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Wallace fiddles with his keys, trying to find the one to the door. There aren’t that many. It definitely shouldn’t be this hard. They all look the same, between the darkness and alcohol in his system. When he finally identifies it, he has difficulty using it. His coordination is poor between the cold air and alcohol in his system. He didn’t think he had that much to drink. Two, three margaritas. Maybe four, including a shot and half of Scott’s drink. The poor guy admitted to not really being a drinker and told Wallace to order him whatever he was having. Wallace started out brazen enough with a shot of vodka. Scott wrinkled his nose as he swallowed and gagged as soon as it was down. Wallace half expected him to spit it out.
“It burns,” Scott complained hoarsely. He started out somewhat nervous and wanting to impress Wallace. Or, at least, not make a fool of himself. He didn’t care that he failed so quickly. Vodka tasted like rubbing alcohol. But Wallace laughed good-naturedly and told him he would get them something better. A win in his book.
Margaritas weren’t great, either. Scott nursed his until they were ready to leave, at which point Wallace finished it for him in one gulp. Then they were off into the night.
Wallace finally jams the key into the hole. He glances back at Scott. If it were anyone else, or if his intentions were different, he might be worried about looking stupid. It’s only Scott Pilgrim, though. Some dork he low-key picked up from class who had grown to be a genuine friend the last few months. Besides, Wallace never actually worries about his appearance in that way. He knows he’s cool. That’s enough.
He’s especially cool to Scott Pilgrim, who is staring mesmerized at the sky. Wallace can practically see the reflection of the stars in his eyes. “You okay, guy?” He turns the key. The door opens.
Scott snaps his attention to Wallace. “Yeah, totally.” He follows him inside.
Wallace didn’t wipe his feet on the exterior doormat because he was standing on it for a while, so Scott doesn’t either, but they both notice the snow clinging to his soles. They leave their shoes on the interior doormat, so Wallace figures that works. He hangs his coat on the hook. Scott drops his on the ground. Wallace cuts him some slack. He's looking around the flat, fascinated, and he might be tipsy. Wallace’s critical expression is loud enough. If Scott is a recurring guest, he will enforce the rules. For now, it’s fine.
It is a total bachelor pad, in Scott’s dignified opinion. Does it qualify as a bachelor pad for a gay guy? There is a distinctly heterosexual connotation to the phrase. Actually, for a gay guy - for Wallace - it’s underwhelming. Scott knows he has taste, but they’re still in college, so he doesn’t have any money. Hell, Scott can’t judge. He lives at home. The point being, it’s decent for one person. A TV, computer, and a bookshelf? Jackpot.
While Scott was analyzing, Wallace snuck into the kitchen. “You can sit down, Scott,” he says, less like an invitation and more like an instruction. Scott flops into the easy chair, rocking it back. The door behind it rattles. He whips around, making himself dizzy, and glares at it suspiciously. Wallace would find it amusing if he were watching. He’s busy getting Scott a glass of water. He’ll need it. “It does that sometimes. Do you want a drink?”
“Another one?” Scott thinks aloud.
Wallace chuckles, that same good-natured tune to it. It makes Scott feel less embarrassed. With his inhibitions lowered, he forgot he’s hanging out with the cool, gay Wallace Wells. He’s down for anything. “I mean, yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Scott watches Wallace set out two shot glasses on the kitchen bar. Immediate cool bonus points for having a bar. That is a sure sign of a gay man’s apartment. Most straight guys were lucky to have a card table to eat on. He fills the glasses with clear liquor. Ugh, he hopes it’s not more vodka. Of course, he would soldier through if it was. He just hopes it isn’t. The taste of rubbing alcohol is still lingering in his throat.
Wallace brings the glass of water over. “Here.” Scott takes it unsurely, their fingers brushing. “Relax,” he directs. It’s the tone he’s taken to using with Scott. There’s nothing wrong with needing some guidance. “It’s water. You know.”
Scott doesn’t know, but he would shoot himself in the foot before asking. He would shoot himself in the foot by asking. He observes the light ripples on the surface and takes a sip. “Refreshing.” He looks up at Wallace, who smiles fondly. He cradles Scott’s face. His palm is soft and warm. He pats his cheek and turns back into the kitchen. Scott doesn’t think it’s the drink making him flush. If he didn’t know better, he would think that was some elaborate teasing.
A minute later, Wallace comes back with the shot glasses carefully nestled in one hand, two lime wedges and a salt shaker in the other. He holds the shots out for Scott. With considerably more confidence, he takes one. He knows what he’s getting into: taking a shot with his cool gay friend. Easy.
Wallace sits on the arm of the chair. “This is tequila. It should taste better.”
So it still won’t taste good. Okay. Fine. He’s doing this. “What’s the other stuff for?”
Wallace places the limes on his knee. “You lick the salt, swallow the shot, and suck the lime.” He peers down at Scott with a smirk. Okay, that’s teasing. He is well acquainted with that cadence. “The salt makes it burn less.”
Score. “What about the lime?”
“Chaser. To get the taste out.”
Double score. Hell yeah. He can do this. “Do you shake the salt in my mouth, or-?”
“Close.” Not really at all, but Wallace is feeling generous. There will come a time when Scott has used up all of Wallace’s patience and good graces, and he will not hesitate to call him an idiot. For now, though, he’s flirting, and that requires some tact. He balances the shaker beside the limes and takes Scott’s free hand by the wrist. They make intense eye contact as he lifts his hand to his mouth. Scott feels kind of itchy and sweaty suddenly. Wallace’s lips brush the skin between his thumb and forefinger. He runs his tongue along the same spot, a quick strip with a foreign gentleness. To both of their surprises, Scott doesn’t immediately pull his hand back. Instead, Wallace releases him, and they both giggle.
Wallace shakes salt onto the wet spot. He gives Scott his own hand. Scott takes a deep breath that Wallace doesn’t even try to hide his eye-roll at. He tentatively tries to lick his hand the same way. He does it with all the grace of a cat bathing itself, although his tongue is softer. It’s not bad, and they laugh again. Wallace does the salt.
“Salt, shot, lime. Ready, guy?”
Scott nods, eyes locked on Wallace, his source of assurance. Wallace counts them down. On three, they lick the salt from their hands, and Scott thinks distantly he’s licking Wallace’s spit. Only for a second. They move onto the shots, and Scott forces himself not to gag. Finally, the lime, which helps. He still cringes, but the warmth permeating through his chest is nice.
Wallace dabs his mouth with his sleeve. “Not so bad, huh?”
Scott shakes his head. “It kinda tasted like the margarita, but worse.”
“Ha! Same shit, basically.” Wallace tucks some of Scott’s hair behind his ear and lifts his head to look at him. “You did good.”
Scott is captivated. “Thanks.” He doesn’t know how to interpret that. Wallace is hard to read sometimes. He tries not to let it get to him.
Wallace collects the materials and sets them on the bar to deal with later. He wouldn’t dream of doing the dishes with a cute boy over. He’s tempted to say date, although Scott himself doesn’t realize that. Yet. “Is it okay if I light a candle?”
“Um, sure.” Scott criss-crosses his legs and puts his hands in his lap. Adorable, if not infantile. His eyes naturally follow Wallace’s movements. He grabs a candle from the bookshelf and a long lighter from a kitchen drawer. He squeezes the trigger and lights the wick. Scott marvels at it. “Woah!”
Wallace nearly jumps. He knew Scott was watching him, but Jesus Christ. He’s too cool for that, though. “What?”
“You have one of those things! The lighter.” He mimes the action of pulling the trigger. “What are those called?”
Wallace examines it. “I think it’s just a lighter, Scott.”
“Oh.” Scott’s shoulders slump.
He can’t imagine what’s special about it. The enthusiasm is sweet. Pine scented air wafts out. One candle isn’t sexy, but neither is the vibe. It’s more… atmospheric.
He saunters back over to Scott. He tips his head up by the chin again. His face is warm. That could be anything. He is ridiculously doe-eyed. Bambi has competition, doe-eyed. “So you don’t have to burn your thumb,” he’s saying. It takes Wallace a second to realize he’s still on about the lighter. “Easier. More convenient.”
“Yeah, for sure,” he agrees. He knows, of course. That’s why he got it. “Obviously.” He swats Scott’s knee so he’ll uncross his legs. He does almost unconsciously. Wallace slides one knee between Scott’s thigh and the chair, then the other, so he’s effectively straddling Scott Pilgrim. “I think I have an extra, if you want it.”
Scott’s hands are glued to the armrests. Wallace fits surprisingly well for being so tall and is somehow not absolutely crushing his lap. It’s actually a comfortable weight. “Really?” The question is practically drawn out of his mouth. “That would be cool.” Because Wallace is cool, and this is cool. Cool cool cool.
Honestly, what else did he expect?
Okay, not this, but it makes sense. And it’s fine! Truly, he’s flattered that his cool gay friend is making moves on him.
Wallace rests his hands on Scott’s shoulders. He looks like a bloody mary. A tomato. That’s what he means. “Yeah, cool.” He leans closer to Scott’s face. Their breaths mingle.
Scott swallows. Wallace is going to kiss him. Wallace wants to kiss him. And he guesses he wants Wallace to kiss him. No big deal. He squeezes his eyes shut. There’s nothing for a second. Then Wallace sighs and sinks back. Scott opens his eyes. Wallace doesn’t look irritated, or like he changed his mind. Just sort of… tender?
Wallace Wells, tender? Yeah, right. Even if he’s been nicer tonight, he’s never tender.
“I’m just kissing you, guy. It’s not gonna hurt.”
Scott can’t help himself. “But what if it does?!” The panic in his voice is endearing. It’s cute to be a bit worried or dumb, but no one has ever dragged it out like this. Not even the straightest of the straight ones. Usually they want to rush into it, scared they might change their mind otherwise. At least Wallace is sure Scott wants this.
“What if you kiss me and I, like, explode?” he continues. He does not mean like a poof or a pop of smoke or fire. The explosion he envisions would wipe out Toronto. If Wallace made it out, his head would only be that much bigger, which no one needed.
Wallace has significantly less violent visions of what could happen. “I guess I would be flattered.”
“Oh my god,” Scott groans. He rests his forehead on Wallace’s shoulder.
Wallace strokes his hair with a breathy laugh. “Kidding!”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Scott whines. “This is new and different!”
Okay, that’s fair. And uncharacteristically emotionally aware. Scott Pilgrim is full of surprises.
Wallace twirls the longer hair at the nape of his neck around his finger. When Scott has had his time to mope, he yanks the twist of hair. Enough to make him look up, not enough to hurt him. A noise escapes him. There he goes. Wallace would make a suggestive comment if he wasn’t already so nervous. His eyes are shining with the stars and the explosion he’s imagining.
They straighten. Wallace puts his hands back on Scott’s shoulders, grounding him. The tenderness remains in him with an added edge. “Have you ever kissed a girl?” He’s almost positive the answer is yes, thinking maybe it’s just been a long time, and it’s the queerness of it all that’s throwing him off. Which, again, is fair. But on the off-chance that he hasn’t, Wallace doesn’t think he can be this guy’s first kiss. Too weird for both parties.
Scott’s cheeks burn. He misses doing shots. Wallace has surpassed coolness - he is incredibly hot right now. The intense eye-contact, the way he’s hovering above him, the tingling where he pulled his hair. Fuck fuck fuck. Be cool. “Yeah.”
Wallace leans in. “This is better,” he breathes against his mouth, and that’s it. Their lips connect, and Scott is kissing back. It’s nice. It’s soft.
They separate. Scott Pilgrim’s first gay kiss, accomplished. He touches his lips for no real reason. Obviously, they don’t feel different. He doesn’t especially feel different. A little gayer, maybe. If that’s an identifiable feeling. “Huh.”
“Yeah?” Wallace asks with a small grin.
“I don’t know,” Scott admits. It felt normal, and he doesn’t know what the hell that means. “Let’s… try again?”
So they do. It’s still nice, still soft. Innocent. Wallace has kissed plenty of straight - “straight” - boys who try to take the lead, whether or not they realize it. Maybe it works for some people, people who are not Wallace Wells. Scott Pilgrim is not one of these boys. He needs some guidance, and Wallace is glad to provide it.
Wallace’s fingertips trace Scott’s cheekbones and the shells of his ears. One hand cups his jaw and the other finds his hair. It’s then that Scott finally moves his hands from the chair to the tops of Wallace’s thighs. Wallace tugs his hair again, and Scott’s hands are at his hips. They kiss with a growing passion and force. Another tug and Scott’s lips part to make a throaty noise, and Wallace has his in. Parted-lipped kissing convinces Scott to slip his hands under Wallace’s shirt. His skin is hot, radiating in waves, not unlike the explosion he pictured. Just in a really good way, instead of a fiery death.
Wallace catches Scott’s bottom lip between his teeth experimentally. Scott’s breath hitches and his fingers dig into Wallace’s hips. He kisses him deeper, more urgently, and Wallace hums pleasantly. He knew he had it in him. The tips of their tongues brush a few times before he pulls back.
Scott attempts to keep his breathing even. The heave of his chest gives him away. Wallace seems unaffected. He pecks Scott’s lips a few times. He barely remembers to close his eyes, he’s so fixated on Wallace. His hands are still under his shirt, as if trying to keep him there. Or at least pretending to. Wallace presses the cold backs of his hands against Scott’s pink cheeks. His eyes slip shut with an exhale. Wallace can’t resist it; he pecks Scott’s lips again. “Cute,” he whispers. He kisses Scott’s forehead, another point for tenderness. Whatever. Scott thinks he's cool.
Wallace gets up, excusing himself to the bathroom. He does have to pee, the drinks finally catching up to him, but he wants to give Scott some space. To cool down, to process, or to have a full crisis. He brushes his teeth to kill more time, just in case he chooses to abscond entirely. That would be disappointing, especially when they have to see each other in class. The hands-in-the-shirt was pretty telling, though. He might be stuck with him. Oh, well. There are worse things. Scott is hot, at least.
Even if Scott wanted to leave, he doesn’t think he could. His arms aren’t glued to the chair anymore, but his ass is. Scott Pilgrim’s first gay makeout, accomplished. It felt better than normal. Better than kissing girls seems like a dangerous thought to have, so he avoids it. What he’s sure of is that he feels a lot gayer. It’s an identifiable feeling. No other way to explain why he wants his hands back in Wallace’s shirt. Or why he wants Wallace to pull his hair again. Fuck. It’s fine.
When Wallace comes out, Scott is cross-legged in the chair, drinking the water. “You okay, guy?” It’s a broad invite to share any thoughts that he rarely extends. If it were anyone else, it might surprise him they were still here. The likelihood that he’s stuck with Scott goes up.
Scott nods. Yeah, he’s fine. Just another night. “Can you put your hands back on my face?”
Wallace does, and Scott looks utterly peaceful. His hands smell like soap. He wouldn’t have agreed if he wasn’t okay with the consequences it came with, but fuck. Stuck for eternity, probably. It’s fine.
It is fine, in the end. The moment passes. Wallace asks him if he wants to sleep over, no ulterior motives involved. Scott happily agrees, and they play video games for the rest of the night. Wallace gives him a spare toothbrush, telling him it may as well be his, because he will be a frequent guest. The concept of keeping spare toothbrushes on hand amazes Scott, and Wallace thinks it really is a good thing they met. Impending bisexuality disregarded, this kid needs a gay friend. An adult with his shit together.
Scott offers to sleep in the chair. Wallace tells him, “Just get in the bed, Scott,” and that’s that. When there, Wallace can feel him staring holes into the back of his head. Jesus Christ. “You can put your hands in my shirt.”
Scott does immediately, like he was waiting for permission. One hand rests on his hip, the other flat on his back. His forehead dips between his shoulders. It is extremely important for Scott to never know this is special treatment. They’re stuck together as is; he doesn’t need to get cocky about it. “Night, guy.”
“Goodnight, Wallace.” Scott’s breath tickles his back, and he sounds serene.
In the morning, Wallace does the dishes, regardless of Scott being cute or a potential date. He only makes him a cup of coffee because this isn’t a bed-and-breakfast. Scott is still grateful. Before he leaves, Wallace gives him a change of his own clothes. It’s only sweats and a t-shirt to keep some semblance of Scott Pilgrim.
“You can bring them back or not,” Wallace says at the door, because nonchalance is his forte, and Scott will be back. For hangouts or makeouts. He gives him the extra lighter, too.
Scott pulls the trigger a few times, watching the flame waver. “Cool,” he says, smiling. “Thanks.”
“Sure, guy.” Wallace leans against the frame.
Scott shuffles his feet. “Okay. I’ll, uh… see you in class?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, cool.”
A blush creeps up Scott, and Wallace gives in. He holds his face in his hands and kisses him. “Goodbye, Scott.”
Scott has a dumb little smile. “Bye, Wallace.”
Wallace closes the door behind him. Scott Pilgrim is totally his bitch forever.