cause that’s how many days are in a year,” Kelso explains to Eric, before turning to face Fez (giving himself whiplash from the head turn). “We’ve done it, like, five times so far. I’m keeping track.”
“There’s 365 days in a year,” Hyde corrects. Kelso only laughs.
“ Five times? Is that normal?” Eric asks, immediately going flush when all three boys shoot him identical, incredulous expressions.
“What - you and Donna spend your dates praying together instead?” Hyde asks, clasping his sweaty palms and shutting his eyes. Kelso and Fez mimic him, providing backup in ways only they can (Kelso with his memorized Catholic Lord’s Prayer, Fez with some hymn Eric’s never heard before). As Hyde tumbles onto the cold concrete floor in a fit of self-created laughter, Eric has enough sense to roll his eyes.
“No,” He says, swallowing midway through, “Donna and I are just - waiting. For the right time, you know.”
“The right time is a fallacy, man,” Hyde promises, tugging at Eric’s ankle just to mess with him. His sunglasses have fallen from his forehead onto the rim of his nose, and they make his eyes look all small and hollowed out “Created by the government to stop kids from having fun. ”
“Yeah, the government hates fun,” Kelso chimes in.
“Fuck the government!” Fez cheers, clearly hoping to impress, and nearly drops the blunt in the process. Eric, not for the first time, has the sudden, spilt-second urge to kill his friends. The lump in his throat lodges itself in for a long, arduous stay.
He and Donna haven’t done it yet, but not because they’re ‘waiting for the right time’. Not that she’s easy. And not that he doesn’t want to. Because he does. He does want to. He thinks about it, actually, an adequate amount of time. An amount of time nobody should be questioning.
They had only talked about it once, in the backseat of the Vista Cruiser, before she’d laughed at how red in the face he’d gotten and he got embarrassed and she got annoyed and he drove them back home in silence. She’d blown up about it over Christmas, anxious that it would ‘mess with’ the careful balance of their relationship; Donna had even used Kelso and Jackie’s relationship as evidence, which Eric couldn’t help taking as a hit to his ego. So it went unspoken that they’d just…not. Along with the rest of the more physical aspects of their relationship, it seemed. They just never found the time.
And when they did - when they were alone in the basement for that precious hour in between the end of school and Kelso and Fez’s lacrosse practice, when Hyde was upstairs fixing the sink or doing something else kiss-ass for Eric’s Old Man - they spent the time talking instead. Donna stayed to her side of the couch and Eric to his. He preferred it that way. It felt like middle school, when their biggest issue was deciding who got to start four square or the last fudge pop. Sometimes it felt, worryingly, like he was the last one left in the ‘kid’ zone. Eric takes another hit and passes again, blowing it out in shitty little circles. The upstairs house phone stays untouched.
ERIC FORMAN’S BEDROOM
“You don’t have a New Year’s resolution?” Donna asks, spread out on his bedroom floor with the latest copy of Wonder Woman in front of her. Strands of red hair spill out from behind her equally red-tipped ears as she tilts her head down. Eric thinks she’s beautiful. The lump gets larger.
“I’m sorry, did I miss that memo?” He asks defensively, sat at the edge of his bed to properly contemplate where to put his minted Star Wars theatrical poster.
“We’re adults, Eric. All adults have resolutions,” Donna replies, smart as always.
“We’re not adults,” He protests weakly, and feels for a moment like the numbers ‘16’ have been tattooed to his forehead. “Not for another year and a half.”
“I thought you couldn’t wait to be eighteen,” She says, narrowing her eyes at him and the limp roll of laminated paper in his hand. “Put it over your bed, on the ceiling.” He snaps his fingers in thanks - it would’ve taken him an hour to think of that himself.
“What was yours?” He asks, tongue between his teeth as he spreads it out across the popcorn ceiling and attempts to tape it up. The poster does not appreciate its new home. He fights with the peeling edges as if cutting through vines in ‘Nam.
“There’s this writing program in New York for high school girls,” Donna says, voice casual. But as Eric looks away from the poster in surprise, her face is screwed up in anxiety. At that opportune moment, the poster decides to tumble on top of him. He wears it as an unbothered hat and watches her with wide eyes. “It’s this summer. I’m gonna apply.”
“What, like - like something for college?” He asks. At this point, the lump is impossible to talk through. “The whole summer?” She lets out a little Donna sigh, one that whistles through her front teeth, and nods. When she looks at him, he knows she’s already gotten in.
And that, in her mind, she’s already broken up with him.
“You’ve never been gone from Point Place so long in your life,” Eric attempts, less of a plea and more of a statement. Donna shrugs.
“Isn’t that something I should be fixing?” She asks. “Isn’t that something you should be fixing?”
“Where am I gonna go?” Eric snorts. Donna lets out another little sigh and gets up. She takes the poster off his head and smiles at the way it’s messed up his mop of hair. Luke Skywalker and his light-saber gets unceremoniously tossed to the floor.
She flops back onto his bed. It’s the oldest mattress in the house, a hand-me-down of a hand-me-down from Grandma Forman’s old rancher on the opposite end of town. Eric tries not to think about whatever Grandma’s done in it every time he lays down to sleep. He wants to scream for thinking about it now, during arguably the most altering moment in his life so far; what a short life it’s been. He lies down beside her. Their hands hit each other on the way down, but they don’t link.
“Anywhere you want,” Donna says.
“Why do you want to go to New York?” Eric says, and barely stops himself from asking the real question: why do you want to leave me?
“You’re my best friend, Eric,” Donna promises. Finally, finally , she intertwines their fingers. It thumps his heart straight into his ribcage. “You’re always gonna be my best friend.”
“But I’m not always gonna be your boyfriend,” Eric finishes for her. Donna stays silent. When he turns onto his side, typically awkward with their sweaty, connected hands and his bony shoulders, she looks just as determined as she had on his bedroom floor.
They’d always run everything by each other. He couldn’t remember a day that went by without seeing her, even during their worst fights. A second-long glimpse of her streaming hair through her parents’ absurd lawn hedges would be enough to make a shitty day worthwhile. Now he tries to memorize her face - the way her eyebrows pinch, her nose scrunch, the splatter of freckles below her left eye.
“No,” Donna agrees softly.
“Okay,” He says. And suddenly she’s throwing herself onto him, head to his chest and arms around his waist. She’s shaking. He hugs her back just as fiercely, trying to imprint every little emotion and thought he’s had about her for the past sixteen years of pathetic life into her skin. But he’s a Forman, so Eric doesn’t think any of it comes across properly anyway. “How much is a train ticket to New York City?”
“You better take the Vista,” She says through bubbly tears, and he realizes this is, perhaps, the first time she’s ever cried in front of him. “I’m gonna miss that hunk of shit.”
“It’s only January,” He reassures with a heart made of lead. “You’ll have plenty of time to get sick of it. To get sick of me.”
“I could never get sick of you, Eric,” She whispers against the shell of his ear. He just pulls her closer. The lump stays.
POINT PLACE HIGH’S PARKING LOT
The Trans-Am is parked in the spot next to his again, and Eric’s about to lose his goddamn mind. Hyde claps him on the shoulder in sympathy as they stare at it together, this heavenly beauty of a car beside Eric’s shitbox. Even the paint job looks like it’s laughing at him.
“On the bright side,” Hyde begins, whistling as he admires the car’s front grate, “if you’ve got a Trans-Am by your junior year - you’re peaking way too early.”
“Oh, yeah, ‘cause the Vista’s just setting me up for a Corvette,” Eric replies drily.
“Would skipping English make you feel better?” Hyde asks. “Donna’d do your essay for you.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Hyde agrees. “Hey, you ever figure out who drives it?”
“Apollo’s Chariot?” Eric asks for clarification, letting Hyde steer him up through the gym’s back doors and into school. “Hell no. I’m not ready to be blinded by the sheer bliss that comes with having that much cash.”
“Hey, at least your mom can afford pork chops,” Hyde says. “My mom just slaps a tenner on the table for salami sandwiches.”
“At least my mom lets you sit down and eat those pork chops,” Eric corrects. “Actually, she lets you eat mine.”
“And they’re delicious,” Hyde says with a wink, slipping away into first-period Biology with a good-natured hit to Eric’s arm. “Not the pork chops - I mean your mother.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Eric snaps. Hyde’s cackling hyena laughter follows him all the way to the second-floor.
POINT PLACE HIGH’S LIBRARY
Eric stands in front of the fiction shelf and tries to fight the urge to kill himself. If Mrs. Witmore calls on him one more time, asking him about the metaphor of Gatsby and the green light, he’s gonna drop out - no matter what Red says about it.
Actually, his Old Man might understand.
He runs his fingers along the spines of the books to look like he’s doing something. There’s a few titles he recognizes, mostly from Donna’s dog-eared collection or the summer reading list he tosses in the kitchen trash can every year. Something about an ancient dude and the sea - immediately he pictures Red on a raft, flailing around in the middle of the Atlantic, and has to stifle a laugh into his sweater.
“What’s so funny about Hemingway?” A voice asks behind him. Guess it wasn’t as stifled as he thought it was.
Eric turns to try and make eye contact but the guy’s already stepped up beside him, about two inches shorter (and much better dressed). That’s the first thing he catches: his red- rimmed turtleneck. And then his face, which affirms Eric’s suspicion about the voice.
It’s Buddy Morgan .
Something weird in Eric’s stomach churns, something dangerously close to nausea. It’s an unexpected reaction. Buddy grins up at him, all perfect teeth (no doubt from his dentist daddy) and cow eyes underneath a mop of black hair; it’s Beatles-esque. Hyde would already be dreaming up insults. Eric just mouths at nothing like a hungry fish. Buddy doesn’t seem to mind.
“Uh,” Eric searches for words, for something clever to say - anything, Forman, jesus , “I mean. What kind of a name is Ernest?” Good one, dumbass. He doesn’t particularly like how his inner thoughts have started to sound suspiciously like Red.
“What kind of a name is Eric?” Buddy retorts. Eric blinks, surprised.
“How do you know my name?” Now it’s Buddy’s turn to get bashful. He turns to bump together the toes of his sneakers (a tasteful tan) and his hair follows. It looks a little like lake waves in the library light. Eric promptly shuts that thought down before it goes any farther.
“We were chemistry partners two years ago,” Buddy says after a moment. “Remember? Mr. Charlton was trying to explain the laws of thermodynamics, and I set our experiment on fire?” Distantly, Eric does. But Buddy had been about two inches shorter then (not saying much) and a lot quieter. A lot less turtleneck-y.
“Right,” Eric says, grinning. “With the bunsen burner! And you blamed it on entropy!”
“Energy can be neither created nor destroyed,” Buddy agrees, his cheeks a light pink. Eric watches how the color changes the shape of his whole face - softens it, familiarizes it. The color makes Buddy look all at once like an old friend and a complete stranger. Particularly, his fanned out eyelashes and flat-ended, red-tipped nose that Eric, for some ungodly reason, cannot stop staring at . Buddy seems to notice and he just smiles. Eric remembers that too - even with his sweater singed and one sideburn lost in the process, Buddy had just smiled.
“He hated us.”
“He hated me, ” Buddy corrects. Eric shakes his head and leans against the bookshelf to attempt nonchalance. He feels this overwhelming urge to impress - he tries his best.
“I was your accomplice,” Eric says. “An accomplice has got to serve the same amount of time.”
“Not as much,” Buddy protests. “My dad almost shoved his foot up my ass, he was so pissed.” Eric lets out a surprised laugh - surprised at what, exactly, he isn’t sure. The glare from the librarian reads through the wood like Superman’s x-ray abilities. He and Buddy share a bashful smile that feels a little like a secret. Eric is quickly figuring out that he really, really likes that.
“You know, you’re the reason I passed that class,” Buddy admits out of the corner of his mouth, when it seems the dragon at the front desk has been tamed enough for them to talk. He reaches for a well worn book on the shelf above Eric’s head. The Sun Also Rises is written on the spine. “My first C plus in a science class.”
“You’re the reason I almost flunked,” Eric says. He reaches up and takes the book down for Buddy, whose fingers hardly reach the bottom edge. “My first C minus in a science class.” He holds out The Sun Also Rises to a Buddy who is beat-red and clearly embarrassed. Eric laughs, then feels a little bad for laughing. A spilt second thought: cute.
“I’m sorry-”
“I’m kidding , Buddy,” Eric says, and smiles just to prove it. Something on his face must reassure Buddy enough to take the book from him. As they pass it, Buddy’s fingers brush over Eric’s. His hand is oddly warm for a January afternoon. It matches the way he makes Eric’s stomach burn. “It was a C plus.”
ERIC FORMAN’S KITCHEN TABLE
Laurie’s glare practically blinds him from across the table, but Eric can’t be bothered to care. He ate lunch in the library that day. The fucking library. Because Buddy Morgan eats lunch at the library, everyday apparently - eats and reads. So Eric read. It was probably the first time he had read outside class since the fifth grade. Buddy had led him to a quiet space in the back of the library, where the shelves met together on uneasy feet to sit between. It was a small alcove. Eric had never seen such a quiet space. He whispered even though they’d been at least a hundred yards away from the librarian. Buddy had cracked open The Sun Also Rises ; Eric voiced all the women.
“Eric!” Red’s voice enters his daydream like fire to Jackie’s curtains. Eric blinks at his father. “I’ve asked you to pass the mashed potatoes fifty goddamn times!”
“Sorry,” Eric says, and passes the goddamn potatoes. Laurie looks satisfied by that blowup, but Hyde kicks Eric underneath the table and shoots him a questioning look. Eric takes a rabid bite from his bread roll.
“I applied to Marlene’s today,” Laurie says smugly, and Kitty nearly chokes on her iced tea. “The c osmetic store, mom. Not the strip club.”
“Since when do you want to work?” Eric asks, incredulous. Laurie narrows her beady, evil eyes at him.
“It’s my New Year’s resolution,” She says. He can’t help the pained groan he lets out about that one.
“Eric,” Red says in a low, warning tone.
“He hates New Year’s resolutions,” Hyde explains, aggressively grabbing a forkful of green beans and shoveling it into his mouth. Eric screws his eyes shut and attempts to push himself into the kitchen floor. “Because he hates self-improvement.”
“Eric, New Years can be a wonderful way to set goals,” Kitty says, her tone taking on her typical listen to me I am teaching you something flair. “My New Year’s resolution is to memorize a few pages from that cookbook your father got me for Christmas.”
“I already did mine,” Hyde says, mouth still filled with green beans as he takes a bite of chicken.
“And what was yours, Steven?” Kitty asks, biting into her own chicken (albeit much nicer than Hyde, who apparently learned how to eat from a caveman).
“To take up an extracurricular,” Hyde says, grinning around his fork directly at Eric. He winks, too. It’s a little over-the-top. Eric kicks him under the table in reply.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Steven!”
“What, some kind of sport, son?” Red asks, sawing into his chicken so hard he must be scratching the plate. “Aren’t a few of your, uh - your friends on the lacrosse team?”
“Yeah, dad - Kelso and Fez,” Eric explains.
“Lacrosse isn’t a real sport,” Red says, screwing up his face to emphasize his distaste. “It’s just a bunch of douchebags hitting each other with sticks.”
“Red,” Kitty warns, but she looks on the verge of laughter.
“Nah, I don’t like organized sports,” Hyde says, “they give too much control to the administration. I’m starting my own club.” Kitty looks delighted. Eric wants to throw up.
“What’s the club for?” She asks. Hyde smirks at Eric.
“Baking.”
POINT PLACE HIGH’S LIBRARY
“Where did New Year’s resolutions start, anyway? I mean, why can’t you just decide to do something on your own time?”
Buddy doesn’t look up from where he’s stacking books back onto the shelf. This is the fifth lunch in a row Eric’s spent in the library, and by this point he’s figured out that Buddy’s impeccable knowledge of every nook and cranny of the two-storied building doesn’t come solely from his mouselike qualities; he works there. Obviously, Eric hangs on the back of the return cart and bugs him the whole hour-long period. Buddy never seems to mind.
“Some people need the added pressure of expectation,” Buddy says thoughtfully, tapping out a tiny rhythm on The Bell Jar ’s spine . “If you tell a hundred people you’re gonna do something, you’re probably gonna do it.”
“But I heard New Year’s resolutions fail, like, all the time,” Eric protests. He steps back and takes the offered stack of books. Buddy tends to use him as a stepping stool for the top shelf. Although Eric isn’t the tallest guy in school, he doesn’t have to stand on the tips of his toes to reach said shelf (whereas Buddy does, although he’ll never admit to it). “I think I read something about a bunch of people quitting their gym memberships within the first month.”
“If you don’t have a backbone to begin with, a one built on false pretenses isn’t gonna help you,” Buddy hums, fiery words contrasted by the pleasant expression on his face. Eric nearly drops the stack of books he’s holding.
“Did you make a resolution?” Eric asks, attempting to move past the slip as fast as possible. Buddy shrugs, looking back over his shoulder from where he’d been nonchalantly jamming a paperback in between two encyclopedias.
“Not let my dad take my car back?” He suggests. “It was a Christmas gift, but a tentative one. Like, ‘one toe over the line and I’m dead’ kinda tentative.”
“I get what you mean,” Eric says, pursed lips. “I drive a fuckin’ Vista Cruiser and my dad holds it above my head like a guillotine.” Buddy grins with the corner of his mouth.
“A Vista Cruiser?” Buddy asks, wiggling his eyebrows like a total dork. “Minivans are so hot .”
“Oh, so that’s your kind of daddy issue?” Eric replies, and dodges a swift swing of Buddy’s sweater easily. “Jesus, why do I always get the violent ones?”
“Alright, jackass,” Buddy retorts. His words never match his face, Eric is realizing - he’s always smiling. Always that great, white-toothed smile. Eric never wants to see anything else. “What’s your resolution gonna be, then?”
“It’s the middle of January,” Eric protests weakly. Buddy clicks his tongue and pushes on the other side of the cart, picking his heels off the ground so that they’re lightly drifting along the patchy upstairs carpet. Eric can feel a slight breeze past his ear as they move. Buddy’s hair moves too, picking up and revealing his eyes that little extra bit Eric had been waiting for.
“It’s never too late to improve your life, Eric,” Buddy replies, whistling that same tune he’d been tapping on the spine five minutes before. “Maybe the nonfiction section will inspire you.” The twenty or so books they still have to put away nod in agreement.
“Actually, I think I told Mr. Hampshire I’d meet with him the second half of lunch,” Eric says, drifting off and making to leave. The instant he steps off the cart, Buddy’s hand has dashed out and grabbed onto his sleeve. Eric turns, retort on his lips, but the words fall short when he sees the grin on Buddy’s face. He’s a little breathless from riding on the cart and his fingers splay out against Eric’s flannel. They curl into the fabric absently in a heartbeat rhythm. Eric is mesmerized.
“My resolution’s to figure out who parks in the spot next to me,” Eric blurts out. Oh my god , he thinks in distant horror, I’m a fucking idiot. Buddy raises his eyebrows as he drops his grip on Eric’s flannel. “He’s my greatest enemy.”
“Uh,” Buddy replies hesitantly. “Not what I was expecting.”
“See, Buddy, sometimes my brain - it makes decisions for me that I didn’t sign off on,” Eric says, eager to both patch up this conversation and abandon it forever. “And then I say shit like that. Stupid shit.”
“ Sometimes? ” Buddy asks, grinning again. This time it’s Eric’s turn to lunge for him.
Buddy, the slippery bastard, avoids it easily.
ERIC FORMAN’S DRIVEWAY
Eric only barely dodges a basketball to the face - and takes it in the balls instead. As he’s bending over at the waist and mumbling incoherently, Donna manages to stop laughing long enough to grab him a pack of ice from the outside fridge.
“It’s too cold for ice,” Eric protests weakly as she returns, turning over his shaking hands as evidence. “You’re gonna make me get frostbite.”
“Poor baby,” Donna says, words still cut up by laughter. They take a seat on his front stoop, Eric fumbling with the ice and Donna clutching the basketball just to have something to do with her hands. “You alright?” She’s not just talking about the hit to his nuts.
“I’ve been hurt worse,” Eric reassures. Even though it’s freezing outside, the ice helps. He would never admit that aloud, though he’s sure Donna already knows. She’s got that little smirk on her face, the one she does where she raises her eyebrows, and he can read her like a book. The expression reminds him a bit of Buddy - except Donna doesn’t show any teeth. He’s just as easy to read and just as emotionally layered.
Eric isn’t sure why he’s comparing the two in his head. Since when were Buddy and Donna on par with each other?
“How’re your parents?” Eric asks. Donna clicks her tongue and looks back towards her house. Although slightly more obscured by hedge, it looks the same it has their entire lives.
“Killing each other,” Donna says with a sigh. “But hey - sometimes they take a break to meditate.”
“Meditate?” Eric laughs. Donna lets out a little yoga om to prove it.
“I might have to move in with you,” Donna jokes, nudging his shoulder. Eric rolls his eyes.
“With Hyde coming over practically every night, I’m not sure we’ve got the room,” He replies.
“Just kick Laurie out,” Donna suggests.
“I knew there was a reason I loved you,” Eric gushes. Donna stutters for a moment at the wording, but her eyes crinkle all the same. There’s a bit of an awkward silence before she stands back up and attempts a basket - the ball bounces off the rim.
“So,” She drags out the word. “Where have you been all week?”
“Uh,” He replies eloquently. “Here?” Donna looks seconds away from using him as a target again.
“No, doofus. During lunch.” Eric goes pink. He’s not sure why.
“I’ve been in the library,” He admits. Donna watches him for a moment and then bursts into laughter. “Seriously! I’ve been studying…and stuff.”
“Eric, you’ve never been to the library in your life,” Donna accuses, eyes bright as she absently tosses the basketball between her open palms.
“I have! I read! I’m very studious!” He protests, voice getting higher with each sentence.
“What do you read?” Donna asks, and she’s so making fun of him.
“I’ll have you know,” Eric begins, standing up to attempt to steal the ball. “I just finished The Sun Also Rises. ”
“Hemingway?” Donna’s so shocked, her grip on the basketball loosens. Eric takes his opportunity and steals it, attempting a shot. The basketball hits the rim and bounces back into his hands. “Since when do you read Hemingway?”
“What can I say, Donna, I’m a genius.” She doesn’t look particularly convinced. Then: her face brightens considerably, a shit-eating grin on her face.
“You’re going out with somebody,” Donna accuses. The grin grows, as does the pit in Eric’s stomach. “You’re going out with a nerd. ”
“I can have friends that aren’t you, by the way,” Eric rushes to say. Donna shakes her head, eyes practically rolling into the back of her head.
“No, you can’t.”
Eric begs the universe to let him spontaneously combust. It refuses to listen.
“I’ve been hang ing out with Buddy Morgan,” He admits, and goes for another basket; miserable fail! Donna steals the ball as it comes bouncing back.
“Buddy Morgan? Like, the guy whose dad owns half the town?” Donna asks. As Eric ducks for the ball, she expertly dodges.
“It’s only, like, one-third,” Eric challenges, red in the face - and not just from the game. “Plus, Buddy isn’t like that.”
“Isn’t like what?”
“Isn’t - you know. All high and mighty about it,” Eric says. “He’s a cool guy, when you get to know him.”
“And you’ve been getting to know him?” Donna asks. He doesn’t particularly like the implication of her tone.
“Yes,” Eric stresses, “because he’s my friend.” He wrangles the ball from her grip and begins to dribble.
“You know,” Donna begins, watching with cat eyes as Eric sets up another shot. It’s perfect. Perhaps the best shot he’s ever gonna take. “I hear Buddy Morgan’s gay.” The ball slips out of Eric’s hands and pathetically bounces its way over into the hoop’s post.
“What?” Eric squeaks. “How - who’d you hear that from?” Donna shrugs. She scoops up the ball and leans against the hoop, looking every bit as effortless as Eric could never be.
“It’s been going around since seventh grade,” She says. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t,” Eric says, his mouth suddenly a desert. Donna narrows her eyes.
“Don’t tell me that bothers you.” He’s quick to throw up his hands in a ‘surrender’ motion.
“No, no!” Eric reassures. “I’m hip. I’m with the times. I just - I dunno. I don’t believe it.”
“I guess you would know,” Donna says, and again with that implying tone. He scrunches up his face in protest.
“I mean,” Eric says, drifting off. “We’ve never talked about it. But then again, who does?” Her gaze seems to soften.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks. He frowns at her, confused, before it clicks together in a slow, mounting horror.
“I’m not gay,” He blurts. Donna blinks.
“I didn’t think you were,” Donna replies, as if soothing a wild animal. “I mean - I would accept you if you were, Eric. I would accept you no matter what. But - I can’t say I wouldn’t be a little wounded.”
“I’m not gay,” Eric repeats. Donna steps closer, hand outstretched tentatively. He lets her take his hand and squeeze. He’s not sure why he’s gotten so upset - why he’s shaking.
“I know,” Donna whispers. “And it’s okay. Either way. Any way.”
“I think I hear my mom calling me in for dinner,” Eric replies fast enough the words melt together and mean nothing. He wrenches his hand from hers and dashes back into the house, the screendoor nearly falling off its hinges from the force of it. When he bothers to glance back from the safety of the kitchen, his driveway is empty - but the basketball has been carefully set at the base of the hoop, as if the conversation was merely paused. Eric rests his forehead against the sliding glass door into the backyard and lets out a staggered breath.
ERIC FORMAN’S BEDROOM
For some reason Eric can’t remember, Buddy is in his room. He’s sprawled out atop his twin bed, Spiderman sheets and all, with a magazine open on his chest and his head slumped against Eric’s pillow. Eric stands at the foot of his bed and watches him. He can’t bring himself to question why, exactly, he’s watching his friend sleep.
“Eric?” Buddy asks. He’s blinking himself awake. “Oh, sorry, man - I totally conked out on you while we were studying.”
“It’s fine,” Eric hears himself saying. He sits at the foot of his bed. “You looked so peaceful.”
“I haven’t been getting much sleep,” Buddy admits. He props himself up. “Why’re you so far away?”
“I’m not sure,” Eric replies. Suddenly, his bed is a hundred feet long. He crawls over the rest of the comforter - an arduous journey - to lay beside Buddy. His reward is one of those toothy smiles. It was well worth it.
“You’re like a furnace,” Buddy murmurs. He places a hand on Eric’s flanneled chest, loose fitting compared to his own layers of turtleneck and sweater.
“I run hot,” Eric says. Buddy’s fingers grip his flannel the same way they did in the library, except - now they’re at his collar, pulling down at the fabric as if on an exploration. “Buddy - Donna told me something the other day, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Hm?” Buddy asks, eyes focused on Eric’s neck as his fingers trail up and down the muscle lines. It feels like a promise. Eric swallows without meaning to. His eyes, comparatively, are completely unfocused.
“She said that you’re - you’re gay.” Buddy hums again, noncommittal. “Is that true?”
“Are you?” Buddy asks. Eric shakes his head, but Buddy’s raised eyebrow is less than convinced. “Then why are you dreaming about me?”
Eric gasps himself awake, on the verge of a scream. When he realizes who he’s face-to-face with, he actually screams.
“Jesus, Forman! Do you wanna wake up your Old Man?” Hyde hisses, about two inches from his face and shrouded in the darkness of Eric’s bedroom at midnight. “Holy shit, did you piss yourself?”
“Why are you in my room?” Eric protests weakly, throwing his arms over his face and rolling onto his side.
“Nah, that’s not piss,” Hyde says to himself. Even though Eric isn’t looking at him, he knows he’s grinning.
“Get out of my room,” Eric pleads. “I need to sleep.”
“ We need to get high,” Hyde corrects. “Who’d you have a wet dream about?”
“I didn’t have a wet dream,” Eric grumbles. “I just get very sweaty when I sleep.”
“You’re so fucking weird,” Hyde teases, and reaches down to ruffle Eric’s hair.
“Get out of my room,” Eric repeats helplessly, barely trying to bat his hand away.
“The first Point Place High Baking Club’s gonna be in session in your basement, five minutes. Kelso and Fez are already down there.”
“Are they ever anywhere else?” Eric mutters, but when he turns back over to look at Hyde, the space is empty.
ERIC FORMAN’S BASEMENT
Eric feels infinitely better now that he’s high. He’s in his pajamas, sure, and he’s got a huge test in English tomorrow - but there’s never a better time to get high than three in the morning on a Wednesday.
“Hey, guys,” He greets the Greek Chorus, who have never been ones to provide him with any bad advice. “Donna told me - she told me she’s heard Buddy Morgan’s gay.”
“He is so obviously gay,” Fez agrees. His fingers are fumbling with a Snickers wrapper.
“What?” Eric replies.
“Uh, no. If Buddy were gay, he’d be into me, ” Kelso corrects, laughing as he bites down on his lollipop stick. It looks a bit like a cigarette - Eric stuns himself realizing how childish they are. How childish he is. “Have you seen me?”
“No, Kelso, we haven’t,” Hyde snarks, taking a hit and shutting his eyes. “Tell us your hair routine again - that’ll really get the crowd going.”
“Fez, why’d you say he’s obviously gay?” Eric presses. Fez sits across from him, starry-eyed. He finally unwraps the Snickers bar.
“Why are we talking about Buddy Morgan?” Hyde interjects before Fez can say anything. Judging by the way he’s sloth-chewing on a bite of candy, it doesn’t seem like he was actually going to speak. “I’m not friends with Buddy Morgan.”
“I am,” Eric admits absently, taking the blunt from Hyde and registering the three shocked expressions in front of him a few seconds too late. “What?” He coughs out the word.
“You’re friends with Buddy Morgan?” Kelso repeats. He takes a hit and laughs through the cough, eyes going cross-eyed. “Hey, the room’s split! Guys, when you do this with your eyes it looks like all the furniture’s been moved.”
“Since when were you in with the popular kids?” Hyde asks, and it’s clear he feels his terrority as ‘Eric’s Best Friend’ has been properly threatened. Eric is quick to calm, passing him a Coke as he attempts to unwrap his own Twix bar.
“I’m not in with the popular kids,” Eric says.
“Just in with Buddy,” Hyde presses.
“Just in to Buddy,” Fez giggles, and Eric goes a bright shade of red he knows he can’t explain anyway.
“Shut up and eat your Snickers,” Eric demands. Fez obeys, catching a bit of the wrapper in the process. “I’m not into Buddy.”
“If you have to say that…” Hyde drifts off. He slumps out of his seat and onto the floor, turning onto his back. “You know David Bowie?”
“Who doesn’t?” Eric replies, taking a furious bite of Twix. Delicious caramel. If only it would sooth the emotional wound of being teased by your friends.
“Hey, I love Bowie!” Kelso cheers, clearly eager to get included.
“We remember your eyeliner phase,” Hyde says, and Fez nods enthusiastically. Kelso looks proud.
“What does Bowie have to do with anything?”
“He’s gay , man,” Kelso stresses. “Like Buddy Morgan.” Eric regrets ever starting this conversation.
“No, he’s bisexual,” Hyde says, and the word sounds a little funny in his mouth. “Heh. Bisexual. Bisexual. Sexual. That’s a good word. Sexual.”
“Sexual,” Fez repeats, rolling the last bit despite the lack of an ‘r’ to roll. He grins around his candy bar.
“Maybe Buddy’s like Bowie,” Hyde continues, turning to look up at Eric. “You know, he’s bisexual.”
“What the hell is a bisexual?” Eric repeats, angrily taking another bite of Twix.
“When you’re super into bikes.”
“Shut up, Kelso,” Hyde cackles. “It’s, like. You’re into everybody.”
“Everybody?” Fez echoes, glazed over.
“What’s the term for when everybody’s into you?” Kelso asks, clueless.
“And that’s - possible?” Eric asks. “To be into everybody?”
“Why not?” Hyde shrugs. Eric leans back against the couch, deep in thought. His best revelations always come to him when he’s high as shit.
“Then why are you dreaming about me?” And Buddy’s hands. His hair. His smile. But more importantly: his sarcasm. The way he’s way smarter than people assume he is. His little obsession with the library and the way he leans over Eric’s shoulder to grab it and excitedly explain literary metaphor about bullfighting and fishing and all that crap Eric’s never cared about before. And he doesn’t care about it now, per say, he just - he cares about seeing Buddy like that. Watching his face when he talks. Watching his mouth. Even when he’s just breathing. Even when he’s turned to the side and not paying attention. Eric just wants to watch him. And sometime, maybe, in that watching, lean forward on the tips of his toes. Just enough to fall.
Eric’s mouth drops open a little bit. Oh. Oh SHIT.
“Maybe I’m like Bowie,” He says. And the rest of the group laughs. After about ten seconds of throat-constricting anxiety, where every bad thought he’s ever had about himself roars like rushing water in his ears, Eric joins in - and takes another hit.
POINT PLACE HIGH’S PARKING LOT
He pulls into his spot next the morning, regretting every decision he’s ever made - especially decisions influenced by Hyde. Hyde seems to think the same, curled up in the passenger seat with an open water bottle clenched between his legs and his forehead against the window.
“I hate you,” Eric says. Hyde reaches over and limply pats his shoulder. In the backseat, Kelso has fallen asleep. Fez sits straight up, always the quickest one to recover (somehow).
“Hey, the spot’s empty,” Hyde mumbles, and he gestures to the parking spot beside Eric’s. A bowling-ball sized pit in Eric’s stomach drops to the soles of his shoes. How can he meet the Trans-Am owner in this state? When he feels like the physical manifestation of a hundred pounds of puke and hasn’t studied at all for this first-period exam? He flips down the rearview mirror and grimaces at his reflection. He smooths down some hair sticking out at the back and wishes he’d stopped to eat breakfast. Then he doesn’t. He’d probably throw it back up. “Looking to impress?”
Hyde’s grinning as he gestures with his eyes to the tilted mirror. Eric mentally shoots him the finger.
“I guess I look the part,” Eric sighs. “I look like a guy who drives a Vista Cruiser.”
“Hey, don’t put down the Vista Cruiser,” Kelso mumbles, drooling onto Fez’s shoulder.
“At least you have a car,” Fez adds. “My exchange parents bought me a tandem bike.”
“I’m so excited,” Hyde says, grinning into the stained collar of his t-shirt. “Who’s it gonna be? Everybody make your guesses now.”
“The president,” Kelso says, and Hyde reaches back with an arm too awake for the rest of his body to smack him upside the head. It lands somewhere on his neck instead.
“Casey Mulligan,” Fez guesses with a sloppy, lovesick expression on his face.
“The head cheerleader?” Kelso asks, rubbing at his slapped neck with a frown. Fez nods enthusiastically. Hyde turns back to Eric, who has sat straight up to observe the parking lot and prepare himself for an ambush.
“What’s your guess?” Hyde asks, poking Eric in the arm.
“Too late,” Eric chokes out. The Trans-Am is pulling into the parking lot, its familiar engine revving and its paint job shining in the sun. Hyde laughs as Eric slumps right back down into his seat. Only his hair peeks out over the window, but he watches as the Trans-Am expertly pulls in beside him.
“Holy shit,” Hyde breathes out. Eric blinks in shock.
Out steps Buddy, who locks his car and leans on its side as he shuts his eyes. He looks a little exhausted. He looks very much beautiful. Eric can’t breathe.
“Holy shit,” Hyde repeats. “Speak of the devil.” Eric wrenches open the door, unable to sit in a car with those idiots any longer.
As he gets out, lanky limbs catching in all the wrong places and sending him nearly tumbling to the parking lot pavement, Buddy looks up. He smiles. The breeze blows back a bit of his bangs, as they had in the library, and his eyes look like the sun. Eric nearly falls to his knees. You are a fucking idiot.
“Hey, Eric!” Buddy greets, giving him a little finger wave that sends Eric’s pulse skyrocketing. “I thought that might be you.”
“How’d - how’d you know?” Eric chokes out. Buddy frowns a little, still smiling. Always smiling.
“Because of our conversation last week? In the library?” Buddy clarifies, raising an eyebrow. “When you made a resolution to -” Something dawns on his face. Eric realizes his mistake at the exact same moment. YOU ARE A FUCKING IDIOT.
“I guess I’m your greatest enemy?” Buddy quotes, tongue between his teeth and a little more crestfallen than he had looked three seconds ago. He retrieves his sunglasses (big shades) from his pocket and slides them onto his face, concealing objectively the best part about him.
“That was the first resolution I’ve ever actually done,” Eric says instead. Buddy pushes the sunglasses up onto his forehead. It pushes his hair back and up out of his eyes completely. Eric is doomed. “You’re hot - I mean. Your car is hot. You have a hot car. That’s what I said. I like your car.”
“I like yours, too,” Buddy cuts him off mid-mortifying ramble, but the smile is back so Eric counts it as a win. “Happy New Year’s.”
It’s January 25th. Eric smiles back anyway.
“Happy New Year’s.”
There’s a bit of wonderful silence where they’re just looking at each other. Hyde throws himself over the gearshift and lays on the Vista’s horn in agreement.