Work Text:
We go to prom together. Not like, together together. Obviously.
We carpool and show up if only because seniors get in free, and this is our last chance to go, single or not. We clean up good, not wearing tuxes or anything, but pressed red and black cotton shirts and ties with slacks and dress shoes are a helluva lot better than the shirt with a bow tie screenprinted on the upper chest one guy wears.
We hang out in a room full of tables and chairs but no people and play blackjack with loners who wander in and out, betting with M&Ms and pretzels from the snack table. Prom turns out to be less of a dance or event and more of a change of scenery for us to hang out in. We talk about the same shit we always talk about, but there’s music in the background and the weirdness of a public setting. Even the most single of party-goers rush to the dance floor when the DJ announces the end of the night, and we take that as our cue to split before the traffic gets bad, smuggling as many snacks wrapped in napkins as our pockets can hold.
We drive down to the late diner near your apartment complex and we order eggs and coffee because it’s morning, you reason, and we need to eat breakfast, and when we sit at the bar our knees knock together, dubiously accidental the first few times, and then progressively not accidental as the morning goes on.
We finish breakfast and wind up at my house, because the first and only time I spent the night at your house ended in disaster, and we think we’re being sneaky showing up two hours after I promised I’d be home, and I hush your babbling and push you into my bedroom, and after three years of making yourself at home there, you’ve never looked so stiff sitting rigid on the end of the bed, staring at me, and I sit next to you and stare back, and I can’t remember what I was going to say, but when I open my mouth to say it, you lean in real close like you’re gonna kiss me, and I freak out a little and cringe back, and me cringing makes you cringe and start apologizing.
Fuck, sorry, that’s so gay, this is so gay, I just kinda went with the moment, yanno? I didn’t mean it. Fuck. Shit. I ruined it.
And I say no, it’s fine. And after the initial surprise wears off, I lean in as close as you did. It’s fine. I can smell your breath. It’s got the warm eggs and bitter coffee on it. It’s okay. Your hands are warm and shaking. Your lips are warm, too, and soft against mine, which are probably all rough and ripped up because I chew on them, but you don’t complain, and when I pull away to breathe, you come back for more, moving your hands up to hold my arms, to cup my face, and they’re steady now, and I feel like someone just hooked me up to an IV full of the coffee from earlier, caffeine thrumming through my heart, boiling in my veins.
We go on like that, bumbling and inexperienced, eventually establishing some sort of rhythm, and just like with caffeine, I crash. I’m tired. All night, I’ve been so tired. My eyes are closed already, but I might doze off if I don’t open them, but wouldn’t it be awkward to open them? The warmth and breathing and slide of lips is hypnotic, and while the kiss was hot and new and exciting before, it slows to something humming and comfortable. We fall back on the bed, still in prom attire, still kissing, and I don’t mean to, but it lulls me to sleep, and you pull away and shake me awake long enough to apologize some more and start rambling about where this leaves us, and I manage to mumble that I think I must love you before falling asleep to your voice against my skin.