Archive of Our Own ^beta

Years from now, when D.W. is giving her big maid of honor speech at the wedding, she will say, Brain supposes, that their love story started way back when they were kids. She'll weave a magical romantic tale, getting in a few solid jabs at her brother while she's at it - despite him being distinctly not involved in the love story, or even the wedding, at all - and she'll really sell it. She might even be right, actually; Brain's sure he can trace some vague hints and foreshadowings all the way back to third grade, at least, in Mr. Ratburn's class, when everything around him seemed fairly simple, everyone he knew was pretty easy to understand, and there was never a problem that couldn't be solved by the time the credits rolled, so to speak. Although even now, Brain's brain is so helpfully reminding him there was someone back then who wasn't always so easy to understand, wasn't there? He always did love an enigma.

So, yes, D.W. might be right about them, eventually, but here, sharing a seat at the top of the ferris wheel and an enormous bag of purple cotton candy, just the two of them, as the sun sets on their last day of summer before eleventh grade, as they swing their feet out lazily over the fall carnival’s final weekend in town, as they entwine their sugar-sticky fingers together to hold hands, Brain knows what he would say.

Our love story began, he thinks, watching the orange and pink sunset hues paint the contours of Binky's face, the summer when he unionized the employees of Crosswire Motors.

—

The story itself begins, though, as many beginnings do, at an ending.

"Anybody want a pin?" Molly asks loudly to the general crowd - large enough to take up the entire width of the sidewalk and require multiple rows of people - within earshot of her as everyone walks home on the last day of school. The drawstring bag she holds up shakes with a familiar metallic jingle as she walks, and Brain, walking in the front makeshift row with the Tough Customers, smiles to himself.

"Not holding onto them for your senior year?" he asks. Molly gives him a sidelong look and scoffs.

"Please. I got plenty." She gives the bag a firm shake, just to make a point. "You respectable umbrella terms aren't gonna be cleaning me out.”

"I'll take one, then," he says. With the quickest flash of a grin, her hand disappears briefly into the bag before she reaches across Binky to place a small round button in Brain’s hand. Brain looks down as he fastens it to the strap of his messenger bag. From this angle, it reads easily only in certain parts, the more rounded words dropping out to create a confusing NOT GAY…BUT…FUCK YOU message. But Molly’s been wearing one of these pins every day for the past two years, grumpily removing it and handing it over to any teacher or principal or dean who demands she stop violating the dress code with such inappropriate language, only to turn right around the moment they walk away and grab a new pin from this very bag in her locker or backpack, so Brain is well acquainted with the full slogan. Although he hasn’t been able to track down the confirmed origins of NOT GAY AS IN HAPPY BUT QUEER AS IN FUCK YOU yet, he has faith that he will one day. He has a feeling it will come down to zines.

“You still have those?” Francine asks from behind Brain. “Give me one!” Molly cocks her eyebrow at the rudeness, but returns it with her own by pointedly tossing a button over her shoulder for Francine to catch or not.

“I’m surprised you have any left,” Muffy says. “Even Mr. Ratburn couldn’t pretend not to see them some days.”

“I told you all I had an endless supply,” says Molly, then she purses her lips in Brain’s direction. “Well, not technica--”

“Not necessary,” Brain says, his hands up in surrender. “I always take the last day of school off from being pedantic. Besides, hyperbolizing for dramatic storytelling effect is a longstanding tradition in our subculture.”

Molly smirks. “So you are smart where it counts, Brainiac.” She says it as if she’s ruthlessly mocking him, but he knows that while it certainly is mocking, it’s not quite ruthless.

Brain has been publicly out as gay since the beginning of 9th grade. He was the first in the school to come out - only 15 years old and already breaking down barriers, as his parents and Mr. Ratburn so affectionately and embarrassingly liked to say - but no sooner had he done so than Molly did, too, and she may have been a grade above him, but she was still the same age. Elwood City High School’s GSA club was formed almost immediately thereafter, Sue Ellen and Prunella being the bi and lesbian, respectively, go-getters they are. And everybody else proverbially fell like, well, dominoes. That’s not to say they’re all under the umbrella. There are actually some straight people in their Gay-Straight Alliance, as well as some people who just think they’re straight, and Molly isn’t even officially part of the club at all. But the two of them, Brain and Molly, have had a bit of a…if not friendship, exactly, then at least a solidarity ever since.

Nobody was surprised by her being bisexual and proudly claiming the label queer, but if they’d been paying attention, they wouldn’t have been surprised by Brain either. Still, he supposes he should focus on being thankful for the absolutely zero homophobic remarks he’s heard within the walls of their school. In fairness, though, that could have less to do with a nice absence of homophobia at ECHS and much more with Binky’s intimidating insistence, since middle school, that anyone with anything like that to say is required to have a “face-to-fist consultation” with him first.

“I’ll take two, please,” Prunella requests, “since you have so many to spare.” Molly, cool as ever, drops her skateboard to the ground and steps onto it, turning around to hand two pins to Prunella behind her and managing to propel the board forward all the while with impressive coordination.

“One for you and one for Marina?” Arthur asks. Brain glances over his shoulder to see him struggling to hold up Francine’s backpack steadily enough so she can pin her button to the bottom of the strap, where her parents are least likely to see it and take exception.

“Yeah, now that we can’t get in trouble for wearing them all summer,” Prunella says brightly. Molly rolls her eyes - or, at least, Brain assumes she’s rolling her eyes, but her bangs still mostly cover them - and turns to face forward again, keeping the speed of her board slow. Prunella waves goodbye to everyone as she breaks away from the group to cross the street the other direction, heading toward Marina’s school a couple blocks away, but the rest of them turn left at the corner, and finally run into the mass of middle schoolers leaving their last day, too.

They have to navigate around nervous preteens getting into their parents’ cars, and Molly gets so annoyed that she finally just gives up on skateboarding altogether for the time being and kicks the board up into her hold again, but finally they get through the worst of the throng of kids who haven’t discovered deodorant yet and the path is once more clear for the most part. Up ahead, and not too far ahead at that, D.W. laughs loudly with her friends, the low ponytail she’s gathered her shoulder-length brown hair into threatening to come loose entirely as she throws back her head in delight.

Behind Brain, Arthur exhales a frustrated sigh.

“I hope my dad has a full calendar of catering jobs this summer,” he mutters. “I need all the reasons to be away from enclosed spaces with D.W. he’ll give me.”

“Especially the kind that pay,” Buster agrees. “Is your dad sure we have to wear those stuffy uniforms, though? I’m already choking. So…starchy…” From the corner of his eye, Brain sees Buster tugging at the collar of his t-shirt.

“Look alive, bro,” Molly calls. She slips her skateboard back down to the ground and gives it a kick, sending it speeding up toward the group of as-of-approximately-20-minutes-ago 7th graders. Between Cheikh and Liam, James jumps, startled, but he recovers quickly enough to turn and keep the board from veering wildly off course and slamming into the back of Bud’s ankles.

“Careful! I need those!” Bud says. He’s not wrong: since he and Ladonna moved back to Elwood City a year and a half ago, after their dad’s death, Bud’s become nothing short of a star at cross country and track, and if he was even just one year older, Brain would be going to extreme lengths to convince him to really be bold and try out for the high school soccer team. James, still the quietest of his friends, wordlessly hops onto the skateboard and sets himself into motion at a velocity barely faster than his sister’s and not nearly as steady.

“James, can I–” D.W. starts, her hand already out like she expects to get what she wants.

“You should be asking the person who actually owns the skateboard,” Arthur says grumpily. James is already off the board, pushing it gingerly with his foot toward D.W., who jumps onto it with confidence.

“She’s fine,” Molly says with utmost casualness. Brain can practically hear the shrug in her tone. He can definitely hear Arthur’s angry sigh.

“Push me - but not too fast,” D.W. demands to no one in particular. Fatima gives a decent shove at her lower back and D.W. laughs again as she takes off ahead.

“Not bad,” Molly says appraisingly when D.W. slows to a stop and the skateboard gets passed back to its rightful owner again. “You’ve got a good sense of balance. You’ll need to wear a helmet if you want to really learn how to ride, though. I can teach you if you’re up for it.”

“Thanks,” D.W. says, “but I already have a full load of classes this summer. Maybe next year.”

“What are you talking about, D.W.?” Arthur asks, annoyed. “What ‘classes’? You’re not taking any classes.” D.W. turns around and begins walking backwards, her eyes never leaving her brother’s.

“Yes, I am,” she says matter-of-factly. “In fact, I’m surprised you’re not. Aren’t you worried everything you know is going to leak out of your head while you’re spending all summer sleeping and playing video games and wearing starchy shirts? You have so little knowledge to begin with - you can’t afford to lose a whole summer’s worth!”

The laughter she gets from everyone around her, from her fellow 7th graders and high schoolers alike, is louder than even her own, and she gives Arthur a satisfied, close-lipped smile.

“Man, D.W. never misses,” Slink says through snickers.

“There’s a reason her name’s not D.L.,” says Rattles with a grin.

The easy comeback for Arthur in this situation would, naturally, be for him to take this opportunity to say something like, “Yeah, it’s because her name isn’t Dora Linifred,” thus presumably rendering D.W., if not wholly powerless, then at the very least, flustered enough to be thrown off her game. But instead, Arthur is, naturally, flustered enough to be thrown off his game. Brain is not surprised.

“I don’t know why you’re all laughing! She doesn’t like any of you guys either,” Arthur snaps at his classmates - including Brain, who couldn’t hide his amusement before being caught.

“That’s not true,” D.W. says. Emily reaches out and tugs ever-so-slightly on her elbow, and D.W. narrowly avoids tripping backward over a rock on the sidewalk. “I like Alan,” she continues, nodding toward Brain, “and I like Binky.” Brain and Binky meet each other’s eyes and exchange small smiles and a fist bump. “And I like Molly,” D.W. finishes.

“Ew,” Molly says, an edge to her voice that Brain just barely recognizes as disingenuous. “We’ve been over this. I’m not friends with Arthur.”

“Okay,” D.W. says in a suit yourself sort of tone. Molly makes a soft noise under her breath. If Brain looked around Binky to see her face right now, he knows he’d see a scowl.

“What about me?” Francine asks, the niceness in her tone leading and pronounced in its fakeness. “You like me, right, D.W.?”

D.W. makes a face. “What’s there to like?” It’s such a rapid fire reply that it surprises a laugh out of Brain, and beside him Binky and the rest of the Tough Customers join in, too. He’s pretty sure he can hear some muffled laughter from George and Fern as well, but when he turns to verify his hypothesis, he instead gets an especially mean glare from Francine, which has him snapping his jaw shut and looking forward again.

“Don’t be so rude, D.W.!” Arthur says. “There’s plenty to like about Francine!”

“Oh. You two are on again, huh?” The way D.W. manages to simultaneously convey both deep disappointment and extreme condescension in her tone alone, Brain truly believes, should be studied extensively by scientists. “Just in time for a summer romance, I see,” she adds, turning her head toward Bud, who meets her eyes and laughs.

“Guess I’ll be seeing more of Buster around my house, too,” he says.

“Now what’s that s’posed to mean?” Ladonna asks. Bud laughs again, this time joined by D.W. as she finally turns back around, but he says nothing to answer his sister. Brain nearly catches himself laughing out loud, too, but manages to stop himself. Ladonna’s question answers itself, really, and she should know better than to ask it out loud.

Arthur and Francine have been in a tired on-again/off-again relationship since 8th grade. Ladonna didn’t return to Elwood City until halfway through their freshman year - a sadder girl than she was in 3rd grade, understandably, given the loss of her dad, but no less subdued, and extremely pretty now, grown into all her features while everyone else was still navigating the leftover awkward parts of themselves - but she and Buster started their own on-again/off-again relationship not long after she arrived. Curiously, somehow, the two couples’ own on and off seem to coincide to an unnatural degree. Brain thinks it’s kind of a shame, if he’s honest; Buster and Ladonna seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company, they have a lot in common, and he’s never heard about them arguing or anything the way Francine and Arthur do. The two of them could probably have a nice steady relationship, if both of them weren’t so dedicated to making sure Arthur never feels left out or uncomfortable.

“Well, my friends don’t like you,” Arthur says angrily in the direction of the back of D.W.’s unbothered head. “Right, guys?” Brain glances over his shoulder, catches Arthur’s wide eyes, and realizes he’s expected to respond, but Binky sets it up for him first.

“Ugh, of course not,” Binky says, loud and over the top. He nudges Brain’s elbow so casually it might have been utterly meaningless if not for the significant look in his eyes when Brain turns to him.

“Yeah, why would I want to spend time with a 7th grader?” Brain says with disgust. Ahead, D.W. turns around to face them again, but as Arthur is distracted with feeling smug, she takes a split second to meet Brain and Binky’s eyes and give them both the tiniest wink and a hint of a smirk. If her brother was trying to embarrass her or make her feel bad, then he’d already lost before he could even begin, because D.W. knows better. Those “classes” she’s taking this summer, after all, are being taught by Brain and Binky.

“I don’t need validation from high schoolers, Arthur,” D.W. says smoothly, “especially ones that don’t even have cars.”

“Harsh, but fair,” Slink mutters.

“But maybe not for long,” says Rattles. “What d’ya think, Binky? You’ve been working for him long enough - will Muffy’s dad give you an employee discount?”

“A discount? Yeah, right,” Binky says lowly. “Crosswire doesn’t even give me a lunch break.” Brain turns to Binky abruptly, taking in his obvious glumness with a sharp gaze, but before he can ask what Binky meant by that, someone who does have a car pulls up along the sidewalk in a perfectly practical red hybrid sedan. The driver’s window has barely started rolling down before just about every girl surrounding Brain takes in a collective breath.

“Hiiii, Alberto!” they chorus in a flirty singsong way. Molly, the only girl who stayed silent, scoffs as Brain rolls his eyes. It’s not as if he’s immune to the incredibly good looks of Alberto Molina, to be clear, but he does prefer to be realistic. There’s also the…icky feeling he gets just from thinking about playing up his sexuality for what amounts to little more than the amusement of others. He’s not here to be anybody’s two-dimensional gay best friend, no matter how many shopping sprees Muffy offers to him as bait.

“Hey!” Alberto greets them with a charming smile. The window behind him rolls down too then, to reveal Vicita, Kate, and Mei Lin all buckled safely in the backseat, wearing shiny sunglasses and looking like they feel terribly cool, which is most likely true.

“Hey, Binky!” Mei Lin calls as she waves enthusiastically. “I’m going to Kate’s house, but I’ll be home for dinner.” Binky replies to her in Mandarin, but Brain only recognizes the word for mom, so he’s not entirely sure what’s being communicated, only that it makes Mei Lin laugh heartily and stick out her tongue.

“Do you want a ride, D.W.?” Vicita asks. “You’ve got to start getting me ready for 6th grade.”

“Vicita, it’s your last day of elementary school,” Alberto says. “You’ve got all summer.”

“It’s a whole new school, Alberto!” Vicita exclaims. She kicks the back of his seat and he winces. “I have to be prepared!

“It’s true. She’ll need all the help she can get,” D.W. says solemnly, “but it can wait for now. You deserve at least one week of relaxing summer fun before you start facing the nightmarish realities of junior high.”

“Amen, sister,” Binky says under his breath.

“Anybody else want a ride in that direction, then?” Alberto offers. “I only got enough room for one, so–”

“Can you drop me off at the gurdwara?” Samir asks. “I volunteered to help my auntie update the langar menus for this summer.”

“Hop in,” Alberto says.

“Oh! Tell your mom I’ll stop by this afternoon with vegetables from the community garden,” Buster says happily as Samir rushes around to the passenger side door. “And please don’t let them take the chole masala off the menu!” he adds desperately.

“Buster, get real. The chole’s not going anywhere,” Samir says, laughing like the very notion is ridiculous. He waves to everyone as he gets into the car. “See you later!”

“Katie-bug, Katie-bug, fly away home,” D.W. says in a wistful tone as Alberto’s car speeds away.

“Oh, D.W., don’t,” Emily says softly. “That nursery rhyme is so grim.” It’s quite a statement from a girl who dresses like she’s Molly’s younger sibling, but Brain’s temptation to share knowledge easily wins out over his desire to point out anything akin to irony.

“It doesn’t have to be, Emily,” he says. “Although no one knows the actual origins for certain, there’s well-established lore about farmers reciting the rhyme to save ladybugs who’ve helped keep crop-destroying insects away from their plants throughout the growing season before they set fire to the fields following harvest.”

“Why would they set fire to their own farms?” George asks, loud enough for Brain to hear him clearly this time.

“It’s called stubble burning,” Brain says. “After grains like wheat and rice are harvested, all that’s left are stalks and stems, or the stubble. With stubble burning, the idea is to burn it all up quickly, cheaply, and without expending unnecessary energy. It helps with weeds and pests, too. It’s still practiced widely all over the world, but there are some pretty significant drawbacks to the technique, like loss of nutrients from the soil, smoke pollution, and, of course, the risk of the fire spreading out of control. What’s really fascinating is the Indian Agricultural Research Institute recently developed an enzyme bio-decomposer–”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Francine says pointedly. Brain frowns and turns his head back to glare at her, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. Turning away from her again and seeing Cheikh, D.W., Bud, and Emily all give Francine their own mean looks, though - that does improve his mood, for some reason.

“Brain can take a day off from being pendantic but you can’t take a day off from being a mean girl?” Binky nearly snarls, which makes Brain feel even better, despite how much he yearns to tell Binky the word is pedantic, not pendantic.

“I’m not a mean girl!” Francine snaps, which makes everybody except for Arthur, in his current role as her valiant boyfriend, laugh. It takes a few seconds, but eventually even Francine joins in the laughter, too.

“Does anyone want to do anything tonight?” Fern asks. “George and I are taking his canoe out on the lake to record some sounds for the podcast, but if anyone wants to meet up later for dinner or dessert–”

“The Sugar Bowl’s got new summer hours, doesn’t it?” Alex asks.

“The Sugar Bowl isn’t as fun as it was when we were kids,” Buster complains. “It’s always full of 3rd graders.”

“It’s the Ice Cream Shop that has new hours anyway,” Brain says. He dons his marketing voice to announce, “We’re open two hours later every night until Labor Day!”

“Sounds like somebody’s making money this summer,” says Rattles. “Now I know where to go if I wanna play chess after the sun goes down.” James turns to look over his shoulder, giving Rattles an inquisitive look.

“How often does that happen?”

“You’d be surprised, little man,” Rattles says. “You wanna learn? I’m a champ. I can teach you.” James glances at Molly, but she only sighs. Rattles grins. “And your sister can’t say shit about it because she still owes me for every time she starts casually dating my step-sister.”

“Dude–” Molly starts.

“My step-sister,” Rattles repeats. Molly sighs again while Binky giggles and Slink snickers. James smiles.

“Maybe,” he says simply before turning back again.

As they all continue their grateful treks from their respective schools, little pockets and pairs begin breaking away from the group. Muffy, Francine, Jenna, and Maria go first, when Muffy’s butler arrives alongside them with the limo to take them to what Muffy calls a girls’ afternoon out in far too triumphant a tone for someone who surely knows by now that these types of events always involve intense arguing from everyone present. Fern and George leave next, heading to George’s house to retrieve the canoe he spent all spring semester crafting in woodshop class, then Cheikh and Fatima split to go to the mosque for Friday prayers. Buster, Arthur, Ladonna, Alex, Liam, Bud, and Ryan all turn a corner to go see a movie - although probably not the same one - at the Loring. When D.W., James, and Emily start going for the park, it just leaves Brain and the Tough Customers, and Molly and Brain immediately round on Binky.

“What do you mean Crosswire doesn’t give you lunch breaks?” they both ask. Behind Molly, Rattles crosses his arms and looks at Binky expectantly, while Slink blows a small gust of air upward, moving his long bangs enough to reveal one raised eyebrow.

“Exactly what I said,” Binky answers with a shrug. “I mean, sometimes he does, but not always.”

“But he’s got you washing cars,” Slink says.

“That means you’re out in the sun all day,” says Rattles. Binky nods.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t even get 30 minutes?” Molly demands.

“No,” says Binky. “Sometimes I get 15, but–”

“Sometimes?!” Molly says, raising her voice. She sounds angrier with each word. “Sometimes you get your legally required 15-minute breaks?”

“Yeah, that sounds hella illegal,” says Slink.

“It is,” Brain confirms. Binky looks down at his feet, kicking at the pavement uncomfortably.

“Well, it’s the only job I have,” he says. “I gotta save up for a car somehow.”

“Someone should do something,” Rattles says.

“Binky should do something first,” says Molly, glancing at Rattles. “Being Tough Consumers means listening to the employees about their wants and needs, remember?”

“I’ve already talked to Crosswire about it,” Binky insists, looking up again. “I know a couple of the other guys have, too - it’s not just me and my lunch breaks.”

“Billionaires are evil,” Slink says definitively. Brain opens his mouth to reflexively point out that the Crosswires are most certainly not billionaires, but he closes it again before he even begins, Binky’s voice in his head still mispronouncing pedantic.

“Binky,” Molly says, her tone now significantly softer, “do you want us to do something about this? Or help you figure something out?” Binky shakes his head. Molly makes a face, but Binky shakes his head once more.

“I’ll try talking to him again soon,” he says. “Who knows? Maybe as I start getting more hours for the summer, things will change.” Molly, Rattles, and Slink all exchange looks. It’s clear that they’re not happy to let Binky keep getting mistreated or handle it alone, but a Tough Consumer rule is a rule, apparently, so they hold off on expressing any disapproval.

“Let us know if you change your mind, okay?” Molly says.

“Yeah, you know we’re always down for a good protest,” says Rattles.

“I will,” Binky promises. Brain finds his eyes following the movement of Binky crossing an X over his chest.

“Well, speaking of jobs,” Molly says with a sigh of resignation, “my lifeguard duty officially starts in 10 minutes. See ya.” As she skateboards across the street, Rattles turns to Slink.

“Aren’t you supposed to start working at Patrick’s Chocolates today?” he asks. Slink snaps his head back. Brain doesn’t need to be able to see his eyes to know how wide they’ve gone.

“Shit!” He takes off running, jumping over a surprised pug and nearly tripping over a stroller along the way.

“Why’s he trying to open his backpack?” Brain asks, watching as Slink struggles with the zipper while in motion.

“His work t-shirt is in there,” Rattles says with a smirk. “Cute little chocolate-covered strawberry logo on it and everything.”

“Patrick’s gonna let him wear his pronoun pin, right?” Binky asks. Rattles nods.

“Not only that, but Patrick’s gonna start wearing one, too,” he says proudly. “Making it an official part of the uniform for any other current and future employees. Doesn’t want to single anybody out.”

“Mr. Ratburn made a good choice,” Binky says, his tone serious, like his seal of approval so many years after the fact matters at all. Still, Brain nods his agreement with equal sincerity.

“Well, boys, I’d join you the rest of the way to the Ice Cream Shop,” Rattles says, “but my Meteor Comix job don’t start ‘til tomorrow, so I am gonna go make some water balloons, double back to the Loring, and wait for a certain group of children to exit the theater.”

“And by ‘children,’” Brain starts, trying to hide his reluctant amusement, “you mean…?” Rattles shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket - it’s not exactly weather-appropriate right now in the mid-June heat, but it’s his official and exclusive Tough Customer wear, the back panel painted custom by Molly two years ago,with TC in big letters and a banner winding through them declaring All for One and Good for Nothing, which means Rattles wouldn’t be caught dead without it - and shrugs as he starts walking away.

“A certain group,” he repeats loftily. “Who’s to say?” Binky lets out another giggle.

“Tell them I said hi,” he says. He knows what Brain knows: Arthur, Buster, Alex, and Ladonna will be walking home wet today.

“Will do, Binks,” Rattles says with a lazy wave before disappearing around a corner. Binky and Brain turn to each other.

“Were you planning to come with me to the Ice Cream Shop?” Brain asks. “He just assumed–”

“Yeah, if that’s okay,” Binky says. Brain smiles.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks as he and Binky set off again.

“I dunno. You could have plans,” Binky replies, which makes Brain laugh.

“My plans are pretty much always ‘work’ or ‘study.’ You know that,” he says, knocking his elbow against Binky’s until he laughs, too.

“You could have new apps to design or something,” he says. Brain hums, considering.

“Coding is more of a hobby for me,” he concedes, “but the apps themselves could still fall under ‘work,’ since I make some money from them.” Technically, the total revenue he gets from the half-dozen apps he’s made probably counts as more than just some, but the precise information is irrelevant.

“Think you’ll be a billionaire someday?” Binky asks. “Start some super smart tech company and make it happen overnight or something?”

“I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about it,” Brain answers honestly, “but I promised myself a long time ago that any fortune I amass will be acquired ethically and morally. It is a truth not acknowledged widely enough that nobody can become a billionaire without exploiting the labor of thousands underneath them. Besides, the tech sector isn’t really my thing.” Binky laughs at that.

“Too easy for you, huh?”

“Well. Yeah,” Brain admits. Too pedestrian, he thinks. “But it’s also just nowhere near where my real passion lies.” Binky turns his head to grin at him.

“Nice to know you’ve still got your head in the stars,” he says. Brain gives him a curious look, which just makes Binky smile more. His eyes seem to sparkle. “I know there’s more to astrophysics than the ‘astro’ part,” he elaborates, “but what’s what keeps you interested, isn’t it?” It’s Brain’s turn to smile now.

“There’s just so much we still don’t know,” he says. He doesn’t think he means to lower his voice to a reverent hush, but it happens anyway. Binky’s smile shrinks, but his eyes continue to gleam.

“If I trust anyone to find it all out, it’s definitely you,” he says. Then, before Brain can think of anything to say to that, he continues, “Exploiting labor…The Crosswires aren’t actually billionaires but that’s still what Muffy’s dad is doing, isn’t it? Even the sales team.”

“What else does he do?” Brain asks, grateful that Binky is sharing more about this with him. Binky frowns.

“He cuts shifts early without any warning or explanation,” he says. “He doesn’t give us reliable breaks, like I said. I found out a few weeks ago full-timers get next-to-no benefits. He’s been known to cut pay without warning, too, and it’s already lousy to begin with. The sales team’s ‘incentives’–” He makes air quotes with his fingers as he rolls his eyes. “–are a joke. And sometimes he swoops in to steal sales just as they’re starting to close the deal.” Brain furrows his brow and shakes his head.

“That’s not right,” he says.

“It is right,” says Binky miserably. “It’s what happens.”

“No, I mean, it’s not the right thing to do, what Crosswire is doing,” Brain explains, but Binky is already nodding like he’s realized his mistake and understands now.

“Oh yeah. Exactly. You’re right. It’s not right. And it’s not fair. And I’m gonna do something about it!” he declares. Brain smiles, happy to hear that Binky’s decided to not stand for being treated so badly after all.

“What’re you going to do?” he asks.

“Well, I already tried talking to him myself,” Binky says, “and some of the others have, too, but it was always one-on-one conversations with him. But there’s strength in numbers, right? So I’m going to get a group of us together - as many of us who want to - and talk to him together. He’ll have to listen to us then, right?”

“I hope so, Binky,” Brain says, and he means it. “You deserve better.”

“Yeah, I do!” Binky agrees with another vehement nod. “We all do. And the only way to get it might be for all of us to band together.”

“If I trust anyone to do it, then it’s definitely you,” Brain says. Binky grins at him, wide and goofy as always. “But–” he adds, and Binky’s smile falters, only to return with full force when Brain finishes, “you’ll need a scoop or two of rhubarb first - on the house.”

—

“If she’s getting on your nerves too much, just kick her out and call me,” Arthur says.

“Evicting her from the shop seems to directly contradict the purpose of the arrangement,” Brain points out, although he’s not being entirely truthful.

To the full extent of Arthur’s knowledge, the aforementioned arrangement goes like so: D.W. is eternally a pesky little sister, and, despite having plenty of friends her own age, is still likely to spend a not insignificant amount of her school-free hours badgering Arthur into hanging out with her, tagging along uninvited with him as he tries to maintain his own social life, and generally being a nuisance, and one Arthur is expected to look after the safety thereof, at that. Brain, though, is less concerned with keeping his social calendar full to the brim, and will be manning the Ice Cream Shop’s longer summer hours by himself, and can therefore more or less babysit D.W. at the shop for a few hours any evening Arthur finds himself needing to ditch her. In return, Arthur will give Brain enough cash to cover a couple elaborate ice cream orders for D.W. every time he drops her off and his profuse thanks every night when he picks her up at closing time.

The full extent of Arthur’s knowledge, insofar as the aforementioned arrangement is concerned, is missing some key details, the first and foremost of which being the actual parties among whom the arrangement originated - there are three, and none of them are Arthur. The gist of it, however, goes like this: D.W. will make herself as annoying as possible as frequently as she can manage so Arthur has no choice but to ditch her at the Ice Cream Shop with Brain, who will seem appropriately overwhelmed or regretful - not enough to make Arthur feel hesitant to continue, but just enough to really sell it. Brain will then get to spend the next few hours in an all but empty shop with the smartest kid he knows, teaching her all about science. Then, every other evening or so, Binky will be there, too, to teach her tap dancing again, per her request. All of these lessons will be kept secret from Arthur; Binky’s because D.W.’s primary motivation for learning tap dancing is to use it to really annoy him at home and she insists she needs to be an expert at it to be able to do that as thoroughly as she wants, and Brain’s because she doesn’t want to spend her whole summer defending her intelligence and interest in science to her brother who, for reasons Brain simply can’t fathom, still doesn’t believe D.W. is particularly smart.

Arthur, who is, at most, incidental to the arrangement, believes it to be all his idea. The poor sucker, Brain thinks as he gives Arthur a pleasant smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, shooing Arthur out the door of the otherwise empty shop with one hand as he shoves the cash Arthur just gave him into his back pocket. “Go have a life.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, but he still shoots his sister a stern look of warning before the door closes behind him. The moment he’s out of sight past the windows, D.W. turns to Brain with an innocent grin.

“Congratulations, Mr. Powers! Your favorite student is here and ready to learn!” she declares.

“You’re my only student, D.W.–” Brain starts.

“So I’m right,” D.W. interrupts.

“–and please, don’t call me ‘Mr. Powers,’” he finishes. “I only want to be referred to with an honorific when it’s Doctor.”

“Okay, Alan,” says D.W. “What’s my first lesson? It’d better be something real. I’m not here for baby science activities like making models of molecules with gumdrops or building your own batteries.”

“Not at all,” Brain says. “I thought we’d start with Newton’s laws of motion and especially spend time with the second one.” He bends down behind the counter and retrieves a small box before stepping around into the seating area. As he turns the box over onto a table, D.W. rushes over, bouncing on her feet with excitement.

“What’s that?” she asks, picking up a little wooden block with pegs in it.

“It’s called a Newton car. We’re going to do an experiment with launching a small mass off the car, varying the mass itself every time,” Brain explains as he gestures to the little bags of pennies, marbles, paper clips, and fruit candies on the table. “If you get the hang of it quickly enough, we might have enough time to demonstrate it with a water rocket, too, before Arthur gets back.” D.W.’s eyes light up at that and she sits down across from him, eager and dutiful. He grins.

“But first,” he says, settling in, “let’s talk about inertia.”

—

Brain taps the eraser of his pencil against his bottom lip a few times before putting the sharp graphite point to paper again and finishing his second point under the third subheading of his essay outline. This is going to be a really great one, once he gets off work tonight and can sit down to write it.

“That doesn’t look like the junior IB English summer reading assignment,” Mr. Ratburn observes from a seat a few feet down from where Brain has been leaning over the countertop with his notebook for the past ten minutes. That particular spot has been the Ratburns’ favorite place to sit in the whole shop ever since the remodel a few years ago turned part of the counter into bar seating. Brain looks up at them only after he puts a period at the end of his sentence.

“It’s not,” he says. “I’ve already done all of my summer reading assignments. This is for the senior class.”

“I know,” Mr. Ratburn says darkly. Next to him, Patrick flashes a grin at Brain before taking another bite of his coffachio ice cream. Mr. Ratburn lets out a sigh. “So, which senior level assignment are you working on then, Alan?”

“The one Prunella told me not to tell you she complained about: the 3-page essay on a global issue brought up in one of the books and how it’s presented in the text,” Brain answers. A conversation at a table across the shop catches his attention, and he glances over to see that Binky has, most uncharacteristically, not touched his cup of strawberry swirl even once since he sat down to join Muffy and Francine fifteen minutes ago. Brain frowns.

“And what issue are you discussing in the essay you’re writing that will, of course, not be graded?” Mr. Ratburn asks. At the table across the shop, Binky looks distressed.

“I’m not asking you to hack into Mrs. Read’s accounting programs and, like, give us all unauthorized raises,” he’s imploring Muffy. “I’m just asking if you could maybe talk to your dad about improving our work conditions.”

“I chose to write about the concept that George M. Johnson brings up in All Boys Aren’t Blue,” Brain says distractedly, “regarding symbolic gestures taking place instead of real change.”

“I can’t do that!” Muffy replies. “I am not involved with my father’s business dealings!”

“What do you mean you’re ‘not involved’?” Brain interjects. Muffy’s assertion is so laughable that he can’t stop himself. “You’ve literally been shilling for your dad’s company in school projects since third grade.”

“Eavesdrop much?” Francine says loudly to him as she turns from Muffy to give Brain a dirty look. Brain raises his eyebrows. He knows it’s his universe-granted right as a homosexual to eavesdrop, but before he can say so, Muffy stands abruptly from her chair.

“I am not a shill!” she exclaims. She reaches up to the crown of her head and tips her sunglasses down over her furious eyes. “Let’s go, Francine. I suddenly feel unwelcome here.” With that, Muffy flounces from the shop. Francine rolls her eyes, but she stands to follow anyway.

“If it’s really that bad,” she says to Binky as she tosses her napkin in the trash on her way out the door, “just quit.” Binky’s shoulders fall and he looks down at the table, crestfallen. Brain bites his lip.

“Hey, Binky,” he says softly, but Binky seems to barely hear him.

“Easy for her to say,” he mumbles, absentmindedly dragging a spoon through the melting mess of his ice cream. “She has great jobs with reliable paychecks to look forward to all summer. I get–”

“Binky,” Brain says again, a little louder this time, pleased when Binky finally looks up at him. “Your order’s well past the melting point. Come get a sundae.” One scoop rhubarb, one scoop strawberry, he doesn’t even have to think; it’s been Brain’s go-to order to cheer Binky up for two years now.

“Oh, no, I can’t,” Binky says sadly, glancing down at the table again. “I can’t afford a sundae. You know Crosswire keeps cutting my hours. I–”

“It’s on the house, Binky,” Brain insists, smiling at Binky until Binky smiles back at him. He slips his notebook under the counter as Binky approaches.

“Hey, Mr. and Mr. Ratburn,” Binky says while Brain gets to work on the sundae. “How’s Slink handling the chocolate shop?”

“They’re better at it than I anticipated, I have to admit,” Patrick says, twirling the remaining bit of waffle cone in his fingertips. “Good enough that I feel comfortable leaving them alone in the store to get an ice cream with my husband in the middle of the day.” Binky grins.

“That’s awesome,” he nods happily. “They really love working there.”

“Pardon me, Binky, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” Mr. Ratburn starts, always polite, but Binky’s grin instantly shrinks.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “About that–”

“Have you considered trying to start a union?” Mr. Ratburn asks. Binky blinks.

“A union?” He looks at Brain, confused, but Brain is, to his deep embarrassment, at a loss on this subject as well. He slides the sundae across the counter to Binky and hands over a new spoon before clearing his throat.

“I confess this is an unfortunate gap in my U.S. history knowledge,” he says. “Aside from some glossed over topics such as the labor efforts that occurred following the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, the story of Cesar Chavez and the National Farm Workers’ Association which later became the United Farm Workers of America, and the fact that we have weekends, we don’t really get taught much about labor union history in school, do we?”

“That’s because the people who sit on the school boards that determine your curricula are terrified of what will happen if young people learn how much change they can enact if they work together as a group,” Patrick says matter-of-factly. Mr. Ratburn gives a solemn nod of agreement.

“It’s true, I’m afraid,” he says. “They’re already hostile to teachers’ unions.”

“You’re in a union, Mr. Ratburn?” Binky asks.

“Proudly!” Mr. Ratburn says. He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a card, holding it up for Brain and Binky to see the words Elwood City Education Association accompanied by a charmingly rudimentary logo design of a tree. “This card and my membership dues ensure safe environmental conditions for both working and learning; enables me to elect representatives who will negotiate with the school board for my best interests in terms of such important contractual items as pay, evaluation, and benefits; and allows my voice to be heard in a powerful collective that has a deep and honorable history in this country, whether the board wants you to learn about it or not.”

“Not to mention it gets him great discounts on homeowners’ insurance and spa packages,” Patrick adds.

“What do you mean by ‘powerful collective’?” Binky asks.

“Remember the teachers’ strike that happened last year in Montvale?” Mr. Ratburn asks.

“Yeah, of course I do. It was all over the news for weeks,” Binky says around a mouthful of ice cream and chocolate syrup.

“They were protesting the conditions of several school buildings, weren’t they?” Brain asks, because he remembers, too. “There were some that were built in the 1960s and had been in need of repairs for some time.”

“That’s right!” Binky says, pointing at Brain with his spoon. “A ceiling collapsed in a 7th grade science classroom–”

“–seconds after the students had left the room for lunch,” Brain finishes. Mr. Ratburn nods.

“While they were protesting many things, that incident was the final straw after a few years of the school board and the teachers’ union being unable to come to an agreement on a new contract,” he explains. “So, the union leadership declared a strike as a means of protest. You’ll notice it didn’t take an additional few years after the teachers went on strike for the board and the union to come to an agreement, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, it was only, like, three weeks,” Binky says at the same time as Brain replies, “Only nineteen days, yes.”

“That’s the power of collective bargaining,” Mr. Ratburn says. “Imagine if only one teacher had gone on strike, or even a dozen. Do you think the board would have been moved to repair the buildings or raise teachers’ salaries?”

“No,” Binky says. “Why would they care? It’s easy to get a few substitutes, or even just to fire the ones refusing to work and hire new ones in their place.”

“Exactly,” says Mr. Ratburn, sounding delighted with Binky’s understanding. “Regardless of the workplace, without a strong union for the employees, the management - in our case, the school board - makes all the decisions alone, and unfortunately, in many situations, those decisions will not benefit the workers, but only those in management.”

“So…” Binky says as he presses the spoon to his bottom lip absentmindedly, “you’re saying if Crosswire Motors had a union, Mr. Crosswire might actually give us lunch breaks and a raise?”

“He’s not giving you lunch breaks?” Patrick’s eyes go wide as he leans forward to give Binky a sharp look.

“Conduct some research into the process of forming a union,” Mr. Ratburn, who likewise looks concerned at Binky’s revelation, advises as he gets to his feet. “The relevant information should be easy enough to find in the library. I seem to remember an impressive display Ms. Turner set up during the strike last year.” He turns to Patrick and reaches out for his hand. “Speaking of lunch breaks, dear, let’s go relieve your star employee so they can take theirs.”

“This officially goes beyond unions, Nigel,” Brain hears Patrick mutter as the Ratburns head for the door. “He’s a minor. Ed Crosswire should be reported to the Department of–” Labor, Brain has to assume, but the door closing cuts off the rest of the sentence.

“This is your early night off, right?” Binky asks. “You wouldn’t want to come with me to the library, would you? Or–I mean, if you have plans already–” It only takes a couple seconds of Brain noting the uncertainty in Binky’s features, the overwhelmed look in his blue eyes, the nervous dragging of his spoon across the bottom of the sundae bowl, for Brain to decide.

“Shall we meet at the library or walk over together from here?” he asks. The essay outline under the counter doesn’t even cross his mind.

—

There are a multitude of factors working against Brain’s normally easygoing attitude at the moment. One of them is, naturally, the heat, which, alongside the mediocre air conditioning in the Elwood City Public Library, is making this a rather unpleasant experience. There’s also the fact that he’s hungry; he didn’t realize until about ten minutes after he and Binky arrived that he hasn’t eaten anything, not even so much as a chocolate chip, since lunch six hours ago. Additionally, there’s the devastating disappointment he’s experiencing due to the only books on labor unions in the whole library being about their history; Brain feels more and more let down by the public library, for perhaps the first time in his life, with every book that doesn’t include any information whatsoever about how someone might go about forming a new union among their colleagues in the present day.

Most annoying, though - and even if Brain can’t identify why it’s the most annoying, he knows for certain it is - is the way Binky is sitting on the table as Brain approaches with a final hopeful couple of books. On the table, perched at the corner directly facing Brain, legs spread for comfort and feet kicking in a rhythmic half-dance. Brain takes one look up at him from skimming another index and gets an abrupt, overwhelming urge to put the books down and step between Binky’s legs, just to be close to him.

Brain takes a step back instead, shaking his head fast and vehemently, hoping to expel the thought from his mind. He doesn’t even know why it surfaced in the first place. A few feet in front of him, Binky sighs and closes the book in his hands before adding it to the second too-high stack of books that don’t have what they need, and all Brain can wonder is why, in the humid warmth of mid-June, he was so keen, for even a millisecond, to feel the heat of Binky’s body so close to his.

“I take it that’s another one for the pile?” Binky asks, his voice resigned. Brain swallows and nods, frowning as he snaps his own book shut and hands it over.

“Maybe you can talk to people in town who are in their own unions,” Brain suggests after determining that the last book in his hands is also one for the pile. “It might be good to get some firsthand information from people in the community.”

“Maybe,” Binky says. The disappointment and uncertainty in his tone makes Brain feel worse than being let down by the library, but at least he finally hops off the table. “Thanks for helping me with this anyway. Hey, do you want to come to my house for dinner? I just realized I haven’t eaten anything since the sundae.”

“My house is closer…” Brain says, thinking out loud.

“Oh,” says Binky. “Right.”

“...but–your mom is a nurse, isn’t she?” Brain asks. “She might be in a union. That seems like the kind of career that would have one.” Binky’s face lights up, and Brain can’t help but smile himself.

“Hey, yeah! Maybe she is!” Binky rushes forward and grabs Brain by the elbow, turning him toward the exit for a moment before hesitating. “Oh. But–I understand if you’d rather just go home–”

“No, no, I want to see this through,” Brain says quickly. “But I am starving. Come on!”

When they reach the Barnes’ house, they’re both sweaty and famished, and Mrs. Barnes happily sets out an extra plate for Brain as she tells them both to go wash up. “Dinner will be served in five minutes,” she adds cheerfully, “and it won’t wait even one minute longer.” For Brain, the idea of waiting even six more minutes to eat right now is inconceivable; he does not need to be told twice. He and Binky splash water on their faces and wash their hands, and then he follows Binky into his room. He’s about to ask if Binky thinks his mom could use some help with finishing setting the table, but he gets distracted, gazing around Binky’s bedroom.

It’s been a while since he’s been in this room, but it’s just as neat and organized as it was the last time. There’s a metronome and a music stand and Binky’s clarinet over by the window, a small basket of yarn and knitting needles on the bedside table, a couple posters of pro wrestlers alongside framed prints of botanical watercolor paintings and drawings of butterflies illustrated in a style that makes it look like they’re pages ripped from vintage textbooks, and, to something akin to Brain’s amusement, the same punching bag Binky’s had hanging from the ceiling since they were kids.

“Do you actually use this thing?” he asks, tapping at a square of old duct tape stretched across it and peeling off around the edges.

“Yeah,” Binky says simply. Brain looks at him sharply, surprised. Part of him wants to laugh, for some reason, but he can’t think about why because his mind has been wiped entirely of anything except a single objective: get Binky to punch the bag.

“Really? Still?” he says, almost scoffing.

“Yeah,” Binky says again, his tone a little defensive, which is fair. Brain is worried he’ll have to stoop to the elementary-level prove it jab, but then Binky says, “Don’t believe me? Stand back,” and Brain dutifully steps aside. He’s prepared for Binky to start punching; he is not prepared for Binky to take off his shirt.

“The sleeves restrict my freedom of movement,” Binky explains, and Brain nods, fixes his already open lips to say, “Of course they do,” but it turns out his mouth has gone dry, curiously. He closes it and swallows as he watches Binky give the bag several good punches before turning to meet his eyes. “Satisfied?” he asks.

Interesting choice of words, Brain thinks, but aloud, he says, “Okay, okay, I believe you,” managing to sound reasonably amused even with his tongue feeling so oversized all of a sudden. He even holds up his hands in mock surrender as Binky crosses to his dresser to get a clean shirt. Still, when Binky turns to face him again, pulling a peach-colored t-shirt down over his broad chest, Brain could swear he’s giving him some sort of knowing look, although what it is he knows that could have him wearing such a smug expression is certainly beyond Brain.

Brain clears his throat and looks around the room again, desperate for something to talk about. His eyes land on the letterman jacket hanging from the closet door knob. He finds himself wandering over to it, reaching out to touch the sleeve. Only three people in their class have already earned letters after only two years in high school - Binky, Francine, and Brain himself - and Brain’s never really gotten a good look at Binky’s jacket before now. There are only three patches on it - wrestling, a clarinet, and ballet shoes, which together make a charming image with shades of irony - but he’s mostly taken with the embroidery on the back of it, the arched script of Barnes accompanied by music notes.

“Not as impressive as yours, I guess,” Binky says. Brain hums.

“No, yours is nice. Mine’s cluttered,” he says, which is true. He’s got five patches down along his sleeves already, with plans to add another two next year, and he really should have been more realistic regarding the logistics of so many on a limited amount of space. Binky’s, though…Binky’s looks good. Solid and steady, just like him. Brain kind of wants to try it on.

“Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Barnes calls.

“We’ll be right there!” Binky calls back. Brain turns away from the jacket, letting the sleeve fall from between his fingers, and follows Binky to the dining room.

Dinner isn’t quite as informative as they’d hoped - Binky’s mom is part of a union, but she doesn’t know anything about how to go about starting one from nothing - and Brain keeps fielding odd, almost accusatory looks from Binky’s dad, but otherwise it’s a delicious and enjoyable affair. Afterward, Brain thanks Binky’s parents profusely as both he and Binky wash the dishes, and then the two of them set off again toward Brain’s house.

“You don’t have to walk me the whole way back, you know,” Brain says as they get nearer to his destination.

“I’m being polite,” Binky says, in a very polite voice, reminiscent of Muffy’s butler, before giggling a little at how ridiculous he sounds. It makes Brain grin, too. “Plus,” Binky adds, “this gives Mei Lin some extra time at the Reads’ house before I stop to pick her up on my way back home.”

“Hard to argue with the logic there,” Brain admits. A few minutes later, in Brain’s driveway, he turns to say good night, and is surprised to see Binky looking down at his feet and rubbing the back of his head nervously. “Binky?”

“Hey, um, sorry if my dad was watching you like a hawk or something during dinner,” Binky says, all in a rush. “Ever since I came out to him and my mom a few months ago, he’s been thinking every guy I talk to is trying to be my boyfriend.”

“Oh!” Brain says softly. Several loose puzzle pieces slot smoothly into place inside his mind. Oh. “That’s okay.”

“But I guess he has more reason to think that about you,” Binky says, quieter than before and still not meeting Brain’s eyes. “I talk about you a lot, I think.”

“Oh,” Brain repeats, so soft it might not even be audible, but Binky finally looks up anyway. There’s a hauntingly familiar uncertainty in his eyes. Brain is overcome with the urge to alleviate it, but all his usually so adept mind can supply him is another, Oh.

“Besides my family and the Tough Customers, you’re the only one who knows,” Binky says. Brain blinks at that.

“Thank you for trusting me with it,” he says sincerely. They’re silent for a moment, just the sounds of nearby crickets on a summer night, and then Brain’s curiosity gets the better of him. “Not that it matters, because it’s entirely up to you and you alone, but…why haven’t you come out to anyone else yet?” Binky shrugs heavily.

“I just haven’t been ready for everyone to know,” he says. “I didn’t want to prove them right.” Brain tilts his head.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” Binky says, breathing out a little self-deprecating laugh. “I dance ballet. I play clarinet. I love butterflies. I knit.” He shrugs again and glances away. “I know what people say when they think I can’t hear them laughing. It always felt more important for me to not prove them right than for me to just…be me, and be happy. Until recently.”

“What changed?” Brain asks.

“I realized how few of those people there actually are, and how much space I was giving them in my head,” Binky explains. “I decided I didn’t want them making my choices for me.”

“My therapist would say that’s very wise of you,” Brain says, his mouth quirking up at the corner. Binky grins.

“Mine, too,” he says. “Plus, um…” He looks down again just for a moment before raising his eyes to Brain’s once more. “I…started thinking, what if I could be more than happy, you know? Like, happier than just how happy being out would make me? What if I could be out and happy and…with somebody?” Brain studies Binky’s face, the comforting way the anxiety in his eyes has ebbed, the infuriating movement of his lips flirting with his usual goofy smile.

“‘With somebody’?” Brain repeats. Binky nods.

“Kinda hard to date a guy when none of the guys know you’re gay,” he says matter-of-factly. “Not that I want to date just any guy, but. You know.” Brain knows, but he doesn’t know enough - not about Binky’s preferences specifically - and he wants to ask a series of increasingly intense follow-up questions, but then Binky says, “Anyway. That’s why I’ve never shown any interest in the GSA. I couldn’t have everybody see me going to meetings of the Gay Students’ Association after school.” Brain frowns.

“Oh, but that’s not quite what it…” He trails off and shakes his head, a smile playing on his own lips now. “You know, that’s a perfectly reasonable and mature decision, Binky. I respect your privacy and I’ll closely guard your secret.”

“I know you will,” says Binky, not sounding at all intimidating, only kind. “I’ll be ready for more people to know soon. Hell, maybe I’ll even be up for joining GSA when school starts up again.”

“My advice is to skip the first twenty minutes,” Brain says. “Sue Ellen always makes the first item on the agenda about trying to get us as a club to petition the school board to provide free diva cups and cloth menstrual pads.”

“Oh yeah! I made a sign about the diva cups a while back,” Binky says. Brain laughs; he’d forgotten about that, but it had made the evening news, footage of Binky standing supportively behind Sue Ellen as she made her case to a school board meeting. “And, actually,” Binky continues proudly, “it was my idea to add the cloth pads to her petition. One of my wrestling teammates is trans and he says wearing diva cups really triggers his gender dysphoria.” Brain stares at him, at his delighted and self-satisfied smile, and finds himself smiling back again.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, feeling a little stunned, a little charmed, somehow. “I keep telling her it’s an issue of it being single-use and sanitary, not…whatever she thinks it is. But, personally, I think if we’re officially, as a club, petitioning the school board for anything, it should be to de-heteronormatize our sex ed and health curriculum, once and for all.”

“Hmm. I’m with you,” says Binky. There’s something alight in his eyes that reminds Brain of the back-and-almost-forth of his goofy smile just a minute ago. “Maybe I will join and help you make that happen.”

“Yeah?” Brain narrows his eyes a little, wondering.

“With our intellect combined, we can totally convince everyone to get on the same page about it,” Binky says happily. Brain laughs again, nodding, before looking down at his feet for a moment and back up at Binky.

“I close the shop tomorrow, but do you want to come over to my house for dinner the day after?” he asks.

“I’ve got work,” Binky says sadly, then he rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m supposed to have work. We’ll see how early Crosswire cuts me out.”

“I’ve never asked you,” Brain says, “but…why do you want to save money to buy a car so badly anyway?”

“It started because I wanted to be able to help my parents out,” Binky says. “Me and Mei Lin do so many different extracurricular activities, you know? It’s hard on our mom and dad sometimes, transportation-wise. I mean, I didn’t realize that until late, obviously.” He rolls his eyes again, but this time it’s at himself. “I’ve had my license for a year now. I should’ve planned better. But, also, none of my friends have a car and I want to be able to drive around with them and stuff.”

“That’ll be nice,” Brain says, nodding. “I mean, assuming I’m one of the fri–”

“Plus, you know, if I ever date anybody,” Binky continues, “and he doesn’t have a car either, then every date we go on will have to be within walking or biking distance, or we’ll have to be driven by parents.” Brain laughs, horrified at the idea, and Binky grins, wide and goofy.

“Raincheck on dinner, then,” says Brain as Binky begins his path back to the sidewalk. Binky gives a decisive nod. They wave and call out good nights to one another, but Brain stands in place and watches until Binky turns the corner to the Reads’ house, out of sight.

—

It takes approximately twenty-four hours before Francine comes into the Ice Cream Shop with her dad, looking relieved to find Binky at the counter taking huge bites of what’s left of the double waffle cone required for his key lime paradise triple scoop with graham cracker crumble, and sheepishly apologizing for not being more supportive of him yesterday. Mr. Frensky suggests he try forming a union and lights up when Binky tells him that’s what he wants to do but just doesn’t know where to start. While Francine orders a jumbo cup of fudge fantasy, nanamint, and pretzels and cream, her dad calls his own union rep right then and there to set up a meeting between her and Binky to answer questions and offer guidance. She manages to arrive only ninety minutes later, and sits with Binky at a table in the corner for another ninety minutes, as Brain’s gaze keeps traveling to them even when he’s fulfilling other customer orders or proofreading his voluntary summer reading essay. Binky leaves afterward, giving Brain a wave and a smile, and Brain still has a difficult time focusing for the rest of the day, wondering what Binky learned from the meeting.

He’s back again in the evening, though, another night of a shift cut early, but so is D.W., who works on her in and out pullbacks under Binky’s watchful eye while she answers Brain’s rapid fire questions about the layers of Earth’s atmosphere. The original agreement was to do these things on separate nights - tap dancing one night, science another - but Binky’s been getting his hours cut so often and ending up at the shop anyway, and D.W. was eager to prove herself after Brain pointed out that movement is a popular pedagogical technique due to the fact that physical activity has been shown to improve focus, memory consolidation, and retention as well as creativity. So here the three of them are, and what an odd little trio they make.

"When are you going to teach me about space for real?" D.W. whines.

"When I decide you're ready," Brain says, just to be coy. Binky chuckles. D.W. rolls her eyes. "But if you have any questions of your own that aren't strictly about our future lessons, now's as good a time as any to ask." D.W. pauses her movements at that, but starts up again before Binky can say anything.

"Any questions?"

"Sure," Brain says with a shrug. What could she possibly ask that would leave him without a readily available answer?

"Okay, Alan," she says with some uncertainty. "How did you know you weren’t straight?"

Brain jerks his head back, surprised into silence. Binky shoots him a worried glance as he blinks himself back to focus.

"Um," he says, looking down. He shakes his head, awkward memories of fifth and sixth grades coming back to the forefront of his mind. "I suppose my first clue was so many of the other boys in my class developing crushes on girls while I couldn't comprehend such a thing. I thought I was just a late bloomer for a while, but then I realized the way they talked about girls was the way I thought about guys."

"So you only get crushes on boys?" D.W. asks. She trips a little, stumbles back, takes a deep breath and remains motionless, staring hard at Brain, who finally looks up at her.

"Yeah," he says, "when I get crushes at all." Curiously, at that, D.W. flashes a glance at Binky, who tugs at the collar of his lavender shirt when Brain looks at him, too, dying to learn what D.W. knows that he doesn't.

Without another word, D.W. starts dancing again, shifting from practicing pullbacks to another move that Brain can’t recall the name of right now. The shop is silent but for the tapping and shuffling of her shoes for a minute, and then, as she slows her movements again, she looks down at her feet.

"I don't only get crushes on boys," she says quietly, her voice uncharacteristically small. Binky’s head lifts sharply as he finally meets Brain’s eyes, the significance of the moment looming over the shop, but both of them are unsure what to say.

"That's fine, D.W.," Binky says after a few more seconds. She looks up at him again and gives him an unsure smile.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says with a definitive nod. "You can get crushes on anybody you want, or nobody at all. It doesn't change how I feel about you–"

"Or how I feel about you," Brain interjects. He understands why Binky doesn't want to speak for him, and he's grateful for it, but it’s important to him that D.W. knows this, too.

"–and, if anything, it only makes you cooler," Binky finishes, grinning. "Welcome to the community!" D.W.'s smile finally returns in full force, nodding slowly, as if to herself.

"Neat," she says happily.

"But your Suzie Q still needs work." D.W. sighs and blows a raspberry, but gets back to practicing anyway, until the usual alarm on Brain’s phone goes off, alerting them to six minutes until Arthur’s expected arrival, at which point D.W.’s lessons officially and quickly wind down for the evening. Brain and Binky each give her homework assignments - find out how the inverse-square law of light is used to measure astronomical distances and watch the scene in Chicago where Billy Flynn tap dances around the witness, respectively - and D.W. takes off her shoes and shoves them into her backpack. Then, the three of them stage the scene. They decide to go for a calmer mood this time, and when Arthur opens the door, it’s to see D.W. throwing bunches of jalapeño jimmies into Binky’s wide open mouth while Brain watches on with a bemused expression.

“Ready to–oh! Hey, Binky!” Arthur says. Binky chomps down on the sprinkles in his mouth and gives Arthur a wave. “Is Muffy’s dad still cutting your hours short?” Arthur asks with a frown. Binky nods, tears springing to his eyes as the heat of the jimmies begins to settle. Brain puts a single scoop of plain vanilla, tried and true, into a cup and slides it across the counter toward Binky, who doesn’t even reach for the spoon Brain is handing to him before he starts licking the ice cream. Brain watches, his expression no longer one of fake bemusement but of something like intrigue instead, and after a few seconds, Binky finally looks up at him, his mouth apparently cooled down enough for him to speak comfortably.

“Thanks,” he says thickly, smiling and taking the spoon now.

“You know, you guys can kick D.W. out if you want to,” Arthur says. “Like, if she’s bugging you or–”

“Arthur!” D.W. shouts. “You say that every time! Stop telling Alan he can kick me out if he wants when he clearly doesn’t want!” Arthur turns an annoyed gaze on her.

“It’s weird that you’re basically just hanging out with my friends!” he exclaims. “We’re in high school!”

“Maybe they just want to hang out with me. Did you ever consider that?” D.W. says. Arthur scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“No, because that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the most annoying person on the planet!” Arthur yells. At this, D.W. hops down off the stool and turns to fully face her brother, her shoulders squared and ready.

“Well, don’t worry, Arthur. I won’t always be the most annoying person on the planet,” she says with an eerie degree of calm. It’s enough to get Arthur to relax for a moment, to uncross his arms and put his hands in his pockets instead.

“Huh,” he says. “D.W., that’s really–”

“One day,” she continues, interrupting him so expertly, “I’ll be the most annoying person in space, and then, I’ll be the most annoying person on Mars.” Arthur stares at her, stunned, and throws up his hands in frustration.

“You still think you’re going to be–” He stops and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms again. “Whatever. Come on, D.W. Thanks for watching her, guys.” He shoves his way out the door, like he can’t even stand to be in the same enclosed space with his sister for another minute, and waits outside. D.W. lets out a satisfied laugh, tossing back her hair and raising her smug delight to the shop ceiling, before making her own way to the door. Halfway there, though, she stops and spins around.

“Hey, um, I haven’t told anyone else,” she says quietly. She doesn’t have to clarify. “Don’t tell Arthur, okay?”

“We won’t tell anyone, D.W.,” Brain says, his tone adamant and serious.

“Of course not,” Binky says, “but…you know Arthur would love you just the same, right?” D.W. nods and shrugs, but it looks too sharp for comfort.

“I know,” she says with a roll of her eyes that feels like bravado. “He’d be so embarrassing about it.”

After D.W. leaves, and the chiming about the door has completely faded, Brain looks over at Binky, who is now chewing absentmindedly on the spoon. Brain’s mouth twitches into a small smile, but he reaches for the spoon anyway, as well as the empty cup, tossing them in the trash bag behind the counter before he starts the very last parts of his shop closing routine.

“What you said to D.W. after she told us she was–whatever label she wants to use,” Brain says, “sounded smooth and practiced. Is that a speech you have ready to trot out in case Mei Lin ever comes out to you?”

“Part of it, yeah,” Binky says. “The one I have for Mei Lin is longer, though, and involves interpretive dance.” Brain can’t tell if he’s joking or not, even with that goofy grin on his face, but it makes him laugh regardless.

“I know it’s too late for dinner,” he says, “but do you want to come over to my house anyway? You can tell me what you learned from the union rep and we can come up with a plan for your next steps.” Binky gives him an unreadable look, one that makes him feel nervous all of a sudden. “If you want. I don’t want to presume–” he hastens to add, but then Binky beams at him.

They ride there on their bicycles, Binky remarking how this would be nicer if he had a car, and once there, they run up the stairs to Brain’s bedroom, where he closes the door as quietly as he can - he’s fairly certain his parent are asleep already - and turns around to find Binky…well.

“Are you cleaning my room?” he asks. Binky looks up at him, confused, and then at the items in his hands: a navy blue sock that was clean but had nevertheless not made it to the dresser drawer for some reason; a copy of How to Read Literature Like a Professor, which is Brain’s actual summer reading assignment, and one he feels offered him nothing new or enlightening whatsoever and so he had thrown it on the floor to be picked up sometime, eventually, before junior year started; an empty snack baggie that formerly carried chocolate chips; and the shirt Brain wore yesterday, which was dirty and still had not been placed in his laundry basket for some reason.

“Oh,” Binky says. “I guess I am.” He sounds a bit perplexed, but mostly unbothered, and as Brain scans the room, he’s suddenly a little embarrassed he brought Binky in here with it in this state.

“I suppose it is messy,” he says.

“You ‘suppose’? Ha!” Binky laughs. He crosses the room, putting everything in its proper place - dirty shirt in the laundry basket, empty bag in the trash can, boring book on the shelf, clean sock in the top drawer of the dresser - as he goes, saying, “You only get away with it being so disorganized because you’re so smart. The ol’ messy genius trope. The only thing that needs to be organized is your mind.” He’s close to Brain then, pushing the dresser drawer shut, and he reaches out to tap at Brain’s temple a few times, a smile on his lips. Brain smiles back, small, just with one corner of his mouth, at the simultaneous insult-compliment. He feels warm all over suddenly. Must be the bike ride heat catching up to me, he thinks, and walks across the room to open the window anyway, hoping for a breeze.

“Been a while since I’ve been in here,” Binky says. “I’m just realizing.” Brain turns back to him and nods, with a bit of nostalgic sadness.

“We haven’t been in any group projects since middle school,” he points out. “We’ve barely even been in any classes together.” I’ve missed it, he thinks, but that’s not quite correct, so he tries again, and gets it: I’ve missed Binky.

“I kinda miss it,” Binky says. “Not the easy A, I mean, but. You know. Having an excuse to hang out with you.” He bites his lip, shoulders held so tense and tight, and Brain’s lips part, but he has no idea what to say. Binky looks away from Brain after a few silent moments, and his expression brightens, his shoulders relaxing. Brain follows his eyes to the poster above his desk.

“Oh, that’s–”

“Bayard Rustin,” Binky says, nodding. “Civil rights leader who did work behind the scenes because he was gay and everyone thought it would be too risky to the movement to have him at the forefront. They were probably right, too, unfortunately.”

“Yeah,” Brain says slowly, after a moment of blinking. It’s not that he thinks Binky is stupid. He knows Binky isn’t stupid. He knows Binky is smart, even. What keeps surprising him, ever since they were kids, are the ways in which Binky is smart.

“Wow, he was really handsome, huh?” Binky says. He walks toward the poster, leaning close to read the date of the photo, in tiny text in a corner. “He was in his fifties here? Damn. Have you read that book of his letters? I Must Resist?” Brain shakes his head. “Oh, you have to! It’s really interesting. The editor did a great job compiling them in an order that really tells stories about his activism, too.”

“I’ll see if I can find it at the library,” Brain says, but something else has caught Binky’s attention, something pinned to the wall next to the Bayard Rustin poster.

It’s a David Foster Wallace quote, which is embarrassing, because he’s not even a particular fan of any of Wallace’s work - and yes, he has read every word of Infinite Jest, and he didn’t like very many of them at all - but it’s something that tugged at him the first time he read it and didn’t let him go until he wrote it down. Since then, he’s typed it out as well, printed it and taped it to the back of his school lockers every year, he’s again written it on the inside cover of several of his books, and he’s pinned it to his bedroom wall, here, where Binky is now seeing it the same way Brain does every day.

“‘Worship your intellect, being seen as smart,’” he reads quietly, “‘you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.’”

“It’s just something I need to remind myself of sometimes,” Brain says with a shrug. Binky turns to him, his brow furrowed.

“Anybody who’s worth knowing you should already know you’re more than your smarts and good grades,” he says sternly. “And if anybody doesn’t, you just point me to them, and I’ll crush them.” Brain smiles.

“It’s not that,” he says. “Well, I mean, part of it is that, but it’s mostly a reminder that I shouldn’t try to drown out my emotions and feelings in rationale and logic all the time, that I’m not above or exempt from any part of the human experience just because I’m smart. I’m–” He hesitates. This is certainly more personal than what he planned on getting into when he invited Binky over, but…he thinks of Binky last night, coming out to him, knows the kind of bravery it takes to bare something like that to someone even when you know they won’t be weird or mean about it. He decides he wants Binky to know this about him.

“I’m worried, sometimes,” he continues softly, looking up to meet Binky’s intense eyes, “that I’ll talk myself out of experiencing certain things if I can’t rationalize them or make scientific sense of them, but I don’t want to waste my life doing that. I want to remember that it’s good to just feel things instead of always trying to think through everything.”

He and Binky hold one another’s gaze for several long seconds. Just when Brain thinks he’ll have to die like this because the idea of looking away is somehow worse, a strong breeze flows in through the open window behind him, sending a few loose papers gliding to the floor, and Binky rolls his eyes and sighs at the new layer of mess.

“So,” Brain says, clearing his throat, “what did Mr. Frensky’s union rep tell you?”

—

Buster leans back against his tuba case, elbows resting on it. With his sunglasses on, he’s a picture of effortless cool, but Brain knows he can’t be comfortable. Tuba cases are hard.

“And then, the tapping sound came from the other room, and there was a skittering across the floor–”

“Buster, we know,” Muffy says from her spot over by Francine. She’s got her tablet propped up on Francine’s big snare drum case as she edits videos she took all morning of the Elwood City High School marching band rehearsing for the upcoming Independence Day parade to post to Pictogram and Tiptop. Like everyone else, she’s sitting on the sidelines of the football field. Unlike everyone else, she’s got a plush towel and a special pillow made for sitting on floors between her and the grass.

Rehearsal finished over half an hour ago, and all the other marching band members have dispersed, but Francine, Samir, and Buster had the idea to linger with Sue Ellen, Binky, and Muffy and make it one of those group hangouts that are so rare these days, or really, since they started high school. For the past thirty minutes, more and more people have shown up, and now, over half the ones here aren’t even in the marching band, including Muffy, who was already here for the rehearsal, but only in a promotional capacity. Arthur’s got The Odyssey open as he lies down on his stomach to read it, with Alex on his back beside him, holding Into the Wild in the air over his face, switching arms every minute or so as the position becomes increasingly uncomfortable. George rests his elbow on Sue Ellen’s saxophone case as the two of them work on a jigsaw puzzle they’ve been doing, slowly but surely - and in all kinds of places and conditions, thanks to the plywood George has to put under it - since January. Samir thumbs through a graphic novel version of The Odyssey, barely skimming each page, between his cymbals case and Francine and Ladonna, both of whom are lying on their backs with their arms under their heads, eyes closed as they soak in the sunlight.

Brain sits beside Binky, who invited him personally - which of course means nothing, because everybody who was already here just sent a text to someone else, and Binky just happened to be the one to invite Brain - and shares another snack bag of chocolate chips with him. Binky was delighted to see he’d brought food when he showed up, and had reached up to tug on his jeans and make sure he sat down close to him. They’ve both been trying not to rush through the bag, only taking a few at a time, going about it slowly. Sometimes, they reach inside at the same time, and their hands touch, their fingers tangle.

“Okay, but did you–” Buster starts, only to be cut off again, by Francine this time.

“Yes, Buster,” she says, loudly and lazily. “We all listened to the episode. We heard the story ourselves!”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing it again,” Ladonna says. Brain can’t tell if she’s being a supportive girlfriend to Buster or a supportive friend to Fern.

Fern is the co-host of two podcasts that are, surprisingly, immensely popular, even outside Elwood City. The biggest one, in terms of both popularity and production value, is her fictional radio play-style detective tales podcast that she hosts with George. Binky’s on that one, too, occasionally, as a recurring villainous character. Listeners send emails from all over the world, suggesting new mysteries for Detective Watteau and her sidekick Bastings to solve. Buster is the co-host of her smaller scale podcast, where all she does is just read him scary stories she’s written and he reacts in real time. That that one has any traction outside Elwood City limits is beyond Brain’s understanding, but he’s seen the data himself, so he knows it has plenty of loyal listeners in places like Dubai and New Zealand and Indonesia and Johannesburg.

Brain prefers the detective one.

“What I want to know is what to expect from Fern’s murder mystery party this year,” Alex says, finally giving up reading in such an awkward position and sitting upright instead.

“Where is Fern anyway?” Muffy asks. She looks around at George. “I invited her. Is she coming or not?” George shrugs.

“Probably not. She said it’s sad girl hours,” he says.

“Seems like it’s sad girl hours pretty often,” Buster says, frowning. George shrugs again.

“I guess so.”

“She’s allowed to be emo, y’all,” Ladonna says.

“She’s not emo,” Samir says, tossing the graphic novel aside so it lands on Buster’s chest. “She’s goth.”

“She’s too emo to be truly goth,” says Muffy in her most judgmental tone.

“She’s a fifteen-year-old girl with a deep creative mind, a dead dad, and a mom who doesn’t understand her,” Binky says bluntly, exasperated. “Of course she gets sad sometimes. It’s no big deal.”

“Binky’s right,” says Brain. “In fact, even without all the latter extraneous factors, the fact that she’s fifteen is enough alone to explain Fern’s moodiness. The brain redevelops rapidly and dramatically during adolescence, following the pattern of brain growth during fetal development, which begins in the limbic system before moving up to the cortex. Changes to the limbic system cause heightened emotional reactions; research using MRI scans show that the amygdala, or the feelings center of the brain, is more sensitive in teens than in kids or adults. Meanwhile, there’s an enormous increase of hormones–”

“Ugh,” says Alex.

“Yeah, we know all about puberty hormones, Brain, thanks,” Arthur says pointedly.

“The three puberty hormones - GbRH, LH, and FSH - actually have, at most, an indirect effect on a teenager’s mood,” Brain says. “I was going to mention estrogen, progesterone, and testosterone - the sex hormones - the volume of which circulating through the body rises drastically during early adolescence, have a strong impact on mood and, of course, libido, the latter of which naturally leads to new romantic feelings and heightened sexual urges, effectively rendering teenagers hormonally primed to be sexually attracted to their peers.”

“Hmm,” says Francine, lifting her head to look over at Arthur. “Is Alberto considered a peer?” Arthur glowers at her.

“No,” he says grumpily. Francine laughs and kicks out her foot toward him, wiggling it until he grabs her ankle playfully. Brain wants to gag. Muffy actually does.

“So what’s your excuse, Brain?” Sue Ellen asks. Brain frowns at her.

“My excuse for what?”

“Where are your heightened urges?” she asks with a grin. Brain’s eyes go wide for a moment.

“Um–”

“It’s not Brain’s fault,” Samir says. “Computers don’t experience primization to sexual attraction, duh.” Brain’s frown returns as everyone laughs, but he steals a glance at Binky and…Binky’s not laughing.

Binky is glancing back at him, though.

Brain looks away quickly, ducking his head. If his face is flushing, then it makes sense, of course, as a perfectly understandable reaction to being openly mocked.

“‘Primization’ isn’t a word; you’re looking for the verb ‘priming,’” he says. “And you don’t know everything about me,” he adds under his breath, hoping nobody hears him. Buster, then, floats a theory about how easily computers could be programmed to feel emotion and attraction, so Brain takes the opportunity to check himself out of the conversation.

He glances over at Binky again, thankful that he’s looking down at his phone this time, scrolling through photos. Brain’s gaze lingers on Binky’s broad shoulders, strong arms, thick thighs. Binky’s still big for his age, but a considerable portion of that is muscle mass now, and Brain can’t pretend he’s never noticed before, not when he’s been to a few of Binky’s wrestling matches and seen him in the spandex uniform, and not when he’s been to all of Binky’s dance recitals and seen him wearing tights. He thinks back to Binky’s letterman jacket hanging on the closet doorknob in Binky’s bedroom. He finds himself imagining wearing it, how big it would be on him, looser even than that style of jacket is meant to be, and how it might smell like Binky–

Brain tears his gaze away, blinking rapidly and shaking his head, stopping himself. He turns his head the other direction to see George, who’s giving him a curious but neutral look.

“Mental health issues are often known to be onset while the brain is still developing,” Brain says quietly, not wanting to attract attention again, “but unless Fern’s sad girl hours start turning into sad girl weeks on end, I’d say she’s free of serious psychiatric disorders. I wouldn’t worry about her if I were you.” George smiles pleasantly.

“I’m not,” he says. “They don’t know Fern as well as they think they do. I also don’t think you’re a computer, for the record. You just have different priorities.” Brain smiles back before looking away again.

George’s assessment isn’t inaccurate, but it’s not the whole truth. Truthfully, Brain has approached the adolescent ritual of dating by not approaching it at all. While many of his peers might arguably be engaging in normal teenage behavior, he is steadfastly not remotely interested in the constant give-and-take sagas of emotional intimacy he watches them exhibit. He’s well aware that romantic relationships, even at their age, have the capacity to promote psychological growth and self-confidence, but he’s spent the last few years looking around at his friends and classmates and assessing much of their romantic escapades exactly as they seem to treat them: a game. Brain does have other priorities, and he’s not interested in wasting his time and energy and emotions on someone who isn’t…steady.

“Hey, since we have almost all the active members of the GSA here,” Sue Ellen says suddenly, “should we talk about the Summer Festival? They should be announcing sign-ups for the talent show portion any day now. We should start thinking about what we want to do for it.”

“As long as you make it clear to Prunella that we are not doing a scene from The Vagina Monologues,” Francine says. Arthur, Alex, Samir, and George all flinch at the word vagina.

“That was a really groundbreaking and important play, but considering the controversies it’s had more recently, especially the accusations of transphobia, I don’t think it would be good for Elwood City High’s GSA to do that anyway,” Binky says. “Maybe you could do a scene from Angels in America or Fun Home or, if you really want to try pushing the boundaries, Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

Everyone, all now sitting bolt upright, stares at Binky, matching wide-eyed surprise and confusion on their faces. Everyone except for Brain, at least, who is also looking at Binky, but with a small, proud smile instead.

“Binky, are you gay?” Francine asks bluntly.

“He could be bi,” Sue Ellen says, “or pan.”

“Nope, I’m gay,” Binky says, his voice loud and unwavering as he looks out at all of them. “And what about it?”

“Binky!” Francine exclaims. “That’s so great!”

“Thank you for sharing it with us,” Sue Ellen says seriously. “You should join the GSA once school starts back up!”

“It’s a lot of fun,” Samir says, “and you get cool merch sometimes.” He taps on the pansexual flag pin on his turban.

“We’ll see,” Binky says with a shrug. “Maybe if you guys do something really cool for the Summer Festival, I’ll consider myself sold.”

“You know, a number from a musical might be a really good idea actually,” Muffy says, and Brain notices Binky’s shoulders relaxing as the group conversation shifts away from him again. He turns his head toward Binky to look at him fully, but Binky’s doing the same thing in his direction, and they end up exchanging the same open-mouthed look of patient expectation for a few seconds before just grinning at one another.

“I’m proud of you,” Brain says quietly. Binky’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that Brain will be trying to properly identify for the rest of the day.

“Thanks,” he replies, just as quiet, then he whispers, “Do you want to see the mockups for the unionization posters Molly made?” He scoots closer to Brain so he can see his phone better, and they end up sitting nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, each of them with one hand, forgotten - or pointedly not - in the now empty bag of chocolate chips.

—

Once the efforts towards the unionizing of Crosswire Motors’ employees begin, the union-busting counter effort is near instantaneous - but, then again, so is the start of the downfall of Crosswire Motors’ business.

Ed Crosswire rips down signs in the break room, so Rattles stands on the sidewalk just outside the company’s property line with flyers to hand to employees as they leave work. Ed Crosswire hires consultants from a union-busting organization to pose as new employees who are anti-union, so Slink stands on the sidewalk just outside the company’s property line holding a poster calling out the consultants by name, photo, and commission they’ll earn from completing this consulting job. Ed Crosswire holds captive audience meetings and tells his employees that unionizing will ruin the work environment - “After all,” he says smoothly, “isn’t this a family?” - and when that isn’t effective in swaying interest, he tells them they’ll all lose their jobs if they do unionize, so Molly stands on the sidewalk just outside the company’s property line with a megaphone and encyclopedic knowledge of workers’ legal rights.

Naturally, the hullabaloo draws the attention of local news cameras and reporters. Buster’s mom makes it a front page story - a brief profile of Binky as the one who started it all as well as a list of labor violations that have been taking place there - and then allows Muffy’s dad to publish an op-ed the next day defending himself, presumably because she knew it only made him look worse. Sue Ellen, who always loves a good protest, throws herself into the cause, too, and together with Ladonna, Samir, Fern, Alex, George, Prunella, Marina, Jenna, and Maria, they have posters up all over the city promoting the efforts to unionize and explaining why a union is necessary in the first place. All over town, other business owners start taking public stands, posting their support on social media feeds in the form of hashtag campaigns and in their store windows in the form of decals designed by Buster and Molly with valuable input from Mei Lin and Cheikh. Even the Reads’ parents, who each count Ed Crosswire and Crosswire Motors as their unequivocal biggest clients, make the decision to stop doing business with him.

It makes things undeniably awkward, to say the least, with Muffy. There’s a huge fight with Francine over her role in getting the relevant information to Binky in the first place. Then there’s a huge fight with Binky for making it happen. Then there’s a huge fight with Brain, both for helping Binky and for defending Binky in the previous fight. There's a huge fight with Buster over how his mom is covering the story in the newspaper. There’s almost a huge fight with Sue Ellen for her part, too, but the Tough Customers are also there, and they stare Muffy down until she just wordlessly screams out her frustration and stomps away. She even tries to start what would be, Brain can only assume, a huge fight with D.W. - in the absence of Arthur, who left with Francine, any Read child will do, evidently - as she makes her exit, but she gets as far as shouting two words before D.W. raises one eyebrow above her sunglasses and Bud, a whole foot taller, rests his elbow lazily on D.W.'s shoulder, tips down his own shades, and says to Muffy, "You don't want this fight, sister," which leads to another frustrated scream and more stomping.

And that’s all just within roughly nine days of the first sign going up in the break room.

Binky is, understandably, a bit overwhelmed.

"You know," D.W. says quietly as she takes off her tap shoes one night after two hours of clacking on Binky’s portable floor tile and learning about dark matter via jelly beans in a jar, "if it's too stressful for you, it's okay if you want to stop teaching me."

"Are you kidding?!" Binky replies, without hesitation. "Outside of dinner with my family, teaching you how to dance and hanging out with Brain are the only times I feel like a person these days! You couldn't pay me to quit." D.W. beams, and while they're occupied with banter about how she's just trying to get out of practicing, Brain seizes the opportunity to duck down behind the counter to hide the blush that's risen to his face.

Binky comes by the shop the next afternoon, leaving Mei Lin and Kate, fresh from the community pool and still dripping wet, outside the door as he orders ice cream cones for them, and catches Brain attempting a tap dance move that D.W. has spent the last few nights perfecting. He grins unabashedly about it and Brain gives him a sheepish smile while he makes slow work of Mei Lin’s ginger pineapple and Kate’s lemon thyme cones.

"What can I say? It's a compulsion," Brain explains.

"You see something, you want to learn it," Binky says with a nod, still smiling. "I know. I get you."

"I don't think I'm quite nimble enough to truly pick it up without months of dedicated practice, though," says Brain. "So you don't have to worry about me stepping on your toes, metaphorically or literally." Binky drums the quarter Brain gave him back in change a minute ago on the countertop and bites his lip. He glances away for a half-second before returning his gaze to Brain.

"No," he agrees. "It's cute, though." Brain almost drops Kate's order as he places it in the cardboard carrier. There's nowhere to hide his blushing this time, not even when he grabs a third cone and reaches back into the display freezer. Binky lets out a giggle, satisfied and triumphant, and picks up the cone carrier.

"Wait!" Brain says. "Don't you want yours?" He holds out a cone of double scoop strawberry rhubarb swirl. Binky blinks, hesitating.

"But I only paid you for the girls' order," he says, a little hushed, like he’s embarrassed someone else might hear, "and I can't–"

"Binky," Brain says softly, one corner of his mouth lifting, "it's on the house." Binky bites back a smile.

"How do you always know what flavor I'm in the mood for?" he mutters. Stepping forward to take the cone from Brain, he raises his voice, just a little, to ask, "Hey, is this because I called you 'cute'?" Brain blushes again, but his smile doesn't falter.

"No," he says simply. It’s because being with you is the only time I feel like a person, too, he thinks, but doesn't know why.

—

The Elwood City Independence Day Parade is so lavish this year that Brain can’t help but wonder if Ed Crosswire threw more money than usual at it in hopes of deploying a metaphorical parachute for his and his business’ reputations. If that is indeed the case, then unfortunately for Crosswire, it turns out that the parachute is defective.

Across from Mr. Molina’s Café Con Leche cart, some of Binky’s coworkers are manning a union drive booth, wearing their brand new union t-shirts and selling them to supporters, too, all proceeds going to the ongoing organizing efforts. Brain keeps seeing the gold and red Crosswire Motors logo everywhere he turns, but on the t-shirts, the words Workers United are effortlessly added underneath it in the logo’s same no-nonsense font, and on the back, in red, is a particularly pointed slogan: Don’t walk but run to unionize Crosswire Motors!

“Why aren’t you wearing yours?” D.W. asks Brain as the parade floats slowly make their way down the street. Tasked with watching after her while Arthur records video of Francine leading the percussion section of the ECHS marching band all along the route, Brain's found that it’s nowhere near as challenging as her brother’s always making it sound to keep D.W. still on the sidelines of a huge community event for a while. The only prerequisites are a bit of patience and the ability to hold her interest, so it's easy to see why Arthur is constantly failing at this.

"I didn't pay for mine; Binky just gave it to me," Brain says. "It feels disingenuous to wear it here. Besides, I'd already chosen my outfit for today and didn't feel like completely reworking it."

"Your outfit is that important to you?" D.W. asks flatly. Brain glances down to see her giving him an impressively unimpressed look behind her sunglasses. He raises an eyebrow at her and kicks softly at her shoes.

"Says the girl with cuffed jeans," he says in a low voice. She grins so brightly it nearly knocks Brain back a step. Ah, the joy of being fully seen, he thinks fondly, before turning back to the parade.

"Hey, Alan, I was thinking about matter this morning," D.W. says after another minute or so. At any other time, Brain would be thrilled to hear those words, especially from her, but, well. If Brain’s brain was a computer, then he’d say it's running on half-power today, although he’d be hard-pressed to explain the reason.

"Yeah?" he asks, his eyes still scanning down the street. He has a moment of calm when he catches the gleam of sunlight reflecting off the gold epaulet of a marching band uniform, but it’s quickly replaced by a different sort of uneasiness, a curious feeling of unsettled nerves somewhere in his abdomen. He's been feeling that so often lately. Perhaps he should ask his mom to make an appointment with the doctor.

"Well, we talked about dark matter, but what about all the rest? How much matter is there in the world anyway?" D.W. asks.

"'In the world' - as in, just on Earth? Or in the universe?" Brain replies. Across the street, Arthur rushes along, scrambling for a good angle from which to record Francine, and Brain’s unsettled nerves unsettle themselves some more as the band marches closer.

"The universe, I guess," D.W. says, though she sounds fairly noncommittal about it. "And for that matter - ha! Matter - how can we even measure it at all?"

“We calculate the mass of galaxy stars–I mean, galaxy clusters,” Brain says, his eyes and most of his attention fixed on the approaching marching band, “um, hundreds of them, per unit volume, and then…then we…”

“Binky will be in the front row, like always,” D.W. says casually.

“How can you be sure? They switch orders sometimes depending on the parade,” says Brain, although her words do relax him a little.

“And so my hypothesis graduates to become a theory,” D.W. says then, which strikes him as an odd reply. He tears his gaze away from the approaching band to glance down at her smug face.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, furrowing his brow, but then his ears pick up on a clarinet in the midst of an increasingly loud ensemble, and he turns back toward the parade. Sure enough, Binky is in the front row, and as he marches past Brain and D.W., he lowers his clarinet ever-so-slightly and flashes them a grin and a lightning quick wave, his eyes locked on Brain’s the whole time. Only after he’s passed and two rows have followed him does Brain realize his hand is up and waving weakly, and even then, only because Buster tries to awkwardly wave back as he marches by with his tuba.

“Butterflies!” Brain exclaims. The music is so loud that his abrupt shout doesn’t seem to alarm D.W. - she might not even have heard it at all - but he feels a bit of relief anyway, finally having identified the best descriptor for this sensation of unsettled nerves. It’s butterflies. It will sound ridiculous having to explain it to a doctor, but at least it’s a little less vague.

“Now,” he says once the marching band has finally passed them, “what were you saying about hypotheses and theories?” D.W. doesn’t get a chance to answer, though, before a chorus of boooos, so uncharacteristic of Elwood City festivities, meets their ears. They both turn to look at what’s causing the negative response, and when they do, Brain isn’t the least bit surprised.

He is surprised that Ed Crosswire decided it was a good idea to keep the Crosswire Motors float as this parade’s grand finale float. Then again, people jumping out of airplanes don’t typically foresee their parachute malfunctioning either.

The Crosswire Motors floats are always big and elaborate, but the one in this particular parade is considerably more massive than any previous Crosswire Motors float in Brain’s recent memory, designed to look like a convertible car with its backseat folding out and building up into a throne, with Muffy, naturally, sitting atop it, while her father stands below, advertising his business. In a normal year, this would result in little more than some eyerolls and some good-natured jokes in the crowd. This year, though, it creates a stark and ugly contrast to the way the city now knows Ed Crosswire treats his employees, a brutal embodiment of the idea that his personal fortune continues to amass while his workers struggle for their basic rights and fair wages.

“It’s giving, ‘Let them eat cake,’” D.W. says darkly, crossing her arms and glaring.

“You know, it’s highly improbable that Queen Marie Antoinette ever actually said that,” Brain says, although he, too, is glowering at the nearing float. “Not only was the original phrase, which translates roughly to, ‘Let them eat brioche,’ referenced prior to the French Revolution, meaning it couldn’t have originated with the queen, but in fact, the earliest known source that even connects her to that phrase was published over fifty years after–”

“And remember: Crosswire Motors is open every night ‘til 10, even Sundays and holidays!” Ed Crosswire yells valiantly against the crowd’s booing, his voice tinny through the megaphone but every bit as unshakably confident as usual. “Crosswire Motors is here for you!”

“But not for us!” comes a responding yell through another megaphone. Brain and everyone else turn their heads toward the source: a Crosswire Motors employee from the union drive booth, only distinguishable from the union supporters in the crowd who aren’t employees by his Crosswire Motors baseball cap. Brain glances over to the float again to see Ed Crosswire going pale, and, up on her throne, Muffy looking utterly stricken. The union organizer steps confidently forward, passing in front of Brain as he goes. Jawad reads the employee badge hanging from his lanyard, which means he at least has a face now to accompany the name Binky keeps referring to as their lead organizer, but it also suddenly makes sense why Brain feels like he’s met the guy before - he has, at a few of Cheikh’s birthday parties, because Jawad is Fatima’s cousin. As he watches Jawad jump onto the Crosswire Motors float’s platform, Brain can’t say he blames Muffy and her dad for their fear and dread. Let them eat brioche, indeed, he thinks.

“Who keeps Crosswire Motors open every night ‘til 10, even Sundays and holidays?” yells Jawad through the megaphone.

“We do!”

Brain jumps at the volume of the response. Glancing around, he can see dozens of Crosswire Motors Workers United employees with their matching caps, dispersed throughout the crowd on both sides of the street. He smiles as he realizes just how organized this effort has been, and so quickly, too. Binky may have loosened his grip on the reins of it as soon as others at his job, older and wiser and with more experience, agreed and took it on with gusto, but it’s a fact that this was still all started by him. Does he have any idea how amazing that is?

“Who misses family dinners, dance recitals, and school plays, while our boss goes home?” Jawad asks.

“We do!”

“While the boss dines out, who skips lunch breaks to make sure the cars on our lot are all pristine and ready for customers at any time?”

“We do!”

“Who loses out on sales commissions when our boss swoops in at the last minute?”

“We do!”

“While the boss rakes it in, who deserves our first pay raise in years?”

“We do!”

“Citizens of Elwood City,” Jawad says, his voice clear, even through his megaphone, as he addresses the crowd, “we are Crosswire Motors, and we are here for you, but Ed Crosswire is not here for us! We’re organizing a union so we can better advocate for ourselves and each other, to make Crosswire Motors a better place to work so we can be here for you better. Thank you for supporting our movement. Have a happy fourth of July.”

Jawad jumps down off the float without so much as a parting glance to Mr. Crosswire, who still looks gobsmacked by the unexpected turn of events. There’s some general applause and cheering among the masses lining the streets, but the atmosphere feels uncertain, even a bit lackluster as far as conclusions go, until someone in the throng who sounds suspiciously like Mr. Frensky shouts, “When I say, ‘union,’ you say, ‘power!’ Union!”

“Power!” The response comes from every Crosswire Motors employee throughout the crowd, and it sets off a cascade of call-and-response chanting that spreads to everyone along the parade route, even those not wearing the union t-shirt. When the initial chant loses steam, Jawad starts another one from way back at the union drive booth, with the help of his megaphone.

“Say it loud! Shut it down! Elwood City is a union town!”

And when that dies down, Brain could swear it’s Mr. Molina shouting at the top of his lungs all the way from his food cart, “Escucha! Escucha! Estamos en la lucha!”

“What does that mean?” D.W. asks, raising her voice so Brain can hear her over the din. “‘Listen, listen, we are in’ what?”

“‘The fight,’” Mr. Ratburn answers from behind them.

“Ohhh!” D.W. says, then joins the chanting, too. Brain turns back toward Mr. Ratburn, leaning closer so he can be heard over Patrick shouting along as well.

“Have you done a lot of protesting in your life, Mr. Ratburn?” he asks. Mr. Ratburn gives him a cryptic smile.

“I’ve certainly done my fair share,” he says. “Perhaps even more.” Brain opens his mouth to reply - he has several follow-up questions - but he’s effectively silenced by another new chant sweeping the crowd.

“When working people are under attack, what do we do?” Jawad calls.

“Stand up! Fight back!” respond the Crosswire Motors employees on the first round, then everyone else by the third. Movement from the corner of his eye catches Brain’s attention in time for him to turn and see the Crosswire Motors float moving as quickly as it’s capable of doing down the street, Muffy’s dad obviously desperate to get away, and Muffy herself no longer on the throne but hiding in the backseat. Brain almost feels bad for her - it isn’t her fault how her father treats his employees - but then he remembers how she refused to help Binky, even when being asked as a last resort measure, and his sympathy promptly evaporates.

“Stand up! Fight back! Stand up! Fight back! Stand up! Fight back!”

With the retreat of the finale float bringing a particularly memorable end to this year’s parade - Bitzi Baxter, who Brain has seen across the street holding her phone high to record video of the proceedings ever since Jawad started heading toward the Crosswire Motors float, looks nothing short of delighted as she takes rapid notes - the union chants finally mellow and the crowd begins to slowly disperse. D.W. spots her friends and disappears from Brain’s side, only to be immediately replaced by Binky, changed out of his marching band uniform and now holding an enormous cinnamon sugar pretzel and beaming with pride.

“You look happy,” Brain says, unable to keep a grin off his own face.

“What can I say, Brain? I’m a simple young man,” Binky says grandly. “I love fireworks, soft pretzels, and organized labor.” Brain laughs and Binky holds up another pretzel, this one drizzled with melted chocolate and sprinkled with coarse salt.

“For me?” Brain asks. Binky nods, his mouth full of cinnamon sugar pretzel, and Brain reaches out for his. “You didn’t have to get me one,” he says in a small voice before taking a bite.

“I got it for free,” Binky says quietly, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed at his lack of disposable income. “The girl at the pretzel cart’s cousin works at Crosswire Motors.”

“The cost is irrelevant. You still didn’t have to get me one,” Brain replies. “I’m glad you did, though. It’s delicious. Thank you, Binky.” Binky shrugs, but he looks up and meets Brain’s eyes again.

“I was just thinking of you,” he says, and then, before Brain can even process that, he adds, “The card campaign officially starts tomorrow. Molly’s designed union membership cards for us to use.” Brain smiles.

“It’s like your own declaration of independence,” he says. Binky grins and shoves the rest of his pretzel into his mouth.

“Hey, guys!” Alex says as he walks up with Ladonna, Samir, Arthur, and Buster, who is still wearing his tuba.

“Some parade, huh?” says Ladonna, wide-eyed.

“Definitely the most eventful one Elwood City has seen in a while,” Samir says.

“Thanks again for watching my sister, Brain,” Arthur says. “Hey, where’d you get the pretzel?” Brain quickly follows Binky’s example of stuffing the rest into his mouth, though he couldn’t explain why, and gestures to Binky as an answer.

“Cool kite, D.W.!” Buster exclaims as D.W. runs by. Above and behind her, the tetrahedral kite she constructed herself last week during a science lesson glides through the air. The sunlight shines boldly through the pink, purple, and blue cloths used to make it - her choice of colors, but Brain wasn’t exactly shocked - creating an aesthetically pleasing gradient.

“Thanks! I made it myself!” D.W. replies. At this, Arthur shakes his head, his brow furrowing as he turns toward his sister.

“Stop telling people that, D.W.!”

“Why?” she asks as she runs by again.

“Because it’s not true!”

“Yes, it is!” D.W. shouts, but only because she’s so far away now.

“No, it’s not!” Arthur yells back angrily. “There’s no way you made such a complicated–”

“Arthur, can I ask you something?” Binky says suddenly. His tone is so calm and sincere that it catches Arthur off guard; he turns to look at Binky, confused but expectant. “Why do you think your little sister is stupid and incapable?”

Arthur is stunned into silence. Behind him, Ladonna’s eyes go even wider, Alex raises his eyebrows, and Samir cringes and spins around, occupying himself with fussing over fuzz that isn’t there on his red, white, and blue turban. Brain almost wishes he still had half a pretzel to hide behind, too, but he settles for biting back a smile before turning toward Binky and sharing a knowing look with him.

“Hey, guys!” Francine says as she arrives with Sue Ellen, who hasn’t put away her saxophone yet. Francine gives Arthur a kiss on the cheek and the keytar he’s been toting around to every party and public event for the past year and pulls her drumsticks out of her back pocket. “Do any of you remember that song we did in the parade the summer after fourth grade?” She starts drumming in the air, as if that will help jog anyone’s memory.

“Oh, the one from Home School Rock? About fireworks?” says Samir.

“Schoolhouse Rock,” Alex says.

“Yeah!” Samir agrees.

“There’s gonna be fireworks,” Brain starts to sing the jazzy, bluesy tune.

“Firewooorks!” Francine cries, clearly thrilled to reprise her role from years ago.

“On the fourth of July–”

“Red, white, and blue!” Binky sings in a high voice, reminiscent of the backup singers in the original song that they all listened to hundreds of times as kids. Brain grins at him.

“Red, white, and blue fireworks like diamonds in the sky,” he sings.

“Diamonds in the sky!” Binky sings back, laughing. Sue Ellen and Buster start playing their instruments along as the song continues into the highly simplified history lesson, with Arthur soon joining in on keytar.

“Like Thomas Paine once wrote, it’s only common sense–”

“Only common sense!” Binky screeches.

“–that if a government won’t give you your basic rights, you’d better get another government!”

“Or boss!” says Samir, pointing excitedly at his Crosswire Motors Workers United shirt.

“And though some people tried to fight it,” Brain sings, “well, a committee–”

“A union!” Alex interjects happily.

“–was formed to write it–You know,” Brain says, interrupting himself this time as he sees some younger kids surrounding them and dancing to the song, “the lyrics erroneously name Philip Livingston as a crafter of the Declaration of Independence. In reality, Philip Livingston was merely a signatory; it was Robert Livingston who was on the writing committee.”

“But what did the Continental Congress say, Brain?” Francine practically growls. Brain sighs.

“We were free-hee,” he says in an unamused monotone. It makes Binky laugh, which is enough to get Brain back into the spirit. He grins at Binky as he dons a swooning lilt and sings, “Said we had the riiiight of life and liberty,” before going back to his speaking voice to add, “And the pursuit of happiness.”

“Extra! Extra! Colonies revolt!” Francine throws her head back to yell.

The impromptu jam session, as George would call it if he was here with his guitar, continues, more younger kids gather around to dance along, all of them in wildly different styles and with varying degrees of talent and rhythm. Mei Lin, a ballet dancer like her older brother, manages to make running in circles with Kate, sparklers in their hands, look graceful, and Emily, even in an oversized Uncle Slam t-shirt under a denim jacket that’s had the sleeves torn off to make it a denim vest, is moving to the beat in a way that makes it obvious she still takes ballet classes. Beside them, the ones with more traditionally athletic builds and skills - Kate, who’s already made a name for herself at Lakewood Elementary for dominating in volleyball games during P.E. and recess; Bud, whose long legs put his center of gravity higher than that of his friends; and Liam and Ryan, both of whom are all but guaranteed spots on the varsity baseball team as soon as they get to high school - make the difference impossible to miss. Cheikh moves awkwardly as well, but Brain is certain that has more to do with the fact that he’s wearing traditional Senegalese clothing today than with anything like a lack of rhythm; he knows Cheikh has that. Vicita might not have ballet training, but her knowledge of other dance styles is obvious, making her another standout. James and Fatima, meanwhile, well…Brain thinks it’s nice that they’re having fun.

“Most of you kids have pretty good form, but your coordination and choreography need work,” Binky says when the song comes to a triumphant end. The kids laugh, understanding the half-joke, but out of seemingly nowhere, Brain’s aunt grabs Binky by the shoulder and gives him a look of wide-eyed desperation.

“Would you be willing to teach my son?” she asks. Binky blinks.

“Uhhh–”

“And mine, too?” asks a man who Brain recognizes as Liam’s dad.

“And my daughter?” Fatima’s mom asks.

“Um,” Binky glances sidelong at Brain, who raises his eyebrows and shrugs.

“We’ll pay you, of course,” says Mrs. Compson, already reaching for her purse like she’s willing to hand Binky cash right now.

“Now just hang on a minute,” Bud says, making a disgruntled face at his mom. “Why–”

“We need them out of our houses,” Ryan’s father says, not bothering to lower his voice.

“And like Cisely said, we’ll pay you for the lessons,” Mrs. Read says. “It’s completely unacceptable how Ed has been treating you.”

“I–uh…” says Binky, looking lost. “I mean, I don’t…have anywhere to teach them–”

“I’m sure my mom can get you space reserved at the community center,” Vicita says with a smile. “I’ll ask her! She always says you’re a great dancer.”

“Really?” Binky asks. Brain smiles as he watches his confidence swiftly return.

“Uh-huh,” Vicita replies with an enthusiastic nod. “I’m sure she’d love to help you make dance classes happen!”

“I can’t take a dance class!” Liam protests. Binky gives him a distinctly unimpressed look.

“Not what that attitude.”

“But–”

“Dancing will make you a better runner as well as a better athlete in general,” Brain says, which predictably shuts up Liam, and carries the added benefit of quelling the potential pushback on the rise from Ryan. “The use of different muscles than you’re accustomed to training means you’ll develop more flexibility and dexterity, improve your endurance and resilience, and increase your coordination. Additionally, it will make you a more valuable asset to any sports team you play on, as teamwork is a vital part of dance.”

“He’s right,” Binky and Emily both say. Binky grins at her.

“Well,” says Liam, exchanging a look with Ryan, “alright, then.”

“How much would you charge per lesson?” asks Mrs. Read.

“Are you giving dance lessons, Binky?” Emily’s mother asks, appearing suddenly. “How wonderful! Emily, would you want to–”

“Yes!” Emily exclaims, her face lit up. She begins cycling through what Brain assumes are basic ballet moves and positions, but he couldn’t possibly name them, and he also isn’t certain Emily is even fully aware that she’s doing it. “Of course I’d want to take a dance class from Binky!”

“Did you say how much per lesson?” Mrs. Diallo asks. Binky, starting to look overwhelmed again, turns to Brain for help, and then the two of them turn to Vicita, who nods solemnly.

“Let me go get my mom.”

—

The discussion around the logistics of the dance lessons ends up lasting long enough for Binky to, when it’s finally all over, look around, check the time on his phone, and say in anguish, “Aww, man!”

“What’s wrong?” Brain asks. Of their friends, he was the only one to stick around this long as the conversation continued. It just seemed like Binky needed a presence nearby who wasn’t a parent expecting something from him.

“The fireworks start in an hour and all the good viewing spots are already gonna be crowded,” Binky complains, his frown huge and devastating.

“What about Puffer’s Pond?” Brain suggests, though he knows as well as Binky that it’s almost definitely filling up with people already.

“No,” Binky sighs. “I guess we can just–”

“How about the Ice Cream Shop?” Brain says. “We can go up on the roof.”

“Really?” Binky lights up. “I’ve always wanted to watch from a rooftop that’s not a house. And right on Main Street - I bet it’s the best view in all of Elwood City!” Brain smiles and thinks, Oh, I hope so.

Even having to navigate through the all the hordes of people lining the street, it takes them only ten minutes to walk to the Ice Cream Shop. Brain’s mom closed the shop hours ago, just before the parade started, so it’s dark and empty when he unlocks the door and goes inside, Binky close behind him. He locks the door again behind them before turning to ask Binky if he wants some ice cream before they go up to the roof.

“Yeah, but, um,” Binky says, mysteriously nervous all of a sudden, his voice so loud in the empty dining area, “can I ask you a question first?”

“Of course,” Brain says. It occurs to him as soon as he answers: Binky’s probably still afraid of the dark, and it’s probably too dark in here for his comfort right now. Brain opens his mouth to reassure him, begins to take a step to the counter where he can turn a few lights on, but then–

“Is…this a date?”

Brain suddenly can’t recall if it’s physically possible for one’s intestines to twist themselves into a knot, but he does know that his are trying their hardest.

“I think if both parties agree that something is a date,” he says, his voice sounding very far away, “then it’s a date.”

Is it possible for someone to hear another person’s heart pounding without the use of a stethoscope? Everything Brain once knew about the body seems to have completely vanished from his memory.

“Okay, that makes sense,” Binky says with a nod. “Well, um, I want it to be a date.”

Brain exhales. An ache in his lungs he wasn’t aware of until now subsides. He didn’t even know he was holding his breath - how embarrassing is that?

“Me, too,” he blurts out, replying without a second thought. Binky smiles as his shoulders relax.

“Cool. I can breathe easier now.” He says it like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t reveal something heavy and deep and vulnerable within him. Brain stares at him, open-mouthed and speechless as he takes in Binky’s smile, sweet and goofy as ever. It’s almost too much to bear, but looking away feels like an insurmountable task.

“And since it’s a date,” Binky says, evidently oblivious to the nuclear disaster unfolding inside Brain, “I have an idea.”

The idea is creative and simple. And cute. And romantic. And it requires the two of them to spend twenty minutes separately, each of them doing their own independent work, before reconvening with the results of their endeavors in time to get up to the roof and settle in to watch the fireworks. It’s this last attribute that is most important and beneficial to Brain right now, because it means he has twenty minutes to figure out what the fuck is happening.

Back in the invention room, they synchronize the timers on their phones and hit Start simultaneously. Binky takes off running while Brain wonders where to start. The challenge issued by Binky - with whom he is on a date! shouts his brain most unhelpfully - is for each of them to create a brand new ice cream flavor inspired by the other. There is a single limitation, which is that it can’t just be anyone’s favorite flavors, but otherwise, basically anything goes, and therein lies a problem for Brain.

Truthfully, the first foods he immediately associates with Binky are peanuts and peanut butter, which are obviously off the menu of options. In terms of ice cream flavors, everything below those are just the list of Binky’s favorite flavors, orders Brain has had memorized for years. On the other side of the room, Binky giggles loudly, and Brain hums, considering. Gathering up his determination and competitive spirit is difficult in the midst of whatever personal crisis is going on, but he does it anyway. Setting aside the idea of something with peanut butter notes or plain rhubarb, he delves deeper.

When he thinks of Binky, when he thinks of how Binky makes him feel, he thinks of…butterflies in his stomach–ugh, but that’s not a flavor, he says to himself. Come on, Brain. Think! He frowns to himself, frustrated, and glances across the room at Binky working furiously, and he thinks again.

Binky is…Binky is…

Binky is cotton candy at the fall carnival on its last weekend in town, after all their friends have gotten bored and left to spend their last night before school starts at the movies or somebody’s house, and it’s just the two of them at the one remaining cotton candy cart with its lights on, their faces smashed against the glass to watch the sugar spin and spin and spin, grinning at each other through the windows before one of them asks for more purple sugar, please, and then sharing the huge bag on the ferris wheel with sticky fingertips and cozy quiet as they look over Elwood City at night.

Binky is peach so fresh and vivid it blends into the intricate coral formations at the aquarium on a middle school biology class field trip that finds them partnered together for a scavenger hunt, leading to a series of creative and funny photos in front of the reef tank that lands them a victory their classmates complain about for weeks and extra credit points that put his grade into the next letter range despite him not caring much.

Binky is rich dark chocolate with tiny shards of caramel cutting through, all the depths of his heart and mind and character hidden under hard muscle and a tough exterior that intimidates and threatens those who don't know any better, and even occasionally those that do, but always melting down and smoothing out at the harsh edges just enough to be seen as he truly is by anyone who wants to take the time to look and listen.

Binky is a surprise–but is he really? How much of a surprise can Binky be when Brain has been able to tell his mood by his ice cream order since elementary school? How long has he been convincing Binky to hang around the shop after he gets one of his glum or angry or pensive orders, just so Brain can try to cheer him up, make him happy, get him to ask for one of his happier orders only to give it to him for free before he leaves the shop again?

“Oh, shit,” Brain mutters. There’s peach ice cream overflowing the cone and melting all over his hand. He shakes his head rapidly, refocusing. He’ll have to restrategize and find a different base flavor.

He’ll also have to deal with the fact that he might possibly be infatuated with Binky Barnes.

But…that can wait. At least, Brain assumes it can wait. He’s gone all this time without even realizing it, after all. Right now, he’s got a challenge to meet.

Dark chocolate. Peach. Cotton candy. Brain can work with these.

He makes it back to the invention room door with his creation within the time limit, but only barely. Clutching the sundae glass with both hands, he eyes Binky’s dessert bowl with intrigue and…butterflies in his stomach.

“So, what’d you make for me?” Binky asks.

“You first,” Brain says. Binky laughs.

“Okay,” he says easily. He holds out the bowl toward Brain. “I present to you the ice cream that you, um, inspired.” Brain glances up to see him blushing. “It’s blueberry balsamic flavor swirled with black raspberry, but the black raspberry flavor is black instead of purple because I colored it with activated charcoal. And then I crumbled up some pie crust to mix in with it, and there’s sprinkles and mini chocolate chips on top.”

“Wow,” Brain says after a moment, his voice much softer than he anticipated. He reaches for the bowl to take a closer look at the sprinkles.

“I chose black raspberry because I read that’s what space tastes like,” Binky explains anxiously. “Or at least, like, the Milky Way, I think.”

“Yes, scientists discovered an interstellar dust cloud within the Milky Way that contains the chemical ethyl formate,” Brain says, “which is the key component that gives raspberries their flavor.” He stares down at the sprinkles: bright neon stars, which, against the swirling black and purple of the galaxy-flavored ice cream beneath, has a significance that’s impossible to miss. It also means that Binky has thought through a dimension - visual - that hadn’t even occurred to Brain. He’d be kicking himself for it if he wasn’t busy feeling so…enamored? Smitten? Twitterpated? Completely and ridiculously besotted?

“This is incredible, Binky,” he says.

“You haven’t even tasted it yet,” Binky points out. Brain looks up from the ice cream to see him biting his lip, nervous and hopeful.

“Tasting it will just prove my statement to be even more accurate,” Brain insists. “Just from looking at it…It’s already incredible.”

“Thanks. I’ve, um, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Binky says, his voice quiet. He clears his throat. “Your turn.” Brain blinks, suddenly remembering the sundae glass still in his right hand.

“Roasted peach and dark chocolate swirl under a drizzled salted caramel shell, of sorts, which is topped with a nest of freshly spun peach-flavored cotton candy,” he says. The butterflies that apparently live in his belly now all spring into action at once, striking an abrupt fear in him over how his Binky-inspired ice cream creation will be received. Binky, though, appears completely delighted as he takes the glass from him.

“Cotton candy!” he exclaims, looking up at Brain with excitement in his eyes. “Like every year at the carnival!” Brain smiles and nods. Binky lets out a sweet little laugh and declares, “This is awesome!”

They head for the roof, stopping for spoons on their way, and sit down cross-legged near the edge. If they were to creep forward and look down, they’d see the street uncomfortably crowded as families and friends and visitors gather and clamor in anticipation to see the fireworks. Above them, though, there’s nothing but a dark sky waiting to be lit up, and here, on the roof of the Ice Cream Shop, they’re sitting close enough together that their knees touch, alone and unseen.

“I was right,” Brain says quietly after he takes his first bite of the ice cream Binky created for him. “This is incredible.” Binky ducks his head, but can’t hide his smile, even after he shoves the entire handful of cotton candy into his mouth.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. Brain watches anxiously as he breaks through the thin shell of caramel drizzle and finally tastes the ice cream, but his nerves are soothed instantly by the happy look on Binky’s face. “Delicious!”

“Good,” Brain says, feeling settled enough to go back to his own bowl. They sit in companionable silence for a minute, awaiting the fireworks show that’s due to start any minute now, and then Binky speaks up again.

“Hey, um,” he says, “since this is a date, can I call you ‘Alan’?” Brain whips his head up, blinking fast as he tries to remember if he’s ever heard Binky actually call him by his first name until now. He doesn’t think he has; it sounds nice, from Binky’s mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you can.” Binky smiles around his spoon.

“Cool,” he says. Brain tips down his head.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. He shoves an enormous spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, hoping the inevitable brain freeze will help him figure out the quickest way he can get Binky to say his name again, but instead his mind decides, without his permission, to fixate on the sight of Binky setting aside his newly empty sundae glass. What would it be like to hold his hand? he thinks, even through the cold slicing through the roof of his mouth. How can I get him to hold my hand?

With a series of pops and whistles as they soar into the sky and a burst of light and color against the dark backdrop of the night, the fireworks show begins, but Binky doesn’t look up. Brain glances at him, concerned.

“When you’re done with your ice cream,” Binky says, leaning closer to be heard clearly over the fireworks without raising his voice, “can I hold your hand?” Brain takes another huge spoonful - everything left in the bowl - into his mouth and matter-of-factly sets it and the spoon aside in a hurry. Wordlessly, he offers his hand to Binky, who smiles like he can’t believe his luck as he takes hold of Brain’s hand, intertwining their fingers, and finally tips his head up to watch the fireworks.

There are twenty-seven bones in the hand - eight carpals, five metacarpals, and fourteen phalanges - and an equal number of joints. There are thirty-four muscles, including the short muscles between the metacarpal bones which allow for abduction and adduction, otherwise known as the spreading and pulling back together of the fingers, and for bending and stretching the fingers, which occurs an average of twenty-five million times per hand over the course of a lifetime. There are forty-eight named nerves, including the three major ones - ulnar, radial, and median - and a network of at least one hundred named ligaments. Everything works together to make the hand and fingers functional.

There are also over seventeen thousand mechanoreceptors - receptors that respond to the sensation of touch and pick up movement, pressure, and vibration - in each hand, most of which are found in the fingertips. In addition to free nerve endings, which measure temperature and pain, there are rapidly-adapting receptors, like Meisnner’s corpuscles and Pacinian corpuscles, which track changing stimuli, and slowly-adapting receptors, like Merkel discs and Ruffini endings, which collect and deliver information regarding ongoing stimuli. Such prolonged touch occurs when, for example, one is holding a dessert bowl full of ice cream for an extended period of time, or…well. Or holding someone else’s hand.

Those seventeen thousand mechanoreceptors communicate with the brain in the somatosensory cortex. But they are not, presently, communicating with the Brain clearly enough for him to be able to explain to himself why each and every one of them in his right hand, clasped in Binky’s gentle but purposeful hold, feels every bit as lit up and brightly exploding as the fireworks above them.

—

Brain practically breaks the hinge mechanism on his laptop when he gets home, opening it at such a speed to type a very important search into Boogle.

why does it feel good to hold your crush’s hand

Not even pausing to feel ridiculous or embarrassed over the wording of his search, he instead takes to immediately scrolling past results from lifestyle sites and platforms infamous for not citing their sources. There are so many that he thinks he’ll have to find a way to reword it after all in order to get a more trusted answer, but then he sees one from his tried and true Science Daily - your source for the latest research news. He clicks the link without so much as skimming the article title, which leads to his eyes falling to the large navy blue headline text of, “When lovers touch–”

He slams his laptop closed and kicks away from the desk, his eyes wide.

Lovers. Is that–is that what he and Binky are? Is that what they could be?

Brain bites his lip and closes his eyes, takes a minute to breathe, and then rolls his chair to the desk again and opens the laptop. The screen flickers back to life and Brain finally gets the answer to his original question. “When lovers touch,” the headline reads, “their breathing, heartbeat syncs, pain wanes, study shows.” “Interpersonal synchronization” is what the authors of the study call it, and of course it only tested heterosexual couples, and only twenty-two, at that. The whole thing seems to be more about empathy than anything else, but Brain’s attention does keep getting pulled back to one sentence: “And when romantic couples are simply in each other's presence, their cardiorespiratory and brainwave patterns sync up, research has shown.” He spends the next ten minutes doing more reading, more research, learning about hand-holding reducing stress and lowering blood pressure, details about the orbital frontal cortex and oxytocin that he knew before but didn’t know before, and when he finally closes his laptop for the night, he’s in a daze as he goes about the remainder of his bedtime routine.

He’s not immature enough to call it love, but it is a matter of the heart, and science, he knows, quakes in the face of matters of the heart that are not anatomical or otherwise medical in nature. Some things go beyond rational explanation or research. Music is a good example. Yes, there’s science behind why instruments make the sounds they make, and music’s effect on the brain and behavior and development, but what makes music music - that has nothing to do with science; that’s a matter of the heart.

And Binky…Binky is, Brain is realizing as he looks in the mirror and watches himself brush his teeth, a matter of his heart, and has been for…an unspecified amount of time. Brain isn’t certain he could get more precise if he tried, and honestly, he doesn’t think he wants to, at least not right now. He just…wants another date.

With Binky.

—

Brain considers himself to be quite socially adept for someone of his intellectual stature. He decided years ago that he'd rather have friends than for everyone to be constantly reminded of his breadth of knowledge, and so he behaves accordingly. He makes a conscious effort to not raise his hand to answer every question teachers ask. He recognizes social cues that indicate the times his friends are annoyed by his talking and he usually stops. He bites his tongue regarding a disturbingly high number of scientific and historical inaccuracies in popular media, even the ones that are so flagrant it feels insulting to refer to them only as inaccurate. He doesn’t want to be alienating or off-putting; he doesn't want to be lonely. He’s a good friend because he wants to be a good person, and that means being a good listener, and that means he’s heard far too many tales of romantic woe from his friends and classmates over the years.

Evidently he wasn’t listening closely enough, though, because now he finds himself post-first date with absolutely no clue what happens now. Should he be texting Binky? Or should Binky text him? And surely a call would be better than texting, right? But, then again, they see each other all the time, so does that mean their ideal situation would be to do…whatever this…debriefing process might be like that, in person, face-to-face?

And what if he’s expecting too much too soon? It’s been fewer than twenty-four hours, after all. Isn’t that something about which his friends have always expressed a certain amount of paranoia? Calling too soon. Texting too soon. Waiting three days–no! Two is fine; you don’t want to be mean. Just not one or you’ll look too eager, or you’ll seem desperate, or they’ll know how much you like them, or–

But Brain wants Binky to know how much he likes him. Otherwise, what exactly is the point of romance?

He's still ruminating on this in the evening when, one by one, three people enter the Ice Cream Shop in fairly quick succession. First there's D.W., with Arthur on the other side of the glass, waving a quick acknowledgement before running back across the street to join Francine, Buster, and Ladonna for a double date. Second comes Binky, wearing his Crosswire Motors Workers United shirt and an expression of forced normalcy that Brain hopes is owed to nothing but the fact that he’s not sure how post-first date operations go either. Brain barely even has time to greet the two of them before the shop door swings open again, with force this time.

The third is Rattles.

“Play chess with me,” he says, pointing directly at Brain. It’s only then that Brain notices the chess set under Rattles’ arm. He glances worriedly at D.W. and Binky, but before he can formulate an answer that might be satisfactory, Rattles smirks, shakes his head exactly once, and demands, “Play chess with me or I blow the whistle on this whole undercover educational operation you three’ve got going on.” Brain blinks and adopts a confused expression.

“What ‘undercover educational operation’?” he replies, trying in vain to play dumb. Rattles’ smirk grows more defined as he jerks his thumb to the right; Brain understands immediately.

“Need I remind you I’ve been working closing shifts at Meteor Comix for the past three and a half weeks?” He needn’t, but it’s confirmation of what Brain suspected enough, and then, to add even more insult to injury, Rattles stalks over to the wall and raps hard on it with his knuckles. “We share a wall, smart guy.” Brain flushes.

“Yes, we do,” he begrudgingly admits.

“So, it’s like I said,” Rattles reiterates, “play a round of chess with me, right now, or I tell D.W.’s dweeby brother about all these science experiments and tap dancing lessons.”

“He’s bluffing,” D.W. says, her eyes narrowed at Rattles. Then, she turns to look up at Binky. “Right?” Rattles raises his eyebrows at Binky, who grimaces.

“Yeah, he’s bluffing,” he says, but his tone says something more like, Probably. He bites his lip and, without even looking at Brain, adds, “You should play anyway. Just in case he’s not.” Brain glances at him again before looking back at Rattles and nodding.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll play.” Rattles smiles.

“Knew you’d see things my way,” he says, kicking a chair at a corner table out and settling in to set up the board and pieces. Brain turns toward D.W. to see her taking off her high-top sneakers and pulling her tap shoes from her bag.

“In the absence of a real lesson tonight, I’m giving you homework instead,” he tells her. He waits until she looks up at him expectantly before continuing. “Next time we’re here, I want you to make me a model of the solar system with scoops of ice cream, calculating the scale size of each planet as well as their scale distance from one another. I want the color of the ice cream to match the planets as closely as possible and for you to be able to explain your flavor choices to me, too.”

“Finally! We’re getting into real space stuff!” D.W. exclaims. Brain smiles.

“Time passes differently on other planets,” he says as he takes a seat across from Rattles and tries to focus on the board between them.

It's less of chess match and more of a slow and brutal assassination. Brain tries but can’t stop himself from habitually glancing over at Binky as he guides D.W. through some complicated movements. Binky’s glancing back at him a few times, at which point he promptly flinches and goes back to the dance lesson, but otherwise he seems to be behaving perfectly normally, whereas Brain is getting absolutely eviscerated by both his own nerves and Rattles.

The latter is staring at him hard once when he forces his gaze away from Binky, at which point he's the one flinching.

"I can't help but feel like I'm not gettin' your best," Rattles says. He doesn’t blink and he doesn’t take his eyes off Brain's face.

"What? Of course you are," Brain fumbles. Swallowing a wince, he defensively adds, "Everybody has an off day once in a while."

"Not me," Rattles says, which isn’t bragging so much as a point of fact. He looks over at Binky and D.W. then, and Brain’s breath catches, but he goes back to pummeling Brain on the board without another word or terrifying stare.

"Do your ballet slippers still fit you?" Brain hears Binky asking as following his own sound defeat. Across from him, Rattles stands calmly, cracks his knuckles, and begins to pack up the chessboard and pieces.

"I think so," D.W. says. Brain looks over to see her pulling on her socks again.

"Try them tonight and text me if they don't so we can figure something out," says Binky, holding out her sneakers for her.

"Come on, Dee-Dubs," Rattles says after a minute. "If I walk you home and talk real nice to your mom, I bet we can get your brother in trouble for foisting his responsibility for you onto others." D.W. lights up at that.

"Now you're talking!" she exclaims. She practically skips over to him and holds up her hand for a high five. Rattles hesitates for only the slightest moment before slapping her palm with his. He promptly steps away, ignoring her smug grin, and opens the door for her, jerking his head out toward the street pointedly.

"You gents have a good evening," he says to Brain and Binky.

"You were bluffing, weren’t you?" they hear D.W. ask.

"Course I was," Rattles answers as the door closes behind him, leaving Brain and Binky alone in silence in the Ice Cream Shop.

Brain can think of several questions he should ask first to break the tension and not make it obvious how the issue at hand has been plaguing him all day, but when he turns to Binky and opens his mouth, what comes out is, “I wasn’t sure if I should call–”

“I was going to text you but–” Binky says at the same time. They both stop for a moment, and then–

“I’m sure your day’s been busy but I–” Brain starts.

“I didn’t know if you would want to–” says Binky simultaneously. They abruptly stop speaking again, and after each other them gesture for the other to proceed first–

“I couldn’t stop thinking about y–”

“It was all I could do to even–”

They stop, again, and this time they both start laughing, breathy and awkward, and finally, only because Brain is so distracted by how cute Binky’s smile is even when it’s revealing his discomfort, Binky is able to get out a complete thought.

“Do you want to go on another date with me?” he practically yells.

“Yes! I’d love to!” Brain exclaims. Binky heaves a great sigh of relief; his smile instantly shifts from uncomfortable and unsure to sweet and giddy.

“Good,” he says. “How about a picnic?”

“A picnic?” Brain repeats, nodding as he mulls it over in his mind. “Yeah. That sounds great. What should I bring?”

“Nothing,” Binky says. “I got it covered. You just bring…yourself.”

“Okay. Where–”

“I know a place,” Binky assures him with an intriguing twinkle in his eyes. “Don’t you worry your smart big head about it.”

“My head isn’t that big!” Brain protests, but it’s mostly for show. His laughter, however, is completely genuine, and so is Binky’s. After a few seconds, Brain bites his lip and glances away, his nerves returning as quiet befalls them again. Butterflies, he reminds himself. It’s butterflies.

“Well,” Binky says, sounding reluctant, “I guess I should–”

“Do you want some ice cream?” Brain blurts out. He’s eager to keep Binky around, to make him stay, for as long as he can manage. “Or just some chocolate chips? Or–do you just…want to sit and tell me about your day? How’s the card campaign going? And what’s going on with the dance classes for the kids? And why were you talking to D.W. about ballet–”

“I’ll stay, I’ll stay,” Binky says, grinning as he walks toward Brain and takes the seat that was Rattles’ a few minutes ago. “I’m gonna be teaching D.W. some ballet, too, because we had an idea, but I don’t want to spoil it yet. I’ve got the dance room at the community center reserved, down the hall from where George is teaching his woodworking classes, too, but the sound shouldn’t carry that far, so I’m not too worried. As for the card campaign…” He shakes his head like he’s overwhelmed, then whistles like he’s impressed. “How much time do you have?” Brain looks at him and smiles.

“However much you want.”

—

“I call it Binky’s Butterfly Beach,” Binky says as Brain looks all around, taking in the stunning surroundings of lush greenery and flowers, crystal clear water flowing along in the creek, and dozens of pretty and serene butterflies. It’s all so gorgeous and untouched; Brain can’t believe he never knew this place existed. “But I was with Arthur and Sue Ellen when I found it, and they insisted on a different name: Arsubia.” Brain grimaces and turns his head to look at Binky.

“I like ‘Binky’s Butterfly Beach’ much better,” he says. “‘Arsubia’ is too ugly a name for a place this beautiful.” Binky beams at him and squeezes his hand. Brain feels the butterflies in his belly flutter back to life.

“I knew bringing you here was the right choice,” says Binky proudly. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told about this place.”

“Really? Ever?” Brain asks. He’s impressed, and more than a little flattered. Binky nods.

“Arthur and Sue Ellen have both brought people on dates here occasionally,” he says, “but I was waiting for–well.” He clears his throat and looks down at his feet, suddenly self-conscious. “I was waiting for you.” Brain smiles. Now it’s his turn to squeeze Binky’s hand.

“I’m here now,” he says quietly. “With you.” Binky looks up at that, smiling. “On a picnic date,” he adds.

“Oh yeah,” Binky says, his eyes widening as if he’s just remembered the picnic aspect of their second date. “Let’s go find a shady spot. It’s not hard - there’s so many trees here.”

They easily find a good space under a large weeping willow, its lush branches and leaves shielding them from the sun and hanging down around them like a curtain. Binky lays out a blanket and they sit down on it, their backs to the tree trunk as they each navigate how closely to sit next to one another. It leads to some giggling until Brain finally, albeit reluctantly, shifts away just a little, enough to give them some space between them for food. Then, as Binky opens the picnic basket and begins setting out the food, Brain looks around again, fascinated by the preserved beauty and composed calm of Binky’s Butterfly Beach.

“Lunch is served!” Binky declares, pulling Brain from his reverie. He glances down to see what Binky’s packed for lunch - he never even thought about asking - and blinks in confusion.

“Baby carrots?” he says. “Turnips and…” He picks up a plastic sleeve of some pre-packaged snack and turns it over to read Peanut Butter Crackers. “But you’re aller–wait a minute.” It’s the sight of the cranberry juice boxes that finally shake loose a memory deep within Brain’s mind. He looks up to see Binky grinning, wide and goofy, and finds himself grinning right back.

“Just wanted to see if you remembered,” Binky says. Brain laughs.

“The fifteen minutes when I thought we were going to be devoured in the night by wolves because our moms were late to pick us up from soccer practice are hard to forget,” he says. “You taught me some cool wrestling moves that day. Now those, I may have forgotten.”

“I can always re-teach you,” Binky says, his voice sounding a little strained toward the end. Brain thinks it must be because he’s realized that teaching him any wrestling moves will involve extremely close contact between their bodies; that’s certainly the thought that’s making his own face heat up rapidly, even in the distinct shade of the weeping tree. Brain grabs up a juice box and stabs it open with the tiny bendy straw while Binky clears his throat and goes back to the picnic basket, presumably to retrieve their real lunch.

“Yuck,” Brain says after one sip. He sticks out his tongue and frowns. “This stuff is so sugary. Why did our moms ever let us drink this stuff?” Binky stares at him for a second before laughing.

“Your mom literally runs an ice cream shop,” he says. Brain laughs, too, and sets the juice box aside to take a plate Binky’s brought from his house.

“You make a compelling argument. Chocolate-covered strawberries!” he exclaims as Binky pulls out a box with a Patrick’s Chocolates logo.

“Yeah, I thought it might be nice,” Binky says, ducking his head and blushing. “I told Slink it was for my mom.” Brain reaches over to hold Binky’s hand again, which makes Binky look up at him and smile.

“It is nice,” Brain says. “This - all of it - is nice.” Binky grins, nodding his earnest agreement, and then he opens a container of the most appetizing spring rolls Brain’s ever seen, filled with slices of avocados and peaches and watermelon radishes, with a little bowl of–

“Coconut basil dipping sauce,” Binky explains.

“I take it back,” Brain says matter-of-factly. “This is so much more than ‘nice.’”

They get through the rolls and the baked macaroni and cheese bites, and are just about to start on dessert when a great drop of rain splashes onto the box of chocolate-covered strawberries.

“Uh-oh,” Binky says, peering up into the dense branches. Brain takes a more urgent approach, with Binky joining him after a few seconds, and together they pack everything up again in a hurry. “Take this!” Binky tosses the blanket to Brain. “And follow me to the cave!”

“There’s a cave?!”

There is a cave. Brain and Binky sit down just beyond the mouth of it, ignoring the blanket that’s now gotten wet from the sudden storm, and watch the heavy rainfall outside. A minute or so goes by before Brain hears a deep sigh. He looks over to see Binky frowning, disappointed and crestfallen.

“At least we were already finished with most of the meal,” Brain says. He wishes they were at the Ice Cream Shop, where he would know exactly what to say and do to cheer up Binky again.

“Yeah, but I wanted it to be a perfect date,” Binky says sadly, still staring out at the rain. “It was supposed to be picture perfect. I should’ve checked the weather. Now you won’t want to–” He shuts up abruptly, pressing his lips together and blushing. Brain raises his eyebrows.

“Now I won’t want to what?” he asks. Binky swallows but stays silent. “Why was it so important to you that this date be picture perfect?” Brain asks. Binky sighs.

“Because I…I wanted you to want to kiss me,” he says, briefly meeting Brain’s surprised eyes before darting his gaze down again.

“You think I need perfection to want to kiss you?” Brain asks. The words don’t truly sink in for him until after he’s said them, but once they do, he wishes he’d lowered his voice. There’s no one around to hear, but it still feels too heavy a subject, too precious, to just blurt out so loudly.

“I mean, it already feels too good to be true that you like me back,” Binky says softly, “so…yeah. I figured a perfect second date was the surest way.”

“Binky…” Brain says. He trails off, though, lost in thought of what exactly he wants to ask, and only decides when Binky finally looks at him again. “How long have you liked me?” Binky huffs out a laugh.

“I dunno,” he says. “At least a year. Probably more, but I didn’t really realize it until about a year ago.” Brain raises his eyebrows again, this time much higher than before.

“That long?” He blinks. “I didn’t even think–I didn’t know until the fireworks.”

“Really?” Binky looks gobsmacked. “Jeez. Well, that’s sort of a relief, to be honest. I was worried I was making it too obvious over the past few months. Remember the lock-in before spring break?”

Brain does. He’d been in a weird mood from the start, a bit irritable and bored, not really wanting to be there at all that night, and found himself flitting from one small group of friends to another, with Binky never far behind, until they finally both decided to find a way out of there already. The doors really were all locked, though, chained shut, save for an emergency exit into a stairwell. The two of them ended up on the roof of the school, stretched out on top of their sleeping bags, staring up at the night sky. Brain spent hours pointing out constellations and answering Binky’s questions at length, and never felt annoyed or bored at all. He only felt…good. Warm. More than once, their hands brushed, and Brain remembers now, every time it happened, the fluttery feeling he got in his stomach. Butterflies, he even thought once, at the time, and threw out a quick topic change, asking about Binky’s favorite species. He’d watched as Binky lit up, no less bright than the moon and stars above them, and started rambling about butterflies with that goofy smile on his face, and the fluttery feeling in Brain’s stomach had remained.

“I thought I’d freak you out, only hanging around you the whole time,” Binky says in a hushed tone, “but…you were the only person I wanted to spend time with.” The stillness of the cave seems to envelop them for a few moments, until…

“I only wanted to be with you, too,” Brain says, his voice low and sounding very far away to his own ears. His statement is true, and it, like Binky, isn’t legitimately a surprise at all, but…He nevertheless feels like he’s waking from a slumber he doesn’t even recall entering. For some reason, he raises up his knees to his chin and wraps his arms around them, focusing his gaze now on the rainfall at the mouth of the cave.

“I think I’ve liked you for a really, really long time also,” he continues quietly. “Years, maybe, for me as well. I just didn’t realize that’s what the feeling was, or what you were to me…” He shakes his head, struggling to believe that, for all his intelligence, he missed this fact about himself. “I don’t know how I could’ve missed it…Sorry, I don’t know why I’m sitting like this–”

“Don’t apologize!” Binky rushes to say. “I always sit like that when I’m feeling something really big and it’s, like, moving - like, it feels like the feeling is expanding. It always feels like the only way to keep it from exploding out of my body, you know? Like it’s the only way to keep my skin together.”

Brain looks at Binky, blinking in amazement, because that’s…that’s exactly it.

“What if I still want to kiss you?” he asks, his focus shifting. “Would you want me to?” Binky blinks, swallows, and turns his head away for a moment, taking a breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course I would.”

“Binky…” says Brain, but when Binky looks at him again, his smile almost bashful, no other words come to mind to finish his sentence. He’s not bothered by the blankness, though. There’s nothing he could say that’s more important than what he does instead anyway.

Inside a cave in a mysterious oasis by the creek, with his heart pounding in his chest and butterflies swarming in his belly, Brain kisses Binky.

—

The science behind kissing of a romantic nature is a fascinating subject, and one with considerable breadth.

There’s the why, as in, why does it happen in the first place. On this conclusion, science is split, but it more or less seems to be, evolutionarily-speaking, about choosing a suitable mate. There’s the who, as in, who else in the animal world does this or something like it. This is much more conclusive; while there may not be observed behavior exactly like it in animals, there’s no shortage of evidence of similar behaviors. Elephants, for example, will stick their trunks in the mouth of another elephant during courtship. Birds tap their beaks together. Giraffes entwine their necks. Bonobos, chimpanzees’ more amorous cousins, have been known to just suck on each other’s tongues for twelve minutes straight. Kissing gourami, a tropical freshwater fish species native to Southeast Asia, even have it in their name.

Then, of course, there’s the what, as in, what happens to the body during kissing, which is another question that has no shortage of answers and plenty of research to back them up. One such answer measured the exchange of bacteria - about eighty million - from one person to another, which, sure, sounds disgusting, but another answer suggests that such an exchange of bacteria can boost both parties’ immune systems. Passionate and prolonged kissing burns calories, engages thirty-four facial muscles, dilates blood vessels enough to relieve pain, decreases levels of the stress hormone cortisol, and might even lower cholesterol - although that’s a study Brain would have to see replicated first to find it credible, and with far more than fifty-two participating couples this time.

But it’s the physiological effects on the brain that are of the most interest to, well, the Brain.

On paper, it’s simple. The sudden release of three key chemicals - serotonin, a natural mood stabilizer that reduces depression and regulates anxiety; dopamine, the neurotransmitter involved in motivation, memory, and attention; and oxytocin, a hormone produced in the hypothalamus that promotes bonding and attachment - ignites the pleasure centers of the brain. What results is a veritable flood of giddiness and affection, as well as an activation of the pleasure-and-reward function which serves as motivation to repeat the behavior.

When Brain thinks about it rationally, scientifically, it all makes perfect sense: the way he can’t stop smiling lately, sometimes even while he’s kissing Binky, which Binky really seems to like; the way he wants to spend every minute with Binky, which he had been hoping was just a gross straight people thing but apparently is not and now he’s in too deep to care; and the way he wants to keep kissing Binky, over and over and over, all the time.

It doesn't help that Binky is a fantastic kisser. But then, of course, Brain doesn't have much to compare him to, and by “much,” he means “anything at all.” Still, Binky seems to be really, really good at it. Brain hypothesizes that it simply must be the years and years of clarinet playing - how many recitals did Brain watch Binky do those tongue exercises beforehand and never had the thoughts he's been having lately? Unfortunately, he doesn't have a hope of proving his hypothesis one way or another, because he would have to gather together a very specific group of individuals - those who have kissed both dedicated clarinet players with at least eight years of instrumental experience as well as non-clarinet players and can therefore compare, as he himself has no desire to kiss anyone other than Binky, maybe ever - for a respectable sample size for a poll. And therein lies the real problem, which is that polls based on opinion can hardly meet the threshold for valid conclusion using the scientific method, regardless of the high standards of responsible surveying practices. And, really, if Brain looks at it logically, does anyone's opinion on the matter, well, matter, besides his own? He's the only one kissing Binky, after all, and wants to remain so, maybe forever.

Brain has lost the point again. Where was he?

Oh, right.

Brain appreciates a good use of hyperbole as much as the next self-respecting gay man, but he’s personally not usually one to overstate things. He doesn’t use outlandish adjectives in everyday conversation unless the desired effect truly warrants it. He doesn’t generally refer to anything as the worst, best, longest, easiest, et cetera “ever.” He doesn’t even say “literally” when he means “figuratively.”

Incidentally, the Oxford English Dictionary defines the adjective awesome thusly: inspiring awe; that which fills someone with an overwhelming feeling of reverence, wonder, admiration, or fear. If one types “define awesome” into the search bar of Boogle, the results return a list of similar words that include “breathtaking,” “stunning,” “staggering,” “spectacular,” “astounding,” “sublime,” and even the informal adjective “mind-blowing.”

All this to say that Brain means it - really, truly, genuinely, literally means it - when he says: making out with Binky Barnes is awesome.

Surges of adrenaline and noradrenaline - the fight-or-flight hormones - cause a racing pulse and quickened breathing - but they cause those things in Binky, too, and Brain can feel the evidence of it as they steal kisses in the Ice Cream Shop after D.W. leaves, in Binky’s living room as they work through his summer reading assignments together, in Brain’s kitchen as they help clean up after dinner with Brain’s parents. The increased pace of Binky’s heart matches his own, thump for thump, just like the haggard breathing that neither of them seem to be in a hurry to regulate. If Brain could focus enough to think coherent thoughts of words containing more than two syllables, then he’d be able to observe, identify, and point these things out to himself, but perhaps there’s something significant to be said about learning through immersion.

Pleasure, reward, pleasure, reward, pleasure, reward, Brain thinks, and then, fleetingly, something about wanting to hear a clarinet concerto inspired by this, and then, a meditative quiet settles over his mind, such a wondrous thing he never experienced before the first time Binky held his hand, except for that night of the sophomore lock-in, those hours of only the two of them on their sleeping bags on the roof of the school, staring up at what stars they could see in the light pollution of the city, resting so close that their shoulders and elbows touched, and knuckles, too, if they let their arms stay at their sides, which they did.

Pleasure. Reward.

—

There’s a party at Sue Ellen’s house, and everyone knows what that means.

Weed. It means weed.

The first two people in their class to smoke marijuana didn’t do so because of peer pressure, but because of parental introduction. Sue Ellen’s mom and dad both seemed more than a little disappointed that she wasn’t as interested as they anticipated at first, but after freshman year, she started to understand the benefits. George’s dad, himself a dabbler, came to him the same year with concerns about his social anxiety and a joint. Now, over a year later, the results are as follows: Sue Ellen throws these “safe space” parties every six weeks or so, where everyone in attendance is free to smoke if they want but aren’t pressured either way, and nobody gets in trouble for it; and George rolls the fattest blunts.

Brain was the first person Sue Ellen ever invited over to smoke weed with her. The first time, he didn’t even touch it at all, convinced she was trying to trick him somehow into self-sabotaging his shot at the valedictorian spot the two of them have been vying for since the moment they stepped into Elwood City High School. She wasn’t bothered. He watched her smoke instead, saw how relaxed she got, and listened to her talk about how she was feeling. Then, he went home and did a couple hours of his own research and, deciding it was something he did want to try after all, asked her at school the next day, with as much subtlety as possible, if she could invite him over again. That time, he smoked, and, aside from the coughing as he got used to the process, he enjoyed himself. He’s not about to make any particular habit of it, but it’s nice, having a dependable outlet and a safe place to engage with it.

The crowd - which isn’t accurate phrasing at all, considering the group never even reaches a dozen attendees - at Sue Ellen’s parties is basically always the same. In addition to the host herself, of course, and George, there’s always Fern, Brain, Prunella, Marina, and the Tough Customers. Francine is invited, but she never comes; she knows that not everyone there smokes, but she’s so staunchly opposed to doing anything that might compromise her goal of getting multiple athletic scholarships to carry her into college that she refuses to be in the presence of it. Muffy technically has a standing invitation, too, but she’s quick to say that if she wanted to smoke, she would only smoke cloves; then again, she’s not on anyone’s guest list at the moment anyway.

Inviting Buster and Arthur is strictly forbidden. This is, Brain is neither ashamed nor proud to admit, overwhelmingly due to him. When Sue Ellen first told him her idea about hosting a party like this, his immediate response was to implore her not to invite Buster. The thought of enduring a high with Buster Baxter, who, while sober, still believes aliens are behind every mystery and has been flirting with vaccine misinformation for so many years he might as well just be a full-fledged anti-vaxxer at this point, was too much for Brain to bear. He wouldn’t mind inviting Arthur - honestly, with the level of anxiety Arthur has, if he’s not going to go to therapy, then Brain thinks he should at least try marijuana - but everybody knows Arthur wouldn’t be able to keep it from Buster. For the same reason, they also can’t ever invite Ladonna or Samir, which is a pity, because everyone agrees those two would probably be pretty entertaining. Alex can keep a secret, though, and he shows up sometimes, too, but almost never smokes himself.

Tonight, Alex is in attendance, and partaking as he flits from one little pocket of people to another, effortlessly social in a calm sort of way that Brain has always secretly envied. Currently he's having a discussion with Marina about the concept of divorcing authors from their written works - J.R. Ticklepenny turning out to be an outspoken and vehement transmisogynist has been more difficult for some of them to navigate than others - while Prunella allegedly reads Brain’s palms. As she traces the lines on his hands and spouts whatever nonsense comes to mind, Brain can’t help but wish it was Binky holding his hand instead, touching his palm, looking into his eyes and saying the words love line...

Brain turns his head, his attention officially drifting out of the careful control he's been trying to maintain around other people ever since Independence Day. He and Binky haven’t talked about it explicitly, but they both seem to be on the same page about keeping their relationship quiet for as long as they can. Brain isn’t embarrassed about his involvement with Binky, but this whole thing…it feels precious still, like something he wants to hold close to himself. Also, if there’s anything their peers in Elwood City love to do, then it’s to get opinionated and judgmental about things that aren’t actually any of their business. So Brain and Binky remain casual when anyone else is around, keep it friendly as it always was, don’t let any gazes or touches linger.

Brain forgot, though, as he made his way to the Armstrongs’ house tonight, that an effect of marijuana intake is lowered inhibitions.

Across the room, Binky sits with the Tough Customers, sharing a joint among the four of them, same as they always do, although by now both Rattles and Molly have stopped participating and merely take it from Slink and pass it onto Binky, or vice versa. Rattles likes to get really high in the first twenty-five minutes or so after he arrives at these parties, and then spend the next two or three hours buzzed and knitting. Molly, who is mostly there to be with her friends, only ever takes a maximum of eight puffs before she starts declining and brings out a sketchbook instead. Slink powers through to the end of the joint, despite the fact that they cough after every single inhale, without fail. And then there’s Binky, who doesn’t exhale so much as just parts his lips and lets the smoke trip out of his mouth at its own pace. It’s always made Brain…kind of angry, irritated, even under the pleasant serenity of his high, which he could never understand until now.

Binky can also blow smoke rings, because of course he can. That’s what he’s doing currently as Brain stares at him from the other side of the room, in what he would be certain is a completely cool and casual manner if he had any thoughts ruminating in his head at all right now.

“Helloooo!” Brain jumps as Prunella snaps her fingers in front of his eyes. “Earth to Brain!”

“What?”

“I asked if you wanted to hear about how to find your twin flame,” says Prunella.

“That’s not real,” Brain says grumpily, furrowing his brow. “Those YouWhoTubers were cult leaders.”

“Huh?” Prunella says, taken aback.

“It’s true,” Alex confirms as he turns away from Marina. “There’s a great limited series podcast about it.”

“Are you talking about the couple who grifted all those people desperate for love and belonging and purpose?” Fern asks, appearing from seemingly nowhere with George and Sue Ellen. All three of them are blinking owlishly and, to Brain’s annoyance, blocking his view.

“Like I said: cult leaders,” he repeats flatly.

“Ooh, tell me about this!” Marina says eagerly as Brain stands up, abandoning the chevron-patterned throw pillow to George. “I love a scammer story!”

Brain wanders over to the Tough Customers, sitting on a large meditation pillow next to Molly without a word. Rattles offers him a spare pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn, but he shakes his head. Molly must have smoked enough tonight to be friendly, because she asks if he wants a piece of paper and a pencil to draw something, and he’s almost regretful to waste her generosity, but he shakes his head again nonetheless. What he wants to do is ask Binky to teach him how to blow smoke rings, but even his stoned variation is smart enough to not trust himself to do so without losing all control entirely and just…grabbing Binky’s face and…kissing him…

“Dude, Brain, how much did you smoke?” Slink asks. Brain blinks and turns to see an amused look on their face. “You are zoned the hell out.”

“Seriously, stop staring at Binks,” Molly says, but she’s not even looking up from her sketchbook. “It’s weird.”

“If it doesn’t bother Binks, it shouldn’t bother us,” says Rattles. Brain resolutely does not look at him, not even when he adds, in a tone too knowing for Brain’s comfort, “Does it bother you, Binky?”

“Nothing bothers me when I’m this high,” Binky says easily, but when Brain’s gaze slides to his face again, he’s meeting it directly, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. Brain grins. On the other end of the sofa from Binky, Slink starts laughing and doesn’t stop.

“Time to cut you off,” Rattles says goodnaturedly after over a minute of enduring giggles. Binky leans over and snatches what remains of the joint from Slink’s fingers and brings it to his own lips. Brain has never blinked so slowly before in his life.

"Hey, Binky," comes Alex's voice from behind and above Brain, making him jump and, thankfully, jerk his eyes away from Binky. "Has Arthur asked yet if you ever had a crush on him?"

"Wait, did he ask you that, too?" Brain asks, craning his neck to peer up at Alex, who nods and laughs.

"Yeah, he asked me that a few days after I came out to you guys," Binky says. "He seemed really disappointed when I said no."

"I thought he only asked me that because I was the first gay guy he knew," says Brain. "I had no idea he was making it a habit of asking any man who ever comes out to him as being attracted to other men." Alex shrugs.

"He doesn't mean anything by it, I don't think. He's just a little…you know," he says, then laughs again. "I love the guy, but he definitely has Main Character Syndrome, you know?"

"I guess I didn't have to laugh and say 'definitely not,'" Binky says distractedly, clearly continuing his previous thought and not fully caught up with the conversation yet. Molly looks up from her sketchbook and narrows her eyes at him.

"Alex, take the joint from Binky," she says.

"Oh, I've hit my limit for the night. I'm good," Alex says. Molly clenches her jaw and gives him a cold look.

"That wasn't a request," she says, her voice low and dangerous. Alex's eyes widen briefly before he does as he's told and immediately thereafter makes himself scarce. Molly smirks and, with a muttered, "Still got it," goes back to her drawing. ’Still got it,’ she says, like she isn’t the mom friend, Brain’s floaty mind points out to him, but even under the influence of marijuana, he knows better than to say that out loud.

He’s not sure how much time passes - it could be a few minutes or it could, legitimately, be over an hour - but eventually he glances across the room and notices that Prunella’s gazing into her crystal ball. He waits until he can overhear clearly, and–yes, her predictions are growing increasingly esoteric the more she smokes, as they always do, and Brain, as he always does, takes it as a cue to leave.

“I’ll go with you,” Binky says, like Brain was hoping he would. “Your head’s still all fuzzy. I can tell by your eyes. Someone’s gotta make sure you get home safe.” All fuzzy is certainly not accurate; Brain feels significantly more sober now than earlier, but nevertheless, he appreciates the cover story. After a minute or two of them exchanging good nights and farewells with everyone else - and, with what he hopes is a casual air, avoiding locking eyes with any member of the Tough Customers - he and Binky step out of Sue Ellen’s house and hop on their bikes to ride into the Elwood City night.

Once they reach Main Street, they both wordlessly yet simultaneously slow to a stop and get off their bikes to walk instead. Brain hopes Binky does it for the same reason he does: he doesn’t want the night to end without spending time alone together. They make their way slowly down the empty street, walking their bicycles between them, awkward but not bothered, talking all the while, about nothing and everything of consequence.

“I can’t wait ‘til I have a car,” says Binky after a couple minutes of no sounds between them but those of a late night in the summer. “When I have a car, I can drive you places. We can go on dates that aren’t within walking or biking distance.”

“Oh, yeah?” Brain looks sidelong at him across the space their bikes take up - it’s far too much, in his opinion. “Where would we go?”

“I dunno,” Binky says with a shrug. “Anywhere we want to go. Ooh, the outskirts of town, maybe!”

“And do what?” Brain asks, amused.

“I dunno,” Binky repeats. “There’s gotta be some kinda restaurant out there, right?” Brain has absolutely no idea.

“What if it’s not safe?” he asks, because that does feel like a distinct possibility.

“Well, then, we can just stay in my car,” Binky replies. Brain feels a slow smile form on his face. He cuts his bike in front of Binky’s path suddenly, bringing them both to a complete stop as they meet one another’s eyes.

“Oh, really?” It’s gone from genuine curiosity to flirtation now; the shift in conversation tone is making the air around them feel dangerous, full of static electricity. Maybe it’s just the weed, but…maybe it’s not. “And what will we do in your car?” he asks. Binky bites his bottom lip and glances down at Brain’s mouth.

“I have an idea or two,” he says.

Perhaps under different circumstances, Brain would be capable of properly parking his bike. However, the deficiency needs section of his personal hierarchy of needs recently added a fifth layer, and it’s been over twenty-four hours since he last kissed Binky, so all he can manage is shifting his bike over to the side before he lets go of it, letting it fall unceremoniously to the street as he steps forward. Binky, grinning, drops his bike, too, and then they're kissing, and Brain doesn’t care about bicycle maintenance or potential for personal injury or anything else besides this: Binky’s hands gripping the front of his shirt like he’s equally desperate, Binky’s mouth open and warm against his own, Binky’s eyelashes fanned over his cheekbones, the last thing Brain sees before he closes his eyes and surrenders to this new perfect thing.

He’s been getting incrementally bolder with every kiss, more experimental, and this time, as Binky’s hands travel to his waist, he draws himself close enough for their bodies to be flush together and rests his elbows on Binky’s broad shoulders, criss-crossing his wrists behind Binky’s neck. It’s very swooning female lead in a romantic comedy, Brain must admit. He might feel stupid if it felt less natural; he might be embarrassed if Binky didn’t clearly love it, too, but he makes this sweet sound when Brain drags his teeth over his bottom lip, and Brain is instantly more intoxicated than he ever has been when under the influence of marijuana.

Tonight Binky’s kiss sends a chill down his spine, a little jolt of electricity that makes the butterflies in his abdomen take flight again. The feeling they give him isn’t nervousness anymore - not since the cave a couple weeks ago - but a promising thrill, a sense of, What’s next? Where are we going from here? as they flap their pretty wings and circle each other in the sky and give Brain the urge to follow.

Tonight Binky’s kiss nearly makes Brain believe, for the first time in his life, in both the idea of heaven and the concept of sin.

He breathes out a laugh into Binky’s mouth. As far as Binky can move his head back with Brain’s arms still behind his neck, he does, one corner of his lips turned upward and one eyebrow slightly raised as he looks at Brain. “What’s so funny?” he asks. Brain shakes his head, but he laughs again.

“I just had a thought that probably proves I am still a little high,” he says.

“Care to share?”

“Hmm,” Brain says. He honestly considers it. “Maybe one day when I’m not embarrassed to have had a thought that sounds ripped from a New Adult gay romance novel that gets slapped on all LGBTQ recommended reading lists that flood people’s inboxes every June.” Binky grins.

“Nothing like from Giovanni’s Room?” he asks. It’s the second novel from his summer reading list for AP Lang; Brain just finished reading it aloud to him yesterday. Brain laughs again.

“Definitely not,” he says firmly. “It was nothing nearly as high quality.”

“Hey, even James Baldwin had first drafts and editors,” Binky points out. Brain tilts his head, his smile going lopsided in a way he realized recently it only ever has for the boy before him, the one in his arms and on his lips. Binky always makes him see things from angles he never knew existed. How has it never occurred to him before that even great authors made drafts and revisions and edits?

“You’re so…” Brain starts, but then his eyes flick down to Binky’s mouth, and words actively flee his mind in favor of more kissing. Brain holds him in place as close as he can, not ready to drop the helpless heroine act just yet, but Binky - incredible, wonderful, amazing, capable Binky - still manages to find the space to slide his hands up from Brain’s waist, over his belly, up to his chest. Brain’s muscles twitch under the warmth of Binky’s large hands, even through the fabric of his shirt between them. It’s a balmy summer night, and their physical closeness is making everything feel hotter still, like sparks crackling from his body, but Binky shivers nonetheless.

Binky pulls away again this time, reluctantly, his hands resting flat against Brain’s collarbone over his shirt.

“Being with you makes me feel crazy, you know,” he says, just brazen and brave in his vulnerability. Brain envies him for it.

“How so?” he asks, a little breathless.

“Everywhere you touch me,” Binky says, “I feel like I’m on fire. Like, sparks coming off me or something.” Brain stares at him.

“Sounds painful,” he says in a strained exhale. Binky lets out one high-pitched note of laughter.

“You have no idea,” he says.

A warm feeling comes over Brain then, and he’s certain it has nothing to do with the temperature. He lowers his arms, takes a small step or two back. His retreat causes Binky’s hands to fall from him and he immediately regrets it, missing the touch. He glances down the street behind Binky. It truly is shockingly empty, which means it must be around midnight, later than he realized when they were leaving the party. It also means that no one but Binky is around, so Brain swallows his fears and self-doubt before opening his mouth.

“I do,” he says softly, “because I feel that way, too.”

“Really?” Binky asks, eyes wide like he genuinely can’t believe it. Brain smiles and nods.

“Yes.”

“That’s good,” Binky says, nodding, too. “At least we’re on the same page. That’s always good.”

“Does it make you feel less crazy?” Brain asks after a few moments. Binky looks to the side, mouth open, like he’s giving it real thought, and Brain knows he most likely is.

“Not really,” he says finally.

“Me neither,” Brain says, his smile becoming a grin as Binky mirrors it. He takes a step closer, more than happy to resume where they paused earlier, but Binky clears his throat and makes a hesitant face.

“We should keep walking,” he says like it hurts him. “If you kiss me again now, it’s all I’ll do all night - which I’m happy to do, don’t get me wrong! But eventually the sun will come up and this street will be all–” He makes a flighty hand gesture that Brain tries and fails not to find endearing. “–bustling again.”

“People can drive their cars around us. Can’t they see we’re busy?” Brain says, but he relents, picking up his bike anyway.

This time, as they walk their bikes along the street, the bikes guard them from the outside, and they continue, able to hold each other’s hands this way now. Brain thinks about his palm and fingers, how they feel like they’re sparking even now, how his hand feels like it’s catching fire. He thinks about how he knows, now, that Binky is experiencing the same thing, how his own hand is doing the fire-starting in Binky’s. He thinks about how it can be possible that he feels higher now than he has all night when he also feels so perfectly, so beautifully, so steadily grounded.

—

Parting is indeed such sweet sorrow, even when it’s only for the night. Binky and Brain stand at the place where the sidewalk meets Brain’s driveway once they reach his house, dawdling for at least five minutes, kicking at the ground and talking and kissing, a little, again, even though it’s risky, but this time they do have the wherewithal to lean their bikes gingerly into the bushes first so there’s no clattering on the sidewalk that might wake Brain’s parents. Binky gives him a completely unnecessary reassurance that he’d never drive Brain anywhere while high, and when Brain points out that science is actually mixed when it comes to determining whether or not marijuana actually impairs one’s driving ability or increases the risk to cause car crashes, Binky smiles, looks down at his feet, and asks what science has to say about the effects of marijuana on kissing. The question takes Brain’s breath away for a moment; he could certainly make some educated guesses based on what he knows firsthand regarding the effects of cannabis on the brain and body, but he’d have to look into any studies before making any definitive statements. When he tells Binky as much, Binky looks up at him, still smiling, and says to fill him in once he’s ready to draw conclusions.

Then Binky hops onto his bike and says, “Good night, Alan,” and Brain, with his hand still tingling where Binky was just holding it moments ago, watches him continue down the street toward his house. It’s not until he turns a corner and vanishes from sight that Brain finally picks up his own bike and heads inside, his mind replaying the sound of Alan from Binky’s mouth on a loop. He never knew it could sound so good. Something, though, about the way the near-open front unrounded vowel meets the voiced retroflex lateral approximant making the first syllable trip off his tongue like smoke, and the otherwise nondescript mid-central vowel and voiced alveolar joining to end the second with a sweet note of finality, keeps causing him to get hung up on it every time he hears it.

And then, of course, there’s…well. Maybe it’s narcissistic of him, but he just really, really likes hearing Binky say his name - his real name, not the sticky nickname he got in his second year of kindergarten. He’s always thought of that as his origin story of sorts, that getting held back that first year was what made him who he is. It’s true it was an origin story, but mostly in the sense that it helped him develop a persona that he can wear like a costumed superhero on TV and in the movies. Deuce Dwayne becomes Dark Bunny just like Brain becomes the Brain; they wear them like shields, like superpowers, like masks.

But the Brain isn’t who he is. The person he is at school, on the field, even with his parents - that’s not the real, true Alan Powers. He’s always been his most honest self here, in his bedroom, alone, and he was always content that no one would see that person until he was ready for them to see it. But…Binky saw him. Thank the universe Binky saw him. Binky looked through the grades and the athleticism and the work ethic and saw Alan. And when he says his name, when he says it - Alan - Brain can hear it all there in his voice, and it sounds like blues music and it sounds like clarinet concertos and it sounds like low echoes in a cave. It sounds soft and knowing and curious. It makes Brain want to cry, like he did so much in kindergarten that he got held back.

It makes Brain want to call him Shelley, if he’ll let him.

Brain is quiet on the stairs, quieter to close his bedroom door. After kicking off his shoes, and then going back and setting them neatly in the corner - Binky refuses to be in his room when it’s as messy as he usually keeps it, and as a result, his room has never, ever been so consistently clean - he sits down at his laptop and starts his research. It only takes a few minutes for his hypothesis to be confirmed. Satisfied, he pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Hey, Alan,” Binky says when he picks up. Brain almost gets stuck on it again - the sound of his name in Binky’s voice - but he soldiers on after faltering for only a moment.

“There doesn’t seem to be research specific to the effects of cannabis on kissing, per se, but there’s some regarding the effects it has on sexual experience, from which can be drawn comparable conclusions,” Brain says.

“Only ‘some’?” Binky asks gamely. Brain bites his lip, trying to tone down his smile, even though no one is around to see him. He so rarely has someone who genuinely wants to hear him talk about what he knows.

“Yes, partially due to the U.S.’s prohibitive and scientifically restrictive drug policies,” he explains, “but also it’s a challenge to research in general because marijuana affects people so differently, and because matters of sexual functioning and arousal are already so complex and varied from person to person. Research has thus far been limited to self-report studies also, which have so many disadvantages it’s difficult to even call them ‘scientific’ at all.”

“I like when you get judgey,” Binky says with a giggle. Brain spins around in his chair a couple times, grinning like an absolute lunatic.

“All that being said,” he continues, “people do report greater sexual pleasure after consuming marijuana, which is likely a result of the effect it has on the senses.”

“Uh-huh,” Binky says. His voice sounds somewhat choked, but his tone isn’t dismissive, so Brain keeps going, even as he hears indications of Binky locking up his bike and opening the door to his house in the background.

“The chemical structure of THC is similar to anandamide, a brain chemical that’s responsible for communication between neurons throughout the nervous system,” Brain says. “The affected areas of the brain - the amygdala, hippocampus, basal ganglia, and prefrontal cortex - are the same areas that influence pleasure, concentration, movement, coordination, and perception of senses and time. When the cannabinoid receptors in those areas are activated by the THC component in marijuana, it triggers the release of dopamine, which then, of course, influences the areas of the brain that control sexual function, leading to an increase of sexual pleasure.”

“Uh-huh,” Binky repeats, quieter this time. Brain can barely make out the click of a bedroom door closing gingerly on the other end of the line.

“Effects on the nervous system can vary from one person to another,” he continues, “but a majority of participants in a study published by NIH’s National Center for Biotechnology Information reported that, in addition to helping them relax, marijuana consumption increased their sensitivity to touch and heightened the intensity of their feelings, which resulted in an enhanced sexual experience.”

Brain hears some sort of muffled struggle in his ear, followed by a soft oof. He can so easily picture Binky flopping back onto his bed, shirtless, head resting on his arm underneath. He spins in his chair again before standing and crossing to his own bed, toeing off his socks - he’ll pick them up and toss them in the laundry basket in the morning - and lying down, stretching out over the covers before he pillows his head on his own arm. It all happens without him giving it a second thought, and once he does, he realizes he’s mirroring Binky’s body language despite not even existing in the same physical space currently. If he had a free hand at the moment, then he would slap his forehead with it. As it is, he grips tight around his phone instead, bringing it away from his ear so he can press the back of his hand hard against his forehead for a few seconds, closing his eyes and holding in a sigh. Just how bad does he have it for Binky?

“So…kissing while high would probably be pretty good, huh?” he hears Binky ask, voice low, when he brings his phone back to his ear. “Maybe even better than it already is?”

“It’s hard to imagine kissing you being better than it already is,” Brain blurts out. Binky hums out a pleased little noise, small enough that Brain almost misses it. The sound makes him smile, makes him feel less embarrassed for saying that out loud. “Um, anyway, I didn’t mean to say the word ‘sexual’ so many times. I’m just realizing–sorry if that’s made it awk–”

“Hey,” Binky says, so softly it grabs Brain’s attention instantly. “Don’t feel like you need to edit yourself with me, okay?” Brain blinks up at his ceiling. “I know you do that with everyone else because you don’t want to come across as a know-it-all,” Binky continues, “but I know you don’t mean it that way.”

“You do?” Brain asks. He can hear his name being said in Binky’s voice again, the evidence that Binky sees him.

“Yeah,” Binky says easily. “You have knowledge you’re excited about and you want to share it. That’s…that’s beautiful, you know. That’s a good thing. I like that about you.” The butterflies in Brain’s stomach flutter gently as warmth blooms in his chest.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I like listening to you, Alan,” says Binky. Brain has to close his eyes against it - not just his name, but the validation he never even realized he so dearly wanted. “Even the times I don’t totally understand what you’re talking about,” Binky adds, “but this time I did, for the record. Hey, tell me other things you know.”

“About cannabis?” Brain asks, opening his eyes again. He knows a lot about the subject, actually, but nothing he really wants to talk about right now.

“Not necessarily,” Binky says. “Just…anything. Everything. Well, okay, maybe not everything. You’d lose your voice.”

“I know the first thirty-four digits of pi by memory,” Brain says quickly. “I know both Babylonians and ancient Egyptians were aware of the existence and significance of it as a constant; they had rough numerical approximations for it, but the Greek mathematicians, Archimedes especially, improved on it. I know the Greek letter for pi wasn’t used for it until 1706.”

“Really? That late?” Binky says.

“Yeah, and it took another thirty years before it became the standard notation,” Brain says. He picks idly at a tiny loose thread on his bedspread, thinking of how brave Binky is to just say what he feels, wondering if maybe he can be like that, too, even just for as long as it takes to– “And I know…” He takes a breath, wrenching his eyes shut. “I know it’s inordinately difficult to say good night to you, because I don’t actually want the night with you to end.”

“Well,” Binky says lowly after a few moments during which Brain’s heart seemed to try desperately to beat itself out of his rib cage, “maybe…if we stay on the phone long enough, it won’t have to be ‘good night.’ It can just be ‘good morning’ instead.” Brain blinks open his eyes once more, a smile playing on his lips as the butterflies inside him begin to calm his heart.

“You mean we can stay on the phone all night until the sun comes up like all the straight couples in school?”

“I don’t see why not,” Binky says. “I could tell you stuff I know, too.”

“Yeah, I want you to!” Brain exclaims, then slaps a hand over his mouth. “Hang on,” he whispers, but Binky’s giggling is enough to indicate that he knows Brain’s listening for any signs he’s woken up his parents. After half a minute has passed with no signs of stirring, Brain gets out of bed just to turn off the lights in his room.

“As I was saying,” he starts again, keeping his voice low this time, “I want you to tell me things you know. I like listening to you, too, you know. And I have questions.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like: do you have any favorite symphony orchestras?” Brain asks.

“Oh, shit yeah, of course I do,” says Binky. “I have a list–let me get it.”

“A list?”

“Yeah, I keep a list of orchestras I want to see playing live one day,” Binky says. “Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Kyiv Symphony Orchestra, Shanghai Symphony Orchestra, Berlin Philharmonic, Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra…I also keep one for operas, ballet companies, and butterfly species.”

Brain smiles up at the ceiling, so happy it almost feels like delirium.

“Tell me about all of that.”

—

“Alan?”

Brain hums out a sigh.

“Alan?”

He blinks awake, takes in the sunlight shining into his room through the curtains.

“I really don’t want to hang up on you, but my battery is–”

“Oh,” Brain says, his voice rough with sleep. He turns his head to see his phone on the pillow next to his ear and makes a wild grab for it. “Binky?” he asks.

“There you are.” Binky’s voice is also morning-rough, but he sounds happy to hear Brain’s.

"When did we fall asleep?” Brain asks. Binky huffs out a laugh.

“Fuck if I know. How’s your battery?” he asks. Brain moves his phone in front of his face to check the numbers on the screen.

“Um, 12–no, 11% now,” he says, a grin slowly forming on his face. “You?”

“Nine, and dropping by the minute,” Binky says. “It’s morning now, though.” Brain turns his head toward the windows.

“So it is,” he says. “Good morning, Binky.”

“Good morning, Alan.”

They share a few long moments of quiet, and Brain can picture Binky in his own bed, smiling just like he is. He presses the heel of his hand over one of his eyes, trying to contain the warmth blossoming throughout his body.

“I guess we should get off the phone and go about our lives,” Binky says reluctantly.

“I suppose so,” Brain says. “Will I see you today?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a D.W. lesson tonight, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Brain. Tonight’s lesson is another one with his telescope, and, for Binky almost as much as for D.W., pointing out the butterfly nebula.

“Earlier, too, maybe, if Crosswire cuts my shift like he has been,” Binky adds.

“Well, if he does, then come by the shop,” Brain says. “Bring Persepolis. It’s a graphic novel so I can’t read it to you, but we can…”

“Read it together over the counter?” Binky suggests. Brain sits up in his bed, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forehead on them.

“Exactly,” he says quietly.

“Cool,” says Binky, just as soft. Brain smiles. “I’m at 6% now, so–”

“So I’ll see you later,” Brain finishes with a breathy laugh.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Brain’s phone battery is at 8% when the call - 08:12:47, the duration panel blinks at him - finally ends.

“Alan! Are you up?” he hears his mother calling from downstairs. “It’s breakfast time!”

Breakfasts at his home during the summer, when the shop doesn’t open until noon and he doesn’t have school, are always fairly late in the morning. Today’s no exception. He bounds down the stairs at half past 10 and immediately plugs his phone into the charger on the kitchen counter before sitting down at the dining room table. His father gives him a look of surprise.

“Usually your phone’s still fully charged from the night before,” he says when Brain asks about it. “You’ve never had to use the charger this early.” Brain quickly looks down at his plate, clearing his throat.

“I got home late last night. I forgot to plug it in before I went to sleep,” he says, clearing his throat before taking a bite of sliced avocado. “Besides,” he adds, with more confidence this time, “in order to prolong the life of the lithium battery, experts recommend not charging one’s mobile phone above 80%.”

He doesn’t mention that they also recommend not allowing the charge to drop below 20%.

—

Arthur and Buster are at a picnic table in the park when Brain comes across them a few days later, the former sitting on the bench shaking his head and huffing out, “It’s just ridiculous,” mid-laugh, while the latter sits on the table itself and stomps his sneakers on the bench below, actually slapping his knee and howling with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Brain asks, a smile playing on his own lips just at the proximity of something amusing. The laughter dies in their throats, though, and the smile on Brain’s face, now hastily aborted, becomes a straight line.

“Just a rumor going around,” Arthur answers. He shakes his head again.

“About who?” Brain asks, although he’s fairly certain he knows.

“No one,” Arthur says, playing with his glasses. Brain rolls his eyes. All these years and Arthur Read is still so crummy at lying.

“What are people saying about me?” Brain says in a resigned sigh of a tone.

“It’s nothing,” Buster says. “Just something that’s so ridiculous it can’t possibly be true. Don’t worry about it.”

“I deserve to know,” Brain says plainly. Arthur frowns.

“Okay, fine,” he says reluctantly. “It’s just…people are saying…”

“Yeah?” Brain prompts.

“People are saying you and Binky have been dating this summer,” Arthur says in a rush, ending it with another laugh.

A person’s heart cannot actually physically plummet into their abdominal cavity, but that’s certainly what it feels is happening to Brain. Embarrassed and, if he’s honest, more than slightly crushed, he instantly goes red, but barely a moment later, as the mirthful way Arthur blurted out the gossip and the sound of Buster choking back renewed laughter sinks in, the overwhelming feeling in his gut turns to anger.

“What’s so funny about that?” he asks, voice hard and unyielding. Arthur and Buster look up at him, brows furrowed even through their smiles, as they realize the meaning behind his words.

“Wait,” Buster says. “You mean…”

“It’s true?” Arthur asks, gobsmacked.

“So what if it is?” says Brain.

“But…it’s just…you and Binky–” Arthur starts and stops, blinking in confusion and looking at Brain like he’s waiting for a prank to be revealed.

“Yeah?” Brain says leadingly, his throat tight.

“It’s just–” Arthur gives Buster a helpless expression.

“You’re so smart,” Buster picks up for his friend, “and Binky’s…”

Well over one dozen cutting remarks about Buster’s intellectual capacity pop into Brain’s head immediately, all at once, each of them demonstrably true and all of them far meaner than he generally ever wants to be. He takes a deep breath, a harsh, hot inhale through his nose, before he opens his mouth.

“Binky’s not stupid,” he snaps.

“That’s not what I said!” Buster exclaims defensively.

“No, but by your facial expression and vocal intonation, that’s what one can easily infer you were attempting to convey!” Brain says, his voice growing louder. “There are plenty of ways to be smart and gifted! And there are more important things than grades and IQ anyway!”

“Brain–” Arthur tries.

“Binky’s amazing with music, and he’s incredible at ballet, and he’s passionate about art and opera and butterflies! He enjoys learning about things he’s interested in even if those things aren’t taught in school!” Brain is hardly aware of what he’s saying; he only knows that it feels like it’s not enough. “And he’s dedicated and loyal and funny, and he’s a great big brother, and his emotional intelligence is off the charts, which is frankly more than can be said for you two!”

“Hey!”

“Brain–”

“And–and–and he makes me feel like–like–a sunrise on a summer morning,” Brain says, “and–a sunset at the start of autumn, and–and–like I’m more than a brain, like I’m a real, full person–”

“Brain–”

“So what’s it to you that we’ve been dating this summer, huh?!” Brain finishes, his neck heated.

“Um, Brain…?” Arthur, frowning and looking fearful, points toward Brain, but somewhere beyond him. Brain gulps, taking another breath before turning around to see Binky standing there, his expression so open and bright.

“You…heard all that, didn’t you?” Brain says quietly. Binky gives him a small smile, then tilts his head and glares past his shoulder to address Buster and Arthur behind him.

“Scram!” he shouts. Brain hears a yelp and some scurrying, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Binky’s face, watching the storm clear on it as soon as Arthur and Buster are satisfactorily gone, watching the sun shine again as Binky’s gaze returns to him. “So,” he says, “I make you feel like a summer sunrise, huh?” Brain blushes, but doesn’t look away.

“Yeah, you do,” he confesses. Binky’s smile widens and he takes a few steps closer.

“You make me feel that way, too,” he says. Brain doesn’t even bother trying to bite back his own smile.

“So I guess this means we’re public now,” he says after a few moments.

“Yep,” says Binky. “Buster knows, so everyone else will, too, by…oh, I’d say dusk, probably.” Brain laughs.

“Well, I’m okay with that if you are,” he says. Binky holds his hand out and Brain slips his into it without a second thought, pulls him closer and presses a soft, quick kiss to his grinning mouth.

“Yeah, I’m good with it,” Binky says. “Wanna go somewhere?” Brain grins and nods, and the two of them walk away together, holding hands for everyone and anyone to see.

—

Three hours and seven minutes after the incident with Arthur and Buster, Brain is working behind the counter at the Ice Cream Shop, fulfilling the last of the typical late afternoon rush of orders, when the shop door all but slams open. Brain looks up from handing off a cone of double scoop maple kettle corn crumble to Fatima and sees Molly, Rattles, and Slink standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the golden hour sun outside.

“Hey, guys!” Brain says cheerfully. Then they step forward, into the light of the shop, and he sees the matching stony looks on their faces. He blinks, his smile faltering as they approach the counter. “Um–”

“Now that it’s been confirmed, let’s get one thing clear, Brainiac,” Molly says, low and dangerous, reaching out to grab him by the apron. She’s surprisingly strong enough to pull him halfway over the countertop, her face inches from his. “I don’t care how much he likes you or how happy you make him right now. If you ever hurt him, you’re entering a world of pain. Got it?”

Brain swallows. For the first time in at least six years, he feels genuinely frightened by Molly MacDonald.

“Got it,” he agrees, wincing at the tremble in his voice. Molly holds him in place for another few seconds before releasing his apron and shoving him backward.

“See that you never forget it,” she says.

“Yeah, if you break his heart,” Rattles says, arms crossed over his chest, “it’s over for our chess games.”

“Dude,” Molly says under her breath, turning her head to give Rattles a dirty look. He shrugs and widens his eyes at her.

“What?” he says defensively. “That’s a threat!”

“Hey, can I get a waffle cone with one scoop of nanamint and one scoop of–”

“Slink!” Molly exclaims, snapping her head the other way to glare at them.

“What? We’re done with the threatening, right?” Slink says. “I could use a cool refreshing treat.” Molly shakes her head and turns back to Brain.

“A world of pain,” she repeats, curling her lip and pointing one terrifying finger at him. Brain nods again, a touch of franticness to it, and tries not to be too obvious when he shivers.

—

Brain did not wake up today with plans to spend part of his morning in Mr. Crosswire’s office, but Binky called him to say he’d been summoned to Crosswire Motors for a personal meeting with his boss, and added quietly, “I’m scared,” and, well. Now Brain is here with Binky, each of them in leather chairs far too ornate for a used car dealership, waiting on Mr. Crosswire to show up for the meeting he called himself.

“Gentlemen, may I offer you some refreshments before Mr. Crosswire arrives? Compliments of Miss Muffy,” Bailey says, sauntering into the room in his usual formalwear and pushing a small golden cart laden with two glasses, a pitcher of ice cold lemonade, and a tray of assorted pastries. Brain hears Binky’s stomach growl - he was too nervous to eat breakfast, he said on the phone earlier - but he doesn’t reach for the cart.

“Is any of that poisoned?” Binky asks with a grimace. Bailey opens his mouth, surprised, but he hesitates before answering, as if he’s genuinely unsure of the truth.

“If it is,” he says finally, in the same measured tone and accent that hasn’t made sense since Brain was a kid, “then I assure you, it did not become so by my hand, sir.” Binky and Brain exchange a glance, and Brain leans over in his chair, far enough that he can see the front desk out on the main sales floor through the office’s glass walls, where Muffy sits with crossed arms and an even crosser look on her face as she stares toward the office. He jumps when they make eye contact; Muffy does not. He sits up straight again and turns back to Binky, shaking his head in a tiny, quick movement.

“No, thanks,” Binky says with a sigh, frowning at the pastries. As Bailey makes his exit, Binky’s stomach growls again.

“When we get out of here, I’ll take you to brunch,” Brain says, resting his hand on Binky’s wrist. “Or lunch, depending on how long he keeps us waiting–”

“So sorry to keep you waiting, fellas!” Mr. Crosswire greets them cheerfully. He whips into the room at lightning speed, with an unmistakable air of importance and gravity. It sets Brain’s teeth on edge in an instant. “Thank you for coming, Binky - and it’s always nice to see you, Brain. I wondered if I might get both of you with one phone call. You two sure make a curious couple.”

“As far as you’re concerned, I’m here right now strictly as Binky’s legal representative,” Brain all but snaps. If Mr. Crosswire is perturbed in any way, then he doesn’t show it.

“That’s perfectly fine,” he says lightly. Then, he opens a desk drawer and pulls out a tablet, sliding it across the shiny desktop toward Binky. “Take a look at that, son, and tell me what you think.”

At first, Brain assumes it’s a union contract, or perhaps an improved benefits package, but when Binky picks it up and Brain gets a better look at the screen, it becomes obvious that this meeting is every bit of the trick they were worried it would be.

“Um, I think this is your inventory,” Binky says, sounding confused.

“Let me make it clearer,” Mr. Crosswire says. “Choose a car, Binky. Any car - under $7,000, of course, seems more than reasonable - and it’s yours.” Binky blinks at him.

“What?”

“That’s why you applied here in the first place last year, right?” Mr. Crosswire says. “So you could buy one of our fine used automobiles and be able to drive your little sister around, help out your parents with errands, spend time with your friends?”

“Well…” Binky stares. “Yeah.”

“So go ahead and choose one!” Mr. Crosswire exclaims happily. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no catch! This is just an honest offer, from one hard-working man to another. You’re holding our most up-to-date inventory right there in your hands. And, hey, I know I said under $7,000, but if you see one you like that’s more and you can pay the difference yourself, then we’ll call it even, shall we? No strings attached.”

After several long seconds of tension, Binky finally looks down at the tablet in his hands and begins scrolling through it. Across the desk, dividing them like an ocean, Mr. Crosswire’s expression turns smug for a fleeting moment. Brain feels sick.

“Binky, can I talk to you outs–” he starts to ask, but Binky looks up from the tablet and directs a question to his boss.

“This says that red Mazda Sport is still available. Jawad hasn’t claimed it yet?”

Mr. Crosswire’s expression shifts dramatically.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he says smoothly.

“You offered the other employees the same thing, right?” Binky asks. Mr. Crosswire blinks and swallows.

“Well, no,” he says, then adds valiantly, “Not yet!”

“Oh,” says Binky. “Well, when were you planning on doing that? I’d love to be here when Jawad gets the keys to that car. He’s had his eyes on it for months.” Mr. Crosswire laughs uncomfortably.

“Well–”

“Unless this isn’t an honest offer at all,” Binky says, his voice hardened suddenly, “and you’re just trying to bribe me into talking the others into backing down from unionizing.”

“Listen, Binky,” Mr. Crosswire says, all pleasantness evaporated from his tone as well. “We can’t just go around handing out free cars to all our employees.”

“Maybe you could if you hadn’t spent all that money on outside union-busting consultants,” Brain interjects. Mr. Crosswire gives him a withering look, but he doesn’t recoil an inch.

“Alright, Binky, I’ll be direct with you,” Mr. Crosswire says. “I’m aware that the card campaign is in its final stages, and I’m aware of what the votes look like. You should be aware of something, too: if this goes forward, people will lose their jobs. All because of a movement you kickstarted! Now, you don’t want to be responsible for dozens of your coworkers getting fired, do you?”

“I may have started it, but it’s out of my hands now, Mr. Crosswire,” Binky says. “Even if I did accept a car from you, even if I did try to talk them out of it, I wouldn’t be able to. And I don’t accept your offer, by the way.” He drops the tablet back onto the desk. “If you really wanted us to back off, you would have considered our demands seriously and professionally, way before I ever even knew about unions. But now that I do, I know unions are about solidarity with all workers, and I’d rather all of us have fair wages, better hours, and respect and dignity on the job than just me have a car.”

Binky and Brain make it to the corner of the sidewalk before Binky turns to him, frowning, with uncertainty in his gaze.

“Was that stupid of me?” he asks. “Should I have just taken the car?” Brain shakes his head and takes both of Binky’s hands in his, trying not to get distracted by the dance the butterflies in his stomach do at the way Binky visibly calms under his touch.

“No, it wasn’t stupid. You did the right thing, Binky,” he says. “I’m really proud of you.”

“Really?” Binky asks, eyebrows raised and eyes bright.

“Yeah,” says Brain. “I’m proud to know you and be your friend and…I’m…I’m proud to be your boyfriend.” Binky beams at him and leans forward to give him a quick kiss, which makes it well worth all the blushing and stammering.

"Do you think he's really gonna fire people for voting to unionize?" Binky asks as they cross the street, still holding hands.

"It's a violation of Section 8-A of the National Labor Relations Act," Brain says, "but, historically, that's never stopped bosses from doing it."

"Yeah," says Binky, chewing worriedly at his thumbnail. "Still, I mean…we won't know the numbers for sure until later today, but from what I hear, it's going to be unanimous. That's everyone. Crosswire can't fire all of us, right?"

—

"Can you believe he fired all of them?!"

"It's so illegal!"

"It's disgraceful, is what it is!"

The mass firing at Crosswire Motors following the close of the union membership card campaign is a top story on the local news the evening it happens, makes the front page of a special edition of Elwood City Times the next morning, and is all anyone over the age of seven wants to talk about for days.

At Slink’s suggestion, and with his own mother’s permission, Brain attaches a small sign to the tip jar on the counter - 100% OF ALL TIPS GO TO SUPPORTING THE ILLEGALLY FIRED EMPLOYEES OF CROSSWIRE MOTORS - which results in a dramatic increase in customer tips. Binky refuses to accept any of the funds, though, so instead, Brain adds a new dish to the Ice Cream Shop menu - Alan’s Astrophysics Crunch - from which half of the profits legally have to go to Binky, considering it’s his intellectual property, because it’s the ice cream he invented for Brain on their first date.

Despite being out of one job now, officially, Binky’s schedule is actually fuller than it was prior to the mass and massively illegal firing. The union campaign has not only continued but has intensified, given the circumstances, and Binky is helping when and where he can while they all wait for their regional office of the National Labor Relations Board to schedule an official election, even though there’s a chance he himself won’t even be deemed eligible to vote in it. The dance classes he’s teaching for the younger kids have increased in frequency and duration as well, since the idea he and D.W. had involves a performance at the Summer Festival, and now he’s also working on developing choreography and composing original music for it.

Brain is rather in awe of how Binky sticks so fervently to his commitments. And if knowing he is one of those commitments still sets the butterflies in his stomach fluttering, well, then, no one else has to know about that.

He suspects that Prunella knows, though. Prunella always knows things like that somehow. His fierce blushing and scowling after she took one step into his bedroom with her worn copy of the latest edition of The College Exam Prep and remarked about how clean it was, in that particular tone of hers, probably didn’t do much for him in the way of hiding the truth either.

Prunella insists on playing music every time they get together for these study sessions that Brain doesn’t think she even needs anyway. Today the voice coming from her phone is some young English woman - her accent is thick and unmistakable and, he thinks, potentially fake in its heaviness. Brain rarely gets caught up in music while studying, no matter what’s playing, but for the time being, he’s mostly a glorified timer while Prunella works through sample math problems, so he finds himself getting stuck on a song about a boy trying to tell a girl how he feels about her. “‘All the matter in the world, that’s how much that I like you,’” the singer narrates, and he’s reminded of D.W.’s questions from the Independence Day parade about the amount of matter in the universe, and how he’d been too distracted to properly answer her because he was looking for–

“Can we turn the music off?” Brain asks as the timer on his own phone begins to beep. “I’m having trouble focusing.”

“I don’t think the music has anything to do with that,” Prunella says with a smirk, but she reaches over to her phone to pause the song anyway, then passes him her answer sheet to check against the pages at the back of the test prep book.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Brain says in a dignified tone, but he knows it’s futile. Prunella snorts out a laugh, something midway between a scoff and a shriek that only she could ever master.

“I predicted this, you know,” she says. “Remember when we hung out the last weekend before school let out and I read your fortune for the summer? I told you I saw ‘an unexpected musician stealing your heart and attention.’” Brain looks up at her smug face and rolls his eyes. “Hey!” she says defensively. “Binky’s a musician–”

“But he’s not…unexpected,” Brain says, because it’s true.

When Brain thinks of his childhood, of what he’s experienced thus far of his adolescence, of the last eight years, sure, he thinks of all the usual suspects that are his friends, and of course, some have been closer to him at times than others, but Binky…Binky’s always there in Brain’s memories, goofy-grinning and bright in his peachy orange shirts. Binky has always been, whether or not Brain realized, a steadfast presence, a warm constant, a pillar. And now…

“Well, maybe not,” he hears Prunella saying, “but he’s certainly a thief. Consider your focus pulled.”

Brain frowns.

“I’m sorry, Prunella,” he says. “Let’s start again and–”

“No, it’s okay,” Prunella says with a dramatic sigh. She flops over onto her back and sprawls her limbs out across his floor, something she’s never had the space to do here before the promise of Binky being in his room gave him the motivation he needed to keep it tidy. “I’ll just go to clown college like I always planned.” Brain huffs out a breath of laughter, but when he rolls his eyes this time, it’s good-natured.

“You’ll do just fine. You’re extremely smart, and more importantly in this case, you’re quite good at taking tests, which is all The College Exam truly measures,” he says. “Have you decided which one will be your major and which one will be your minor?”

“No,” she says with a groan. “I just keep going back and forth on it. So Libra of me.”

“Well, regardless of your choice,” says Brain, “I imagine the combination alone will make you unique among your peers. I strongly doubt anyone else will be studying both mathematics and theatre design.”

Brain follows Prunella down the stairs as she makes her exit half an hour later. He moves slowly, his focus indeed pulled by a text from Binky, and Prunella lingers easily on the floor below, chatting with Brain’s parents until he finally hits the send button on his reply and rushes down the remainder of the stairs behind her.

“That’s my cue. Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Powers!” Prunella exclaims, waving and smiling brightly at them as Brain opens the door for her. He steps outside with her, intending to walk her to the sidewalk, but she turns to him with a manic gleam in her eyes and places her hand firmly on his shoulder. “I predict that in less than two minutes, you’re going to want to find a ditch outside the city limits and lie down there and wait for death to take you,” she says.

“Huh?”

“Bye!” Prunella cries. Then, she takes off running.

“Um, bye?” says Brain, baffled. “Tell Marina I said hi.” He shakes his head and shrugs - Prunella’s just a weird girl sometimes, and he can’t be expected to follow every one of her whims - before turning around and going back into his house.

“Alan, can you come here for a minute please?” his dad calls from the sofa.

“Sure,” Brain says, stepping into the living room to see his parents sitting together drinking coffee. “What’s up?” His mom and dad exchange a glance.

“Well, we understand you’ve been seeing Binky romantically,” his mom says delicately. Brain’s face heats.

“Oh, um, yeah, I have,” he says, clearing his throat. “Um, I’m sorry you didn’t hear it from me–”

“It’s alright, Alan,” his mom says in a reassuring tone.

“We value your right to your privacy, son,” says his dad.

“We just wanted to acknowledge it so there don’t have to be any secrets anymore,” his mom continues. He nods slowly, relief sinking into his muscles.

“Great,” he says. “In that case, is it okay if I have Saturday afternoon off so I can go…” His eyes finally settle on what must have been the source of Prunella’s schadenfreudian delight before she left and the basis of her final prediction: on the coffee table rests a spread of brochures on safe sex practices specific to his particular demographics, a pack of sample sachets of lubricants, and a box of condoms.

“Ohhhhh no.” He has to say it as loudly as he possibly can in order to hear himself over the high-pitched mechanical wailing in his brain.

“Now, Alan–”

“We just started dating! I assure you this is a non-issue for the time being!” Brain cries. He points to one of the brochures - Healthy Bodies, Safer Sex: A Comprehensive Guide to Safer Sex, Relationships, and Reproductive Health for Trans or Non-binary People and Their Partners - and says, “That one isn’t even relevant to our relationship!”

“We didn’t want to make any assumptions,” his dad says, evidently oblivious to the agony his son is experiencing, but he at least removes that pamphlet from the table.

“We know you haven’t been dating very long, Alan, but it’s summer, which means you have a lot of free time to spend together,” his mother says, “which means you might be moving faster than you would if your relationship started during the school year.” She leans forward and picks up What Gay, Bisexual, and Other Men Who Have Sex with Men Need to Know About Sexually Transmitted Diseases. “Now, we know you’re familiar with the disease prevention aspects of it,” she says as she plucks up HPV & Men and Syphilis & MSM, too.

“Syphi–holy–” Brain rubs his hands aggressively over his face. “This can’t be happening.”

“But we’re not sure how specific your health class was in terms of the mechanics of, ahem, inclusive sexual encounters,” his father finishes, holding up Know Your Condom DOs and DON’Ts and Barrier Methods for Safer Sex. Brain lets out a squawk of wild, hysterical laughter when he sees the phrase “sterile gloves” on the latter.

This is why he didn’t tell his mom and dad that he and Binky were dating.

It’s not like he was, technically, intentionally hiding Binky and their relationship from his parents. It’s just that…coming out to them was humiliating enough, wasn’t it? Not in the sense of being worried about their reaction - he knew they would be supportive and love him no matter what - but in the sense that telling them he was gay forced them to see him as a person who experienced sexual attraction at all, whatsoever, regardless of the gender of the subject of that attraction. It was an utterly mortifying ordeal that made him feel sick; afterward, he had to lie down in his bed with a pillow over his head for twenty-seven entire minutes before he was able to go downstairs and face them again for dinner.

So telling them he has a boyfriend means forcing the knowledge upon them that he is currently feeling romantic and sexual attraction to someone. Telling them that boyfriend is Binky Barnes means forcing them to reckon with the reality that he might one day want to act on that sexual attraction to Binky. And that makes him singularly want to find a ditch outside the city limits and lie down there and wait for death to take him–

Dammit, Prunella, he thinks.

–or maybe for Binky to show up and kiss him and run away with him to the cave at Binky’s Butterfly Beach and they can just live there forever, whichever happens first.

“I am aware of the mechanics,” he manages to steady his voice enough to say out loud, even if he does so while covering his eyes. “If I just take the condoms and the lube, then will you please let me leave the room without another word?”

“We were hoping we could talk about consent first,” his mom says. Brain heaves out a burdened sigh.

“How about I take the condoms and the lube and promise to read the Yes Means Yasssss: Improving and Ensuring Consent Between MSM pamphlet?” he bargains. A few moments pass wherein he can’t see anything besides the backs of his eyelids, but he assumes his parents are exchanging glances and communicating non-verbally.

“Deal,” his dad blessedly says. Brain almost cries with relief. He makes a mad grab for the items they agreed upon and then dashes out of the room and up the stairs, where he closes his bedroom door and immediately calls his boyfriend to relay the absolute worst three minutes of his life to him, to hear his boyfriend laugh about it - there’s little true sympathy to be gained, evidently, from a guy who has been enduring regular safe sex talks from his nurse mother for the last three years - and to, upon request, and technically as promised, read the egregiously named pamphlet aloud to said boyfriend.

—

The thing is that Brain feels completely crazy, totally out of his element. He always knew, rationally, that love wasn’t…well, rational. But to experience it himself is a whole other beast, both everything and nothing like the firsthand accounts he’s read and heard from other sources.

When he’s not with Binky, he’s thinking about when he’ll be able to see him next. It’s bad for business, according to his mom, with whom he’s already gotten in trouble for looking disappointed when the Ice Cream Shop door dings open and a decidedly non-Binky customer enters. He’s grateful he did all his summer reading and related assignments before July 4th, because he can’t imagine how productive he’d be with regards to schoolwork otherwise. As it is, he usually likes to reread all his assigned books at least twice more before the school year begins, and he’s pretty certain that the closest he’ll manage is proofreading Binky’s essay on James Baldwin whenever he gets around to writing it.

When he is with Binky, he finds himself in a different conundrum: he wants to kiss Binky every time he’s talking about something interesting, but to Brain, that’s all the time, and he can’t listen to Binky talk and kiss him at the same time - it’s a physical impossibility that Brain all of a sudden finds deeply unfortunate - but if he lets Binky talk for too long then it’s difficult for him to keep focusing on what is actually being said because he gets consumed with how much he wants to kiss him, so he has to just do it before he proverbially loses his mind, but then that runs the risk of entirely derailing the conversation…

Does everyone feel this way? he wonders. Or is it just us?

Us, and not me, because at least Brain knows he’s not alone. Binky feels it, too. He knows because Binky admits it all outright, readily and repeatedly, so open and courageous in a way that doesn’t come as easily to Brain but makes him happy and proud to try to meet him there.

It was Binky, after all, who handed him a pretty cloth bag full of chocolates, teardrop in shape but flat-bottomed, not wholly unlike a tiny solid bell, and explained, “I bought these from Mr. Ratburn’s husband’s shop. He said he started making them back when he and Mr. Ratburn were dating because he wanted to kiss him every time Mr. Ratburn was saying something interesting but he didn’t want to interrupt the whole conversation, so he made these and he and Mr. Ratburn started handing them to each other anytime they felt like that as a way of saying, like, ‘Can I just kiss you for a second?’ which was gross to hear about Mr. Ratburn, by the way, but–I mean, I figured we should have them, too, because I–” and then Brain had shoved one into Binky’s hand and kissed him fiercely, which may not have been in the full spirit of the chocolate kiss solution, but was nevertheless what he felt.

It’s Mr. Ratburn’s husband, though, who calls him out.

“Nigel, I believe your star student is lovestruck,” Patrick says, amused, one afternoon when the Ratburns are sitting at the counter sharing a jumbo sized sundae.

“It certainly seems that way,” Mr. Ratburn replies. His voice, tone generally unimpressed but tinged with amusement, brings Brain abruptly back into reality, making him realize he’s been drying the same ice cream scoop for over three minutes. He ducks his head, blushing, and drops the clean and now thoroughly dry scoop back into the rosemary grapefruit bucket.

“Did you know, Alan,” asks Mr. Ratburn, “researchers have compared the levels of serotonin in the bloodstreams of people who are in love to those with obsessive-compulsive disorder and found the levels to be about equally heightened?”

“Really?” Alan looks at him curiously. “What could lead to that?”

“Constant thoughts about the loved one,” Mr. Ratburn says casually, creating shapes in the chocolate syrup in his sundae bowl with the edge of his spoon. Brain nods slowly, considering.

“Of course. That makes sense,” he says.

“More specifically to young people,” Mr. Ratburn continues, “another study compared newly in love teenagers with an unpartnered control group and found the former to experience more positive morning and evening moods, better quality of sleep despite fewer hours, and better concentration throughout the day.”

“‘Better concentration’?” Brain scoffs. “I think you’ve seen me prove that wrong enough this visit alone.”

“Depends on what you’re concentrating on,” says Patrick, grinning. “Like I said, Nigel: lovestruck.”

“But it’s…” Brain frowns.

“Irrational?” Mr. Ratburn suggests knowingly.

“Yes, but…” Brain starts, then stops, tilting his head. He thinks of the David Foster Wallace quote littered around his spaces, of his reasoning behind keeping it where he can read it whenever he needs it, of the way he explained it to Binky that evening in his room weeks ago.

There are actually ways he can rationalize it - love is required for the development and homeostasis of the brain, for example, and it’s also perfectly logical for one to pursue a state of happiness even if it might not be long-term - but…Brain doesn’t think he wants to.

“It’s worth it, isn’t it?” he asks. Mr. Ratburn smiles and looks at Patrick.

“I certainly think so.”

The bell above the door dings and Brain looks up, hope soaring in his chest, and is rewarded handsomely in the form of Binky walking into the shop. He grins, elation taking over him at the sight of his boyfriend grinning right back at him.

“Hey, stranger,” he says as he begins busying himself with another on-the-house creation for Binky: the newest item on the Ice Cream Shop menu, The Shelley Swirl.

“Hi,” Binky says, clearly self-conscious in the presence of their teacher. “Hey, Mr. and Mr. Ratburn,” he adds with a pleasant smile.

“Hello, Binky,” says Mr. Ratburn.

“How’s it going with the Labor Board?” Patrick asks. Binky shrugs.

“Not as fast as we were hoping, but it’s coming along,” he says. Brain sticks a spoon in the ice cream as he pushes the dish toward Binky and then points to the tip jar, which is full of bills and coins, despite the shop only having been open for a few hours thus far today.

“Well, you’ve got plenty of support from the city, which is more than Mr. Crosswire can say. I don’t think he realized he’d be risking so much of his business,” Brain says. A movement outside in front of the shop catches his eyes, and Binky follows his gaze, spoon in his mouth, to see Muffy frowning at the decal in the window that states plainly, We Support the CMWU. Without looking up at anyone inside the shop, she scowls at the sticker before stalking away.

“I don’t think he realized he’d be making things so difficult for his daughter either,” Binky says sadly. Brain, who feels much less sympathy for Muffy, barely restrains himself from audibly scoffing.

“She’s the one choosing not to patronize businesses that support unionization efforts. It’s not a requirement for entering the shop,” he points out. Binky’s right, though, and the rift has been significant. Nevertheless… “Besides, if she’s really that bothered,” he adds, “then she could just get her dad to send her to one of those fancy horse yodeling camps in the Alps for the rest of the summer.” Binky turns back to him, biting his lip as he tries to hide his laughter.

“You’re a little mean,” he says, not sounding especially perturbed by it at all. Brain raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe you’re actually just too nice,” he says. They smile at each other, mutually enamored, until Mr. Ratburn clears his throat, making them both jump. Binky diverts his attention to his ice cream, ducking his head and mumbling an apology, and Brain purses his lips, trying to ignore the blush rising to his face. Mercifully, the door dings open again, and Arthur, Francine, Buster, Ladonna, Alex, Samir, Sue Ellen, George, and Fern enter the shop together.

“There are now officially too many of my students here,” Mr. Ratburn says wearily. Patrick snickers, a gleam in his eyes.

“I’ve got to go relieve Slink for their lunch break anyway,” he says as Brain leans over the counter to take the empty sundae dish. The Ratburns exchange brief hellos as they pass Brain and Binky’s friends on their way out, and Francine gasps as the group of them approach the counter.

“What if we just do a number from our Elwood City Centennial show?” she says, which is all it takes to inform Brain that the Elwood City High School GSA still hasn’t decided on something to perform at the upcoming Summer Festival. “People loved that!”

“We were in third grade,” Sue Ellen says, “and that was part of the charm. I’m not so sure they’ll love it from teenagers.”

“Surely nobody remembers any songs from that show anyway,” Brain says, only to have seven indignant expressions - and two blank ones, from Ladonna and Samir - turned toward him in response.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Alex asks.

“I still get those songs stuck in my head sometimes,” Arthur says.

“Yeah, I remember every word,” says George.

“But do you remember any of the choreography?” Binky asks smugly, obviously assuming the answer will be a resounding negative, but Fern gives him a dubious look.

“Um, yes, every step,” she says, and then she begins proving it, dancing in as much space as she can between tables. One by one, with the exceptions of Samir and Ladonna, the others join her, Francine starting to sing as well.

“Reading books at the library! Our clubhouse is in a tree!”

“Had a comet named after me!” Buster exclaims in delight.

“That’s Elwood City!” Arthur, Francine, Sue Ellen, George, Fern, and Alex declare. Buster, trading excitement for a slowly dawning horror, widens his eyes.

“Oh no,” he says. “Did I peak at eight years old?!”

“Whatever happened to the clubhouse anyway?” Sue Ellen asks. “It’s been years since we’ve been up there.”

“Mei Lin and Kate and their friends run it these days,” Binky says.

“Yeah, there’s ladybug curtains now,” Arthur says in a tone of mild disgust. Brain rolls his eyes.

“Hey, Binky, Brain, will you help us out for the talent show?” George asks. “Maybe we can do an updated version of that song instead, and this time Ladonna and Samir will be involved, and Alex can have a bigger role!”

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” Brain says, while Binky says simply, “No, I can’t.”

“Why not?” asks Francine. “It’s not like you’re too busy now that you’ve been illegally fired.”

“I’m already doing something else for the talent show,” Binky says in annoyance, “so yeah, I am busy.”

“Wait, really? What are you doing for it?” Arthur asks.

“None of your business!” Binky nearly snaps. “It’s a secret!” Francine rolls her eyes and looks at Ladonna.

“He’s not doing anything for it,” she says.

“Yes, I am!” Binky exclaims defensively

“Yes, he is,” Brain confirms.

“Oh yeah?” Francine crosses her arms, still not convinced. “What’s he doing then?”

“It’s not my information to tell. Unlike someone here,” he says, glancing pointedly at Buster, who still appears to be undergoing some sort of internal crisis, “I can keep a secret. Now are any of you going to order ice cream? Or are you just going to keep standing there blocking other paying customers?”

—

In Binky’s bedroom, he has a quilt made from old t-shirts he’s long since outgrown. It’s full and comfortable and sentimental; it might be Brain’s favorite thing in his boyfriend’s room, aside from his boyfriend. He’s on the floor, resting his head on the purple polka-dotted shirt Binky won for completing the monstrous hill track in that bicycling competition when they were nine, as Binky sits on his bed and plays an original piece on his clarinet.

Brain has his eyes closed as he listens to the music, appreciating the way it follows all of its lilts with steadiness, all of its slightly frenzied sweetness with serenity. He’s never heard anything like it; the fact that Binky’s written it himself makes him so proud he thinks he could burst, but that might also be attributed to the fact that he can feel the music in his chest. Something Brain’s always loved about the way Binky plays clarinet, even when they were children, was how it was so much more than auditory: he could feel the passion in every note, the soul of it. Brain could never manage that with the cello, which is why it’s taking up space in a closet somewhere in his house while Binky is composing his own pieces, doubtlessly bound for no less than a dozen full ride music program scholarship offers from any university that hears him play.

“That’s beautiful,” he says softly when the music finally comes to a stop.

“Thanks,” Binky says after he takes a sip of water.

“It’s for the Summer Festival?” Brain asks, turning over onto his side to look up at Binky, who nods.

“It’s not totally finished yet. I don’t want it to sound too much like Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A major,” he says. Brain grins, knowing full well that the only people at the Summer Festival who would even know said concerto by ear are Binky, himself, and Mr. Ratburn. “Plus, it’s…I’m trying to tell a story for D.W., right? Like, with the choreography.”

“Yeah?” says Brain. Binky hasn’t told him too many details about what he’s been working on with the kids and their performance.

“Yeah,” Binky says as he carefully puts away his clarinet. “But the music…Well, it’s inspired by, um, by how you make me feel.”

“Really?” Brain blinks, eyes wide. Binky glances his way and gives him a shy nod before looking away again.

“It’s about trying to stay grounded when someone makes you feel like you’re…” He glides his hand up through the air, like a butterfly dancing with the wind. “In the stars,” he finishes.

“What’s it called?” Brain asks after a moment. He can only see one corner of Binky’s mouth from here, but it curves upward in a completely satisfying way.

“‘NGC 6302,’” Binky answers. Brain exhales in a rush, happiness filling him up so rapidly it’s as if it’s reclaiming space from the air in his lungs.

NGC 6302, so assigned in the New General Catalogue of Nebulae and Clusters of Stars by Danish astronomer John Louis Emil Dreyer in 1888, is a bipolar nebula located within the constellation Scorpius. Its spectrum shows that the star at its center, a white dwarf that can’t be seen at any wavelength due to the dark belt of dust pinching along the nebula’s middle, is one of the hottest stars known, and its structure is one of the most complex ever observed in planetary nebulae. Its dual chemistry makes the nebula even more unique, as the dust shows both oxygen-bearing molecules and carbon-bearing hydrocarbons, despite the fact that stars are typically either oxygen-rich or carbon-rich. After NASA’s Hubble Space Telescope got much-needed upgrades in 2009 and was able to capture stunningly gorgeous photos, NGC 6302 got its own “more commonly referred to as” name: The Butterfly Nebula.

“Come here,” Brain says, beckoning Binky to join him down on the floor. “I have a secret to tell you.”

“Oh?” Binky grins slyly and moves from sitting on the bed to sitting on the floor, still out of arm’s reach from Brain.

“Closer,” Brain says, biting back a smile. “Closer, closer,” he says as Binky gets barely an inch closer every time. “Closer,” he says even when Binky stretches out next to him on his side. “It’s very secret.” Binky grins and leans in closer, and finally Brain kisses him, pulling him nearer as they both giggle into it.

“Wait,” Binky says, abruptly pulling away. “Did you really have a secret?”

“No, Binky,” Brain says, “I just wanted to kiss you, like always.”

“Oh, okay, yeah. Me, too,” Binky says hurriedly, with an enthusiastic nod, before meeting Brain’s lips again. This time there’s less laughter, but that’s not to say there’s less lightness; there’s fervor but no urgency. Kissing Binky always makes Brain feel impossible things, like that they own time, or that he’s weightless even under the gravity of this, or–

A quiet, polite knock on Binky’s bedroom door causes them to pull apart again, wide-eyed and embarrassed.

Binky clears his throat as he turns over onto his stomach, looking away from Brain. “Yeah?” he calls. From the corner of Brain’s eye, he can see Binky’s mom opening the door a little and sticking her head into the room.

“Is Alan staying for dinner?” she asks. Binky glances at him. He swallows.

“I’d like to, if it’s not too much trouble for you,” he says. She smiles kindly.

“Not at all. Kate’s here, too, so it’ll just be a little cozier than usual,” she says.

“Thanks, Mom,” Binky says.

“Let’s keep the door at least half-open when Mei Lin is home, okay, Binky?” she adds, as if it’s an afterthought. Instantly, Brain drops onto his back and flails his arm out to find the nearest book - Me and My House: James Baldwin’s Last Decade in France - and opens it to a random page somewhere in the middle before smashing it down painfully over his face, which is now red hot with mortification. He wishes he could defy physics and be absorbed into the pages through sheer force of his will alone.

“Yep! Okay, Mom,” Binky says quickly. Brain hears the door hinges creak a little - presumably from it being opened more - and then Mrs. Barnes’ footsteps as she heads toward the kitchen. A moment later, Binky’s familiar giggle resounds near him. “Excuse me,” Binky says, “but you haven’t seen my boyfriend anywhere, have you?” Under the book, Brain grins.

“Binky, it’s me,” he says. “You have a book-head boyfriend now.”

“Funny,” says Binky. “The cover doesn’t look like any Roald Dahl book I’ve ever seen.” Taken aback by the reference, Brain lets out a hearty laugh and finally takes the book off his face.

“That does sound like something he’d write, doesn’t it?” he asks.

“Yeah. And it’d probably be pretty funny,” Binky says. “Too bad he was such an antisemite.”

—

Brain touches Binky’s wrist and tells him, quietly, “I’ll pay for your milkshake.” Binky’s mouth twitches into a frown.

“I’ll pay you back,” he says. Brain shakes his head and gives him a small smile.

“You don’t have to pay me back,” he says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. “You’re my boyfriend.” It takes a second, but Binky smiles back.

Across the table, Fern smirks at them and George smiles sweetly at them.

“At least we all have a new lovey-dovey couple to give hell to,” Ladonna says with her own impish grin.

“Shut up! We’re not lovey-dovey!” Binky says, but he’s blushing, and so is Brain.

“Hey, Binky, have you started your summer reading yet?” Francine asks.

“Started? I finished them,” he says. “I just have to do this author essay. Arthur, which one did you–”

“It doesn’t count if Brain does your reading journals for you,” Francine says.

“He didn’t. I did the work,” says Binky. “He just read the books to me. Well, not Persepolis, but that’s because it’s a graphic novel.”

“That’s still cheating–” Francine starts, but Binky cuts her off this time.

“George uses audiobooks for his summer reading! You wouldn’t tell him he’s cheating, would you?”

“Please don’t involve me in this,” George says, but he doesn’t seem quite as bothered as he would have been years ago.

“Of course not!” Francine says defensively, furrowing her brow at Binky. “I’m not ableist! I’m just anti-cheating!”

“Says noted plagiarist Francine Frensky,” Brain says. Everyone at the Sugar Bowl corner booth - currently very cramped, despite being the biggest one in the place since their renovations last year - starts laughing. Brain levels a smug smile at Francine, who glares at him.

“That was one time and it was third grade,” she says. “And having someone read the books out loud to you is not the same as listening to an audiobook.”

“Sure it is,” Brain says.

“It was just an audiobook with a voice I wanted to hear,” says Binky.

“Awww,” says Sue Ellen. Next to her, Buster grimaces briefly.

“Yuck,” Samir says, sticking his tongue out.

“Francine, you’ve never been in an English class with Binky,” Arthur points out, not unkindly. “He can hold his own in AP. He doesn’t need to chea–”

“Why can’t you ever back me up?” Francine snaps, turning her ire onto him. “That’s what you’re supposed to do as my boyfriend - have my back.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur says, easing into anger just as quickly. “I always have your back!”

“You do not!”

“Yes, I do!”

“Here we go,” Buster says under his breath as he and Ladonna exchange a familiar look before Ladonna turns to Brain and Binky.

“Do y’all wanna go on a double date with us tonight?”

“We would say ‘triple,’ but–” Buster jerks his head toward Arthur and Francine, whose argument is beginning to reach a volume high enough to get them asked to leave the restaurant soon. Brain covers his mouth to stifle his laugh as Binky grins; they glance at each other, a mutual question in their eyes, then both turn back to Buster and Ladonna.

“Yeah,” Binky says. “Where?”

The four of them meet outside the Loring as evening settles over Elwood City. They had to select the movie carefully. It couldn’t be sci-fi because Buster would take it too seriously and drive Brain to madness - Binky’s words, which were followed by, “and I mean either insanity or anger, you know” - afterward. There’s a political thriller that was just released that Binky’s interested in seeing, but, well, Buster could just as easily take that one too seriously as well. Everybody in their grade has avoided seeing the latest Dark Bunny reboot film since, as Ladonna says, “it’s, like, the twelfth Dark Bunny reboot in six years,” even though it’s actually only the fifth reboot, technically, but in Brain’s humble opinion, that’s still far too many, but it’s what they finally decide to see for their double date because it’s the safest bet for all of them.

And because Binky says, “I hear there’s a post-credits scene with a cameo by Bionic Bunny to initiate an official crossover universe!” with a look of hopeful excitement on his face. What is Brain supposed to do then? Tell him “no”?

The movie is adequate in terms of quality and above average in terms of enjoyability. Brain, Binky, Ladonna and Buster are all happily surprised in their discussion of it as they leave, walking toward nothing in particular besides the general direction of their homes. As they pass the Sugar Bowl, though, Binky lets out a little gasp.

“It’s ten minutes to closing!” he says. “You guys know what that means!”

“Discount pie slices!” Ladonna and Buster exclaim. Brain meets Binky’s grin with his own, but he’s no stranger to last minute customers postponing the entire process of closing up shop, so he suggests they get their pie slices to go instead of getting a table. Brain is happy to get the last slice of peach pie and more than happy to pay for Binky to get the last blackberry mint slice, especially since he knows he’ll get to taste it on his lips before the night is over. Ladonna and Buster, though, are evidently keen to make a full meal of every last piece of pie left in the restaurant. Together, they pool their cash and clean the Sugar Bowl out of lemon meringue, pistachio cream, balsamic blueberry bacon, roasted strawberry and basil, vanilla caramel, and chocolate coconut cream pies, and Buster is even generous enough to buy the last three slices of chess pie for Ladonna.

“It ain’t pecan, but it’s a bit of the South anyway,” she says, shifting the weight of all the carry-out boxes so she can give Buster a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I figured you could share with Bud and your mom,” he says, balancing his own towers of boxes effortlessly. Ladonna scoffs.

“Yeah, right! You know I’m gonna eat at least two of these before I even go to bed!” She gives him a playful shove and he grins. The movement jostles one of the precarious boxes, but Buster expertly manuevers to reach up and rebalance it for her, all the while never losing control of his own. Brain, eyes wide, freezes with a plastic forkful of peach pie halfway to his mouth.

“Um, let’s find you two a bench,” he recommends. There’s one only a few steps away, of course, and he and Binky stand to finish their own slices as Buster and Ladonna work through a couple of theirs.

“I’ll help you carry these in when we get to your house, as my last boyfriendly act for this round,” Buster tells Ladonna, who laughs around her mouthful of vanilla caramel pie.

“My hero,” she replies, feigning a swoon. “For the next fifteen minutes.” Buster grins and twists around and leans over to put one of his carry-out boxes, now empty, in the trash can next to the bench. Brain frowns at them and glances at Binky, who seems equally puzzled by the cavalier way Buster and Ladonna speak about their relationship.

“Can I ask you guys something kinda personal?” Binky asks, then, without waiting for a response, proceeds to, “You two seem to really have a good time together. So why do you always break up when Arthur and Francine do?” Buster and Ladonna blink in surprise, look at each other, and shrug.

“Dating can just be fun,” Ladonna says. “It doesn’t have to be serious - I mean, we’re teenagers, ya know?”

“Yeah, breaking up just means we’re not hanging out alone or without Arthur as much,” Buster says easily, “or kissing or anything like that, but we’re still best friends, so it’s never a big deal. And hey, if we’re meant to be together, we will be eventually.”

“Yeah, there’s no point in trying to force it,” Ladonna agrees.

“Is that what you think the problem is with Arthur and Francine?” Brain asks, grateful and relieved that Binky was the one to start this conversation. Ladonna lets out a single shout of laughter and Buster chuckles a little and gives a quiet, resigned sigh.

“Aaah,” he says. “They only ever started dating to begin with way back because they knew everybody thought they should. They know better themselves, I think, but they just keep forgetting for some reason. They’re great as friends, you know, but when they’re dating, it’s like they completely forget how to communicate. Plus, neither of them seem to be very good at being a boyfriend or girlfriend to anybody, much less each other. Don’t tell Arthur I said this, but Francine isn’t the only one of them who can be pretty self-absorbed.”

“Huh,” Brain says, reluctantly impressed. “That seems like an extremely astute analysis of the situation.” Buster grins.

“Did I surprise you with my emotional intelligence?” he asks. Brain huffs out a laugh.

“Yes, but not enough to make me apologize for what I said to you that day.”

“Don’t worry,” Buster says lightly. “I’m not expecting one. I deserved it.”

“But you two…” Ladonna says, nodding up at Brain and Binky with a smirking sort of smile on her face.

“What about us?” Binky asks with a slight edge to his voice.

“Well, I know it’s new, but you seem really good together,” she says.

“Yeah?” Brain blurts out, immediately regretting it when he sees Buster’s delighted smile.

“Yeah! You’re cute!” he exclaims. His tone is teasing but no less sincere for it. Brain blushes and turns away from the bench to hide it, but he doesn’t hesitate to entwine his fingers with Binky’s when he feels the familiar touch of his hand.

Buster and Ladonna pick up their towers of pie again, now a bit lighter, and the four of them start walking again. They come upon Brain’s house first, so the couples say their goodnights there as Ladonna and Buster continue toward Ladonna’s house. Binky and Brain hold hands as they slowly make their way up the driveway so Binky can get his bike and go home. Under the light of the lamp above the front door, Brain turns toward Binky and asks a question that’s been ruminating in his mind ever since Buster and Ladonna’s explanation about their relationship.

“Is this just for fun for you?”

“No,” Binky says, instantly and firmly, no room for misunderstanding. Brain starts to smile even as Binky’s eyes go wide and panicked. “But–if you–I mean, if you don’t want this to be, like, serious–we don’t have to–”

Brain stops him with a kiss - a real one, no chocolates to be found.

“Good,” he says when he pulls away to catch his breath, “because it’s not just for fun for me either.”

—

The door dings as Brain spoons another scoop of coffachio into Patrick Ratburn’s bowl, and he looks up to see Buster walking in, his face buried in a magazine that has long been banned from the Ice Cream Shop. Brain scowls.

“No! Out!” he orders. Buster lowers Alien Conspiracy Magazine so Brain can see his widened eyes. It only makes Brain’s frown more vehement. “Buster, I made this clear years ago. That magazine is not allowed in here! Get rid of it or get–”

“But, Brain!” Buster practically wails as he approaches the counter as a starving peasant might approach a despotic ruler. “I really did peak at eight years old! Isn’t that the saddest thing you ever heard?!”

“No,” Brain answers plainly. He crosses his arms over his chest. “And what does that have to do with–”

“I’m behind on these stories!” Buster cries, waving the magazine around. “If I’m going to major in forensic speculography–”

“You’re not - at least not from an accredited institute of higher learning, because that’s not a legitimate field of study,” Brain says. Buster pauses, the corners of his mouth downturned, and finally sighs and throws himself over the counter. Brain steps back, raising his eyebrows, but takes the opportunity to reach down and gently slide the magazine full of lies out of Buster’s loosened hold before subtly tossing it in the trash can, watching with satisfaction as its weight buries it under tiny sample spoons and napkins.

“I have no future,” Buster groans, miserable and muffled. A couple of empty stools away from him, Mr. Ratburn adopts an expression of utmost concern.

“Buster, that’s simply not true,” he says, “and certainly no way to speak about yourself.” Buster, ears drooping sadly, turns his face so he can look at Mr. Ratburn.

“But it’s true,” he insists. “Nobody finds my paintings charming anymore because I’m not a little kid, and even if they did, I don’t want to be a painter. I’m not good at any school subjects. I’m not interested in anything besides aliens and food. There’s nothing out there for me!”

“Hmm,” Mr. Ratburn hums, tapping at his chin. “Which non-fiction book did you choose from the list for your Standard English summer reading?”

“That one about cod and how it changed the world,” Buster says. One of his ears begins to twitch upward as his mood starts to tentatively brighten. “Did you know that same guy wrote a more recent one about salmon? And one about salt, too? I found them at the library!”

“You did extra reading?” Brain asks, genuinely surprised. “During summer?”

“I had no idea there were food history books out there!” Buster says as he finally stands upright again. “I even found one on junk food - it was by a different author, though - but it was more of a memoir than the deep dive on the history of junk food that I really wanted.”

“Why don’t you go on to write a history of junk food yourself then, Buster?” Mr. Ratburn suggests. “You could be a food historian.” Buster blinks at him, silent for a few moments as his eyes slowly go wide and round.

“That’s a thing?!”

“You can double major in Food Science and History,” Patrick says, spinning his spoon absentmindedly between his fingers. “Or minor in one or the other.”

“Wow!” Buster exclaims.

“You will need to improve your work ethic in school,” Mr. Ratburn adds, “if you’re serious about–”

“I am! I will!” promises Buster, who may actually be vibrating with excitement. “In fact, I’ll go finish my summer reading poster right now! I’m using candy wrappers and chips bags and stuff to make a collage!”

“Well, at least you know you won’t run out of materials,” Brain says. Personally, he has his doubts regarding the longevity of Buster’s newfound academic motivation, but he’s also mature enough to admit he’s been wrong about Buster in the past; maybe he’s wrong now, too. He calls out a farewell as Buster hurries out of the shop and pulls his phone from his pocket. As he types out a text to Binky about what just happened, the door dings again, and he looks up after hitting send to see Lydia wheeling in, a pleasantly benign smile on her face as she eyes him. He sighs.

“Francine won’t be here for approximately seventy-five minutes,” he says in lieu of a more polite greeting.

He knows this routine well. Francine spends plenty of her time single, but every single time - without fail - she’s freshly out of a relationship with Arthur, she goes right to Lydia, who always seems more than happy to take part in the game.

“That’s quite a precise number for being so approximate,” Lydia observes.

“She’s got roller derby,” Brain says. Lydia grins.

“Ah, the irony,” she says, spreading her arms wide in a gesture to her wheelchair. Brain can’t help but smile at that, too. “But that’s okay. I can wait. Gimme a double scoop of tropicandy with extra rainbow jimmies.”

“Why do you do this, Lydia?” Brain asks wearily, reaching for a bowl.

“Well, tropicandy is my favorite–”

“You know what I mean,” Brain says. His tone is stubbornly unamused, but he huffs out a quiet laugh as Lydia cackles at him.

“Because it’s fun,” she says, finally answering his true question, “and she’s hot.” Brain shudders involuntarily, grimacing.

“Gross,” he mutters. Lydia shrugs.

“That’s what you get for asking.”

Brain’s phone vibrates then with a response from Binky. He looks down to read it and laughs at Binky’s emoji use - several exploding heads and a candy bar - and when he looks back up, Lydia is raising her eyebrow at him. He frowns. “What?”

“How’s Binky?” she asks simply. Brain, to his deep embarrassment, blushes instantly and furiously.

“He’s doing well, all things considered,” he answers. Lydia grins.

“I really thought you’d be single until college, you know,” she says. The butterflies in Brain’s abdomen crowd out his embarrassment as his frown becomes a soft smile.

“I did, too,” he says. Keenly aware of the trouble he’ll be in if his mom catches him staring off into the middle distance with a mild expression on his face in front of customers again, he ducks down behind the counter and stands back up with a portable game set in his hands. “Wanna play Scrabble until Francine arrives?”

The two of them know far too many words for it to not turn serious fast and take hours. Brain’s won the first round and is well on his way to gamely losing the second when Lydia forfeits - Brain has honestly never been so happy to see Francine - but other customers take her place one by one as they wait at the counter for their orders, which is by far the most fun way Brain’s ever won a game. The shop begins emptying out as the sun begins to set, as usual. Binky arrives around dusk with a dinner in plastic containers he’s brought from home for them to share, and Brain, not even bothering to glance outside at who could see them, kisses him deeply.

“Wow,” Binky says. “It’s nothing special. Just cheeseburger casserole.”

Anything is special when I share it with you, Brain thinks, but can’t bring himself to say out loud, even though they’re the only ones in the shop at the moment. He clears his throat.

“I love cheeseburger casserole,” he says instead. Binky beams.

They’re nearly finished with dinner when the door to the shop opens. Brain starts to stand, quickly switching mental gears from romance to business, but pauses when he looks up to see that it’s Arthur, wearing an even more anxious expression than usual.

“Hey, Arthur,” Binky says, turning around in his chair to greet him.

“Hey, Binky. Hey, Brain,” Arthur says. “I’m glad you’re both here.”

“Are you okay, Arthur?” Brain asks, unsure. Arthur nods, bites his lip, looks away.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says as he lifts his hand to fidget with his glasses. Brain and Binky exchange a knowing look, but before they can call him on the lie, Arthur continues, approaching their table as he talks. “Hey, so, last night, D.W. told me she’s bisexual.”

That catches Brain by surprise. He meets Binky’s eyes again for a moment before turning back to Arthur.

“Oh,” he says, playing it like D.W.’s sexuality is news to him. “Well…cool.”

“Yeah,” Binky says. “Um, good for her.”

“But, you know, Arthur,” Brain says gently, “you really shouldn’t out her to other–”

“She told me she’s already told you guys,” Arthur says, his tone unusually inscrutable.

“Oh,” says Brain again, deflating and still, somehow, uncertain. “Well.”

“Yeah, okay,” Binky says simply.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. He rubs at the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say thanks for looking out for her the way you guys do and…I guess I’m trying to think of a non-obnoxious way to say thanks for creating and fostering a safe space for her, but that’s what I mean.”

“You don’t have to thank us for that, Arthur,” Brain says.

“Yeah, D.W.’s our friend too, like it or not,” says Binky. One corner of Arthur’s mouth lifts into a would-be smile at that.

“Yeah, well. Okay,” he says. Then he continues standing there, not quite meeting their eyes, looking…sad. Brain tilts his head, wondering why Arthur could be sad. Unsurprisingly, it’s Binky who knows.

“You know it’s nothing against you, right?” Binky asks. “That she came out to us before she came out to you?” Arthur’s shoulders drop instantly. He looks like he wants to cry.

“How can I not take it personally?” he says quietly. “I’m her brother.”

“Therein lies the reason,” Brain says, fully understanding now. “It can be…different when it’s family.”

“Yeah. Like, I knew my dad would still love me just the same,” Binky says, “but I still came out to the Tough Customers first. When it’s family, there’s a fear that it’ll change the way they see you, and what it’ll mean for the expectations they have for you, what kind of future they picture for you.” Arthur considers this, but he glances at Brain.

“But you came out to your parents before you came out to any of us,” he says. Brain nods.

“True,” he admits, “but the first person I actually told was Mr. Ratburn.”

“Really?!” Arthur says.

“Yep,” Brain says. “It doesn’t mean D.W. trusts you or loves you less. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad brother, Arthur. It just means she wasn’t ready for you to know, because if you did react poorly, it wasn’t something she thought she could handle.” Binky suddenly makes a fist.

“And you didn’t react poorly, did you?” he says menacingly. Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up.

“No! No, I…I mean, truthfully…” He sighs. “I’ve been a little worried about her recently - she’s been acting so weird and secretive.” Binky and Brain dutifully do not look at one another. “Honestly, her being bisexual is a relief,” Arthur continues. “But I didn’t say anything mean or dismissive, I promise. I know the gravity of her telling me. I was as serious about it as she was.”

“Good,” says Binky, relaxing.

“Um, she still hasn’t told my parents, though, so–”

“Our lips are sealed,” Binky says. Arthur smiles gratefully, then smirks.

“Like, to each other’s, or–”

“No one will hear anything about D.W. from us,” Brain says quickly, a blush rising to his cheeks. Arthur grins.

“Ha, okay, okay,” he says. “Thanks, guys. And, um, I’m really happy for you two. You’re…cute? Together?” He slaps his hands over his own face and begins walking backward toward the door. “Yeesh, sorry. I’ll leave you to your dinner date now.”

“See ya, Arthur,” Binky says with a wave as Arthur exits the shop, his eyes still covered all the while.

—

Two days before the Summer Festival - and two days before an official vote, presided over by the local National Labor Relations Board chapter, to form the Crosswire Motors Workers Union is set to take place - Brain is walking home with Binky from their respective rehearsals at the community center. Brain is still, frankly, gobsmacked that the other GSA members managed to talk him into taking on the role of the Emcee in a number from Cabaret for the talent show portion, but he wasn’t about to let anyone who would mispronounce the words do it instead. Without fanfare, a familiar purple limo pulls slowly alongside them as they walk.

The window rolls down. Brain follows Binky’s lead and continues staring straight ahead.

“Binky,” Muffy says finally, sticking her head out the window as Bailey matches their walking pace with the speed of the car. “How would you and your lawyer like to come sit inside for a chat?”

“No, thanks,” Binky says. Brain glances sidelong at him, but otherwise says nothing.

“You’d really rather walk in this oppressive summer heat?” Muffy asks. Binky lets out a scoff.

“Than take a ride in a limo that unfair labor practices bought, with someone who knows better but is gonna try to bribe me into giving up my principles? Yes,” he says. Muffy sighs angrily.

“Bailey, stop the car,” she snaps. He does, but by the time Muffy has unbuckled her seatbelt and gotten out of the limo, Brain and Binky have already walked ahead. Muffy dashes in front of them, stopping them on the sidewalk with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. “Binky, don’t you think this has gone on way too long? You’re not even eligible to vote to unionize because you’re a part-timer! You need to drop–”

“Just get back in the limo, Muffy,” Binky says plainly. “Unless you’re really going to listen to me. Or else it’s just a waste of both our time.”

“I’m only trying to defend my dad against all the nasty accusations this whole union drive has brought up!” Muffy insists.

“Accusations of the truth, you mean?” Brain asks, his patience wearing thin.

“How would you know? You don’t even work there!” Muffy exclaims.

“Well, I did,” Binky says, sounding tired, “so let me lay it all out for you.” He holds out his hand and begins counting off on his fingers. “No breaks for lunch or anything else. Poor wages with next to no benefits for full-time employees. Cutting pay and hours with no warning. Union-busting. What am I forgetting, Alan?”

“Swooping in to steal the sales team’s signings at the last minute, thereby denying them the commissions they themselves rightfully earned,” Brain contributes. Binky nods, satisfied, and Muffy’s frown deepens.

“Look, I know you feel you have to defend your dad, Muffy,” Binky says. “But there are people who work - or used to work - for him, trying to support their families too, but they couldn’t because of your dad’s choices as a boss.”

“My dad would never do any of the things you’re accusing him of!” Muffy says.

“Check the paystubs if you don’t believe me,” says Binky. Muffy balks, but Binky shrugs. “I know you know the passwords. Or if you suddenly don’t want to break any rules, go talk to Arthur’s mom about the accounting stuff. Check the cameras to see how he steals sales and tells people to go home early.”

“Well…well…” Muffy swallows. “My dad has a family too! What is he supposed to do to support us?!”

“If Crosswire Motors can’t afford to treat its employees justly,” Brain says, “then it doesn’t deserve to stay in business.” Muffy’s jaw drops, but she’s so agog at Brain’s assessment that she stays silent long enough for Binky to speak again.

“You’re a good person, Muffy,” he says quietly. “Where you stand on this matters. You have to be able to know what you know and still look at yourself in that pretty little vanity mirror of yours. And you have a lot of power - probably more than the union, to be honest. Your dad would do anything for you. Don’t do his dirty work for him.”

With that, Brain and Binky step around Muffy on the sidewalk, and continue walking home.

—

Brain more or less blacks out from the moment he hits the stage until the moment the audience starts applauding. Even then, walking toward the wing feels like swimming through fog. He has no idea how he allowed himself to be convinced to play the role of the Emcee in the most iconic number from Cabaret for the Elwood City High School GSA’s entry to the Summer Festival’s Talent Show, but he’s pretty sure it had something to do with the way Binky reacted to learning he’d have to wear eyeliner for it. Damn Brain’s recently fully awakened sex drive.

“You were incredible, Alan!” Binky tells him as soon as he reaches the backstage common area where all the acts have gathered. He’s gripping Brain by the shoulders, grinning bright and goofy as ever, but there’s a wide-eyed look of some odd but unmistakable mix of panic and attraction in his blue eyes.

“Thanks, Binky,” Brain says, smiling. With his adrenaline still rushing from the performance, he doesn’t think twice before pulling Binky in for a kiss, and not a quick one either.

“Ugh,” Mei Lin says as the older kids and Binky and Brain’s peers wolf whistle.

“You’ll get used to it eventually,” Kate says darkly. Brain pulls away from Binky in just enough time to catch Kate giving the back of Francine’s head a dirty look.

“I’m going to go out into the audience to get a better view,” Brain tells Binky, whose panicked look in his eyes promptly overtakes every other visible feeling. Brain smiles and reaches out to take Binky’s face in his hands. “You’re going to be amazing, and so are your students. You’ve got this. I can’t wait to see it.”

Binky exhales slowly, leans in for another kiss - quick, this time - and nods. “Tell my parents I said hi.”

Alongside Arthur, Buster, and Francine, Brain weaves his way through the crowd of Elwood City citizens until they find where their parents have all gathered.

“Here, maybe Alan knows something,” Mrs. Read says to Mr. Read, who turns toward Brain as Brain is hugging Binky’s mom hello.

“Alan, do you know anything about what Binky, D.W., and Kate are involved in?” Mr. Read asks. “All the girls would tell us is that we need to pay close attention.”

“I’ve only heard an unfinished version of the musical accompaniment,” Brain answers truthfully.

“Sounds like you should listen to your daughters and pay close attention, then, doesn’t it?” Arthur’s grandma says. She sends a particular look to Brain that leads him to hypothesize that she knows more than any of the rest of them. Curious, Brain’s eyes flit to the stage as the act between his and Binky’s performances - a sixth grader who’s admittedly pretty impressive with a ukulele but whose vocals still need coaching - finishes. Hmmmm.

Before he can spend too much time pondering what Binky and D.W. could have planned, the principal of Elwood City High School walks on stage with a microphone.

“Thank you again, Ella,” he says to the sixth grader, waving to her as she exits the stage. “Now, for our final performance, we have a combination of dance and instrumental music. I’m very proud to introduce, with choreography and original music composed by Elwood City High’s very own Binky Barnes, starring D.W. Read–”

“‘Starring’?!” D.W.’s parents both say, jerking their heads back in surprise. Beside them, Arthur’s grandma smiles smugly.

“–and featuring Emily Leduc, Vicita Molina, Bud Compson, James MacDonald, Ryan Bostler-Jackson, Kate Read, Mei Lin Barnes, Cheikh Diouf, and Liam Messler, a number called, um–” The principal blinks down at the tablet in his hands before glancing off to the side, where Brain knows Binky is seated with his clarinet, and then clearing his throat. “A number called, ‘NGC 6302.’”

A beautiful warmth blossoms in the center of Brain’s chest, and he finds himself beaming, unbidden.

“What’s that mean?” Buster whispers to the group at large as the principal walks off stage.

“It’s the scientific name of the Butterfly Nebula,” Brain says, not taking his eyes from the stage.

“I didn’t know Binky could write music,” Francine says.

“He’s brilliant,” says Brain. He can just make out, in his periphery, Binky’s mom and dad exchanging a proud, charmed look.

“I think you have a clear bias–” Buster starts, but Brain elbows him into silence as D.W. takes a loud step into the spotlight.

“Who taught D.W. how to tap dance?” Arthur whispers, eyes going wide behind his glasses. “And–is she–good?”

D.W. is, as a matter of fact, good at tap dancing. She taps along the stage, making her way to the center, by herself, in a costume that’s all black but for the butterfly wings she wears that’s a vibrant gradient of blues, purples, and pinks. Brain gasps audibly, then covers his mouth and shakes his head when the others turn to him questioningly. He doesn’t want to explain it to them. He wants them to see it, wants them to realize the incredible thing Binky has done: choreographed, for D.W., a grand coming out.

“I sewed D.W.’s costume,” Brain hears Arthur’s grandma saying proudly. He smiles as he watches D.W. dance.

There’s no music yet, just the sound of her tap shoes on the stage, and then, abruptly, there is music, a familiar tune on clarinet thrumming to life from the wing as, two by two, the other dance students enter from either side, all wearing their own - admittedly not as vivid or colorful - butterfly wings. D.W. slows her dancing as she stands back to observe the others. They all partner off quickly, dancing in perfect unison, and soon enough, D.W. tries to join them, but she doesn’t have a partner, her shoes make her clack loudly with every step, and her dancing is a bit frenetic, like she can’t be contained. She looks up and extends her hands to each of them, as if in invitation to join her in the skies, but they all shy away, opting to stay closer to the ground and in their jazz style of dance.

D.W. breaks away from the rest of them, kicking off her tap shoes, and suddenly shifts into a beautifully elegant classic ballet style - it almost looks like she’s floating away. As the others dance back off stage, sending her fearful looks over their shoulders as they go, the music becomes more flighty, airy, almost mystical. D.W.’s butterfly character has flown up into space, Brain interprets, and then her movements and Binky’s clarinet join together for a great crescendo. D.W. leaps upward and spreads her arms hugely, and for one long improbable moment, she really does seem suspended in the air, floating slowly in space by sheer force of her will alone, a magic all its own. As she lands back down onto the stage, the backdrop behind her suddenly shows this performance’s namesake nebula, as if D.W.’s wings made an imprint on the galaxy, as if she brought it to life herself.

Having now been liberated, D.W. moves like she’s fluttering slowly back to the earth. Her dancing calmer and more fluid now, she slips back into her tap shoes as the final clarinet note sounds. She closes the performance with another solo tap number, just like she began, but the lights go down with her arms held high in a graceful ballet position.

The crowd goes wild with applause. Arthur seems stunned at D.W.’s talent as, behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Read exchange an inscrutable look. Buster whistles as the rest of the dance team and Binky walk out on stage to take a bow. After a moment, Brain finds himself whistling too, his eyes set on Binky, who’s blushing a deep crimson and hugging D.W. from the side.

Brain feels so proud he could burst, butterflies - and stars - in his stomach indeed.

It takes roughly a few minutes for D.W., Kate, Mei Lin, and Binky to make their way through the crowd, but they’re all grinning wide when they reach the group. Binky throws his arms around Brain’s neck in a fierce embrace, which means Brain gets a clarinet case slammed into his right scapula, but it’s worth it to be able to say, “I’m so proud of you, Binky,” without everyone around hearing it.

“What did you think, Mom? Dad?” D.W. asks, her tone somewhat pointed and her voice a little shaky. Brain and Binky separate, turning their gazes onto the Reads. Kate bites her lip nervously while Arthur rests his hand on her shoulder, his eyes darting between their parents and sister.

“We think you sure picked a creative and public way to tell us something so important,” Mr. Read says, but he’s beaming as he pulls D.W. in for a hug.

“We love you so much, D.W.,” Mrs. Read says, brushing her hair back and making it a group hug. “And we’re so proud of you. Nothing will ever change that.” Beside them, Arthur visibly relaxes, and Kate smiles.

“If you two ever have any questions,” Brain’s mom says to Mr. and Mrs. Read, “feel free to call us.”

“Or us,” says Binky’s dad cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, there might be enough of us now to start a real chapter of PFLAG in Elwood City.”

“Dad,” Binky whispers, wide eyed and a little embarrassed. Brain squeezes his hand and bites back a smile.

“Binky, I’m sorry for giving you a hard time before about not doing something for the show,” Francine says. “I didn’t realize you were doing a lot for the show.”

“Told ya,” Binky says smugly, but then smiles as he adds, “Apology accepted.”

“Do you know how the vote went yet?” she asks.

“What vote?” asks Buster.

“The official union vote,” Francine says.

“There wasn’t one,” Binky says. Brain jerks his head back.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowed and ire rising. Binky’s expression, though, calms his anger before it can truly begin to burn.

“Jawad texted me while we were performing,” Binky explains. “There wasn’t a vote, because at the very last minute, Crosswire decided to recognize the union and meet their demands.”

“That’s great!” Francine and Arthur cry in unison.

“Sounds like someone saw the writing on the wall and didn’t want to lose,” Mei Lin says darkly. The adults and Brain all touch the tips of their noses.

“Or else Muffy finally talked to him,” Binky says with a good-natured shrug. “But I don’t care why he did it, I’m just happy it’s happened. All the full-timers got their jobs back, with higher pay and real benefits, and then some.”

“What about you?” Buster asks. “Are you getting your job back?”

Binky scoffs. “I don’t want that job back. Turns out, I love teaching kids’ dance classes, and I’m dam–errr. Darn good at it too! Vicita’s mom offered to reserve me a spot to teach on the weekends at the community center.”

“Binky!” Brain exclaims. “That’s wonderful!”

“Yeah,” says Binky, grinning. “The only downside is it kinda sets me back with my goal of buying a car.”

“How much do you have saved up?” Mr. Read asks.

“A little over four thousand,” Binky says with a sigh. “Why?”

“Well,” Mr. Read says, considering, “I’m long overdue to upgrade my catering van, and that’s not much less than I was expecting to trade it in for…” Binky blinks at him as realization dawns on his face. Mr. Read grins and holds out his hand. “It’s not exactly a cool car, but it still runs well, and there’s plenty of space in the back for you to drive your sister and your friends around. What do you say, Binky?”

“I say yes, sir! Thank you, Mr. Read!” Binky exclaims, shaking Mr. Read’s hand with excess enthusiasm. He turns to Brain with wide eyes full of excitement and honest joy that overflows from his expression to make its way into Brain’s heart too, even before he says, “Now I can finally take you on a date at the outskirts of town!”

—

It’s the last Friday of summer and Brain keeps looking out through the shop door to the street beyond the windows. He hasn’t seen Binky all day - and it’s a big day for Binky.

Earlier, around lunchtime, he signed his contract with the community center for his first round of eight-week dance classes for children aged nine to thirteen. Binky originally wanted to sign on for a whole year, but his parents managed to convince him to not risk overloading his schedule before junior year even started. And a little over an hour ago, Binky went to Arthur’s house to meet with Mr. Read in order to get all the paperwork signed and filed for Binky’s ownership of Mr. Read’s old catering van. Brain’s phone hasn’t lit up with a text from Binky since then - Wish me luck!! Binky had sent after parking his bike outside the Reads’ house, because he’s spent the last few weeks half-expecting Arthur’s dad to change his mind about the van after all - and the absence of communication is beginning to make Brain feel antsy.

The real problem, Brain thinks, is that they have a date tonight - dinner at a diner on the edge of Elwood City that Binky found on Boogle and actually has great reviews on Belch, followed by the annual huge end-of-summer party at Muffy’s. It feels like a terribly adult thing, to have a date they have to drive to - to have a date they can drive to - and the idea of being alone with Binky in a vehicle sends the butterflies in Brain’s stomach into fluttering overdrive.

When Brain finally looks up to see an old brown van pulling up to park across the street, he all but rips off his apron. “Mom!” he calls toward the back. “Binky’s here! I gotta go!” He feels extremely fortunate he’s just finished a transaction with a customer or else he’d never hear the end of it about his dip in customer service skills. Brain doesn’t rush outside at first, as much as he wants to; instead, he goes to the employee bathroom and takes the black eyeliner pencil from his pocket, applying it with a careful and steady hand - he’s been practicing, ever since the talent show. When he finishes, he checks his phone to find a text from Binky asking him to come outside. Now, he does.

Binky’s right there across the street, leaning against the van, wearing the denim version of his Tough Customers jacket - the one with the sleeves ripped off - with his arms crossed. He’d be looking really tough if not for the proud, goofy grin on his face. Brain feels his own smile forming, unable to tamp it down, and he’s so focused on Binky as he begins to cross the street that he narrowly avoids walking directly into oncoming traffic.

As a car speeds by him, its driver shooting him a glare, Brain exchanges a wide-eyed look with Binky before they both start laughing at the near miss. Glancing left and right this time before crossing, Brain says, “You’re going to get me killed or seriously injured one of these days.”

“Not now that I have a car I can take you out in,” Binky says with pride. He blinks, and Brain can pinpoint the exact moment that he notices the eyeliner around Brain’s eyes. “And, um, stay out with you in,” Binky adds, lowering his voice and swallowing. The butterflies in Brain’s stomach dive low in his belly, just below his navel. He swallows too. Then, he remembers they’re in public.

“Have you and Molly decided on a design for her to paint yet?” Brain asks, keen for a change in subject. His eyes sweep the side of the van, which still bears the cheerful Read Catering logo.

“She’s refusing to show me any of her mock-ups until she’s satisfied with them,” Binky says. “But look!” He grabs Brain by the hand and pulls him around to the back of the van, then drops Brain’s hand so he can gesture widely to the license plate - BNKYRLZ. “Mr. Read paid for me to have a personalized plate as a gift!”

Brain laughs, utterly delighted. “I love it, Binky,” he says. Binky beams.

They drive to the outskirts of town where Binky performs a perfect parallel parking maneuver to get a space right in front of the diner. Hand in hand, the two of them head for the entrance, but before Binky can reach for the door, Brain tugs him away and pushes him gently against the exterior wall, one arm outstretched with his hand against the brick beside Binky’s head. Binky’s eyes go wide with surprise, but within a few seconds, his eyes begin to drift from Brain’s own down to his lips. Brain smiles, an appealing thrill lighting inside him like a match, and leans forward to kiss Binky.

As he eases into deepening the kiss, Binky makes a little sighing noise that sounds so pleased, and Brain is overcome with the desire to chase it. He wants to learn everything he can do that will cause Binky to make that noise again, plus any others that may be similar. His constant thirst for knowledge is getting twisted up with something else, something Brain could surely name if he could focus on anything other than the solid warmth of Binky’s body against his. A half-spark of curiosity has Brain attempting to slot his thigh in between Binky’s, wanting to know if he’s just imagining what he thinks he’s feeling there or if he’s really making Binky–

Binky stops him with his hands on Brain’s hips, thumbs curling in the belt loops as he glances down with a pained expression, like it’s agonizing to not pull Brain closer. “Sorry,” Binky says, strained.

“No, I’m sorry,” Brain rushes to say, heat rising to his cheeks alongside a shock of guilt. “I should’ve asked–”

“I do want that,” Binky says, lifting his eyes to meet Brain’s. “Like, a lot. It’s just–I don’t want us to go too fast and then fizzle out, you know? I like you way too much for that.”

The thought of fizzling out with Binky is hilarious to Brain, but he doesn’t laugh and doesn’t say as much. Instead, he nods solemnly and says, “I like you too much for that too.”

Binky grins. “We’ll get there,” he says. His confidence makes Brain smile.

“Yeah, we will,” he says, stepping back.

“But not before we eat at the diner at the end of the universe,” Binky says. Brain, ever caught off guard by all the ways in which Binky is intelligent, laughs as he reaches for Binky’s hand again.

After dinner - “Let me pay,” Brain insisted; “You drove us here, and I’m not the one who’s been getting stiffed on my wages all summer” - Binky takes the long way to Muffy’s house, and parks far down the row of cars lining the street outside the gates. Brain doesn’t have to ask why. He meets Binky in the middle for a kiss that starts sweet and slow before building to something more. The butterflies in Brain’s stomach swoop low again, and this time, the sensation is accompanied by what Brain can only describe as a simmering heat.

Brain doesn’t exactly spend a significant amount of time in his body, despite his therapist’s years of encouragement. He can’t really help it. He answers to his given name, of course, but it’s difficult to think of himself as more than the Brain. He spends so much time inside his head - thinking thinking thinking, calculating and connecting and concluding - and almost no time at all focused on his physical self, on what his body is experiencing.

Not until Binky.

Binky keeps him grounded just by looking at him, by touching his hand, by brushing against his arm, by kissing him. Binky makes him aware of the pumping of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, the insistent pressure of–well. And the wonder of it all is how Binky is so open, Brain isn’t even sure he realizes it. Binky, for all he was closeted for as long as he was, has always been brave, unapologetically who he is since elementary school, even when he was scared to admit things. A ballet dancer, afraid of the dark, interested in butterflies and pretty flowers - he never hid for long, and he still doesn’t. He just says what he feels, right to Brain’s face, so courageous and vulnerable and beautiful with it.

Brain wishes he could be more like that. He wishes it was easier for him to access his emotions under all the knowledge. He can spout off facts at a moment’s notice, but telling Binky that he makes Brain a better person; that Brain likes who he is when he’s with Binky better than he ever did without; that no matter what anybody might think or say behind their backs, it’s Binky who’s out of Brain’s league and not the other way around…

All the matter in the world, that’s how much that I like you, sings a soft British voice in Brain’s distant memory, and it’s true, except that–

All the matter in the world isn’t enough, and only all the regular matter in the universe certainly doesn’t cover it, and neither does all the matter, including the dark kind, in the universe. Only 31.5% - that’s nothing. That’s peanuts, and Binky is allergic to peanuts, so it can’t be that. It isn’t. It’s so much more. All the matter in the universe, plus all the dark energy, which not only makes up the remaining 68.5% but also drives the acceleration of the universe’s constant expansion - that’s how much Brain likes Binky, and that’s how Brain likes Binky: always more than the moment prior, an ever-expanding mysterious force. Brain thinks…Brain thinks…

It is, actually, love.

Brain Powers is in love with Binky Barnes, and he’s pretty sure Binky is in love with him too. Has there ever been anything more magnificent in the entire history of this constantly-expanding universe?

A sudden booming thud slams Brain and Binky apart. Dazed, they look out the windshield to the source: the rest of the Tough Customers standing in front of the van, Slink’s hands slapped down hard on the hood as they smirk, Molly and Rattles jeering on either side of them.

“Hey, hands off the goods!” Binky yells. “Don’t think I won’t honk at you!”

“Stop making out with your boyfriend and come join the party,” Molly says. “We’ve got big plans to–”

“Shh, don’t tell him, Molly,” Rattles says. “He’s already made amends with Crosswire. You don’t want him tryin’ to convince us to not follow through.”

“Ugh, yeah, don’t tell me anything,” Binky says. “What’s that thing called, Alan?”

“Plausible deniability,” Brain says.

“Yeah,” says Binky. “Plausible denia–what he said.”

“I bet there’s plenty of hidden corners to make out in in that mansion,” Slink says. Binky glares and lays on the horn. The Tough Customers jump back and cover their ears, shouting at Binky to stop. To his credit, he does.

“Give us a minute,” Binky calls to them. “We’ll be right behind you.” All three wear matching skeptical expressions, but they head toward the house nonetheless. Binky shakes his head as he watches them go, then he turns to Brain and bites his lip. “Hey, um, I’ve been wanting to ask you, with school about to start up again…will you wear my letter jacket?”

Brain’s face splits into a grin so wide and so quick it hurts. “I’d be proud to,” he says, and he means it. “Would you–if it fits, I mean, would you wear mine?”

Binky smiles. “Of course! It might be a little snug, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” Brain’s gaze flickers down to Binky’s arms, his strong muscles on display, and he thinks, No, nothing at all. Then, he thinks, Do it. Tell him now.

“Hey, Binky…” he starts. Binky, undoubtedly sensing his nervousness, settles his hand over Brain’s and meets his eyes, a calm, steadying force. Brain exhales. “I love you,” he says, braver than he’s ever said anything.

The smile on Binky’s face is so bright, it’s as if the sun never went down at all over Elwood City tonight. “I love you too, Alan.”

Pleasure. Reward.

—

The very last evening of summer finds just about the whole incoming junior class of Elwood City High at the fall carnival. It’s Labor Day, and the parade earlier in the afternoon had featured a float from Crosswire Motors that starred neither Ed nor Muffy Crosswire, but a handful of Crosswire Motors employees, all proudly wearing their union t-shirts. Jawad, megaphone in hand again, had personally pointed to Binky in the crowd and yelled, “The man himself!” Then, glancing at Brain at Binky’s side, Jawad added, “And his man!” and laughed through the megaphone at the way Binky and Brain, surrounded by their giggling friends, both blushed. Now, though, the sun is beginning to set, and the huge group of them, having spent the whole afternoon wandering the carnival, is starting to dwindle in number.

“You guys wanna catch a movie with us?” Ladonna asks Binky and Brain, gesturing to herself, Buster, Arthur, Francine, Muffy, Fern, George, and Sue Ellen.

“No, thanks,” Binky says. He glances behind them, up toward the sky. “We’re going to get some cotton candy and ride the ferris wheel.”

“You can just say you’re going to make out,” Fern says plainly.

“I liked it better when none of you knew about us,” Brain says with a glare that lacks any sort of real heat. Fern throws her head back and laughs.

“Come on, leave ‘em alone,” George says, throwing his arm around Fern’s shoulders and steering her toward the carnival’s exit.

“See you at school tomorrow!” Buster calls as they all wave goodbye to each other. After a few moments, Binky and Brain exchange a glance. Binky reaches out for Brain’s hand, and then the two of them take off running to the cotton candy cart. Brain buys a giant bag for the two of them to share - the purple kind, naturally - and then they head back to get in line for the ferris wheel. They don’t have to wait for too long, and in what feels like no time at all, they’re swinging their feet out as they look down over Elwood City, entwining their sugar-sticky fingers together as the sun finally sets.

When Brain pictures his and Binky’s future, it looks like this: walking through the hall to his AP Calc class, positively drowning in his boyfriend’s letter jacket, while Binky gives him a quick kiss as he passes on his way to Band; making out in Binky’s car after movie dates and big soccer game victories; he and Binky babysitting Mei Lin together, both Barneses laughing at him as he struggles valiantly to learn the Mandarin they’re trying to teach him; he and Binky hanging out with D.W. on Saturdays sometimes, partially because it drives Arthur nuts, but mostly because she’s somehow the coolest person they both know; Binky landing a music scholarship to the college of Brain’s dreams and the two of them spending freshman year technically in different dorms, but not really, as they figure out together what Binky should change his “Undecided” major to - Brain already has some ideas, and he thinks Binky would make a fantastic Museum Director indeed - and find a way to get through study dates with more of an emphasis on studying than the date; both of them graduating with honors, and maybe by then Binky won’t be so surprised by his own intelligence either, and wherever they go after that, Brain knows he’ll still be looking up as Binky keeps him on the ground, hand in his hand, music and dance and art in his heart, butterflies in his stomach; competing big marriage proposals, followed by an Elwood City Science Center wedding, where the orchestra will play live, where Molly will pretend not to cry and later reconnect with Arthur and spark a romance much delayed, where years of cotton candy at carnivals and custom ice cream flavors and shared Lunar New Year and Kwanzaa celebrations will reach a culmination, where D.W. will give a speech declaring their love story is almost as old as she is, and maybe she’ll be right - or maybe Brain just has his head in the stars again.

But here, now, the sun hasn’t totally disappeared yet, and the stars aren’t visible in the sky, and all there is to get lost in is Binky’s fingers lacing with his, and their love story starting here, this summer.