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“What are you wearing?”
The words leave their mouths in perfect unison. It’s Josh who recovers first.
“Better double-check your script, Hartley,” he says from the entrance to the kitchen. “That’s my line.”
Even more unusual than Chris’s outfit is the fact that he’s standing over a cutting board at the island, engaging in what looks to be—Josh can hardly believe his eyes— food prep. That’s a new one, but it’ll have to wait. Chris brandishes the knife in his hand.
“No, no, no, it’s definitely mine. I know you got the dress code, and you were gone for a hell of a long time. I thought you were getting all gussied up.”
He sounds almost disappointed, and Josh frowns. Maybe he should’ve put more time into his ensemble and less into lying facedown on his bed, playing this out in his mind.
“I was,” he lies.
Chris casts him a withering look. “Josh. Those are sweatpants.”
Okay, now that’s just offensive. Josh might not be prom-ready, but there’s no need to disparage the effort he did make.
“Au contraire, mon cheri.” Josh keeps his voice carefully casual, but he watches Chris like a hawk, and he gets absolutely nothing. Which either means this scene is about to go sideways, or Chris doesn’t know a lick of French. Probably thinks he’s being called a cherry or something. Trying not to deflate on the spot, Josh continues his defense. “These are track pants. Totally different.”
Chris lifts a brow. “And the shirt?”
“Is plain.” Josh gestures to all the empty real estate on his black T-shirt. Such a waste of space. He doesn’t even know why he owns this. “Come on, bro. This is practically wedding attire for me.”
“Well, it’s attire that won’t get you escorted out of the mall. I guess that’s a start.”
This is not the glowing praise Josh craves, but he accepts it as the closest he’s going to get. He meanders into the kitchen proper.
“Where is everyone?” he asks, peering around. Can’t have anyone interrupting them. The French was a bad play; he’s a big enough man to admit that. Chris took Spanish in high school, Josh’s useless brain supplies too late—and he didn’t get a very high grade, either. But Josh is still committed to this take, and from here on out, he’s absolutely got this. The last thing he needs is one of their friends—or, God forbid, one of his sisters— storming the set.
“Outside. Wanted to be out there in time for the—” Chris stumbles over a few syllables, and Josh isn’t sure if he’s trying to pronounce a word or buzz like a bee. “Whatever it is. I told them they’re not gonna see shit, but I guess that’s ‘not the point.’” He punctuates the words with air quotes. “You know, just once I’d really like it if someone did explain the point. People are always like, ‘That’s not the point, Chris,’ and I’m like, well, can someone tell me what the point is, then? Clearly I don’t understand it.”
“Is that why you’re stuck in here?” Josh asks. “Exiled for not getting it?”
“Ah, no. I’m in here because Jess said I look like a creepy butler, and then Em said I should make like one and get some hors d’oeuvres ready. And I’ve learned not to say no to Em, so…”
Chris makes a jazzy little gesture toward the cutting board in front of him. Vegetables on the right, and the beginnings of his chopped-up, dippable strips on the left. In the center of the board lies a red pepper, split perfectly down the middle, like a heart cut open on an operating table.
Josh could help with this. They have more cutting boards, more knives. The thought flits across his mind, and he lets it pass. Unimportant. He’d much rather hop up on the counter, right at Chris’s shoulder. The better to admire his ensemble, of course.
Chris wears an unbuttoned tuxedo, one that looks like the real deal but almost certainly isn’t, or else he wouldn’t have so readily donned it. A rich purple bow tie circles his collar, paired with a matching top hat. Stuck to one lens of his glasses is a monocle. No sloppy tape job here—the circle of glass is expertly adhered with what Josh assumes is spirit gum. He’s taught Chris well.
That doesn’t make the outfit any less ridiculous, and it occurs to Josh that this should probably cause him to scrap his plan. It should, at the very least, make him reconsider the timing of it.
It does not. Because Josh understands why Chris is rocking this specific vibe. For the same reason it’s fucking impossible to get the guy to just smile in photos, the same reason they spent their actual prom night slouching against the gym wall, wearing the ugliest suits they could find. Josh just thought it was funny, but Chris had a different MO. Still has a different MO. Better to look stupid on purpose than to try and fail to look good.
It’s a nice try—a real valiant effort—but that shit doesn’t work on Josh. Josh is a certified expert in masquerading, which makes him uniquely equipped to look past it—to see the underlying appeal, despite all of Chris’s efforts to obfuscate it.
“You don’t look like a creepy butler,” Josh assures him. “You look like the Penguin from that Batman show. The ’60s one.”
Behind Chris’s glasses—well, glasses and a monocle—his eyes light up.
“That is exactly what I was going for. See, you…” More knife brandishing. Less safe, given their proximity, but it’ll take more than the threat of accidental stabbing to get Josh to leave Chris’s side. “You get me, bro. You see the vision.”
“Sure do,” Josh replies. Easy fucking breezy, like Chris’s offhand remark isn’t lighting him up from the inside, sun-bright.
Chris goes back to work, top hat dipping forward as he lowers his head, and Josh channels his brimming energy into his limbs. He drums his hands on his thighs, kicks the back of his shoes against the lower cabinets. His mom would scold him for that, were she here. She isn’t, so he keeps on doing it.
His gaze roves over the counter, zeroing in on a long cigarette holder lying on Chris’s opposite side. Josh points at it. “Where’d you get that?”
Chris keeps on cutting, fazed neither by Josh’s restlessness nor his seemingly endless stream of inane questions. He’s grown accustomed to both. “Where do you think? One of the zillion costume trunks lying around here.”
“And where’d you get that?” Josh asks, pointing this time to the unlit cigarette nestled in the holder.
Chris tosses a sly glance in his direction. “Don’t worry about it, kitten.”
An inferno of heat breaks out across Josh’s cheeks, and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep his hands down, to refrain from touching his face. Surely his skin is peeling off in curling strips.
If it is, Chris is unconcerned. He nudges his hat back up his head, and Josh chokes out a scoff, an attempt at disbelief that Chris stole from him. It’s a stretch, Josh thinks, even for a performer of his caliber. Because face-burning aside, he doesn’t actually give a shit. What’s more, he likes it. Likes that Chris nabbed a cigarette from his pack, that Chris didn’t bother to ask permission before raiding the fridge. He just did it, like he belongs here, too.
“Calm down,” Chris chides him. “It’ll still be perfectly usable when I’m done with it. Wouldn’t wanna hold you back from destroying your lungs.”
“That’s very thoughtful, Cochise.”
“Uh-huh. I’m a real sweetheart.”
Their conversation lulls, and Josh lets it, grateful for a chance to get his feet under him again. For a moment—unusually long, by their standards—there’s nothing but the schk-schk-schk of Chris’s knife and the thunk-thunk-thunk of Josh’s shoes.
“So…” Josh starts. “The end of the world, huh.”
“Almost the end of the world,” Chris corrects. “Very important difference, as it turns out.”
“Really makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, makes Emily think. Specifically that if we aren’t about to get dusted by some great and terrible whatever, then she needs to start watching her carb intake. Hence the…” Chris seems to have an even harder time spitting out this word, but he gets there. “Vegetables.”
“Silver lining: fewer Spaghetti Bucket charges.”
“Mm, true. And less Sonic, I’m sure. They really got into that at the end there.”
“Hey, if I thought it was curtains for the world as I knew it, I’d want my Sonic fill, too. Their tots are fire.”
“But the line,” Chris moans. This is coming from the guy who closes a tab when the page doesn’t load fast enough, but in this case, he’s got a point.
“The drive-thru is pretty bad,” Josh admits. “I could write my magnum opus in the time it takes just to order.”
“I could edit a whole freakin’ video.”
“Oh, I’d love it if you edited a video. Last time you just fell asleep. Snored and everything.”
Chris glares, but doesn’t argue. No point fighting the truth.
“We’re being way too optimistic about this,” he decides. “If the girls keep making content, I’m sure they’ll find new and exciting ways to blow our money. In fact, I’m starting to think that’s the only reason Em does this in the first place.”
“Starting?” Josh repeats, but his heart just isn’t in it. He’s too busy latching onto that word, our, death-gripping it like a dog with their favorite chew toy. “Somebody’s forgetting the eight hundred dollar spa day.”
Chris shudders. “Please. I wish I could forget the eight hundred dollar spa day. Anyway, back up a second. Did you mean the almost-end of the world made you think?”
“Obviously,” Josh answers. “Why the hell else would I bring it up?”
“I dunno. I thought we were getting existential again.”
“No, no, no. This isn’t some what else is out there, what’s the meaning of life bullshit. This is about moi.”
Even Chris can translate that one. “Of course it is.”
“I’m not trying to be narcissistic—”
“Right. It comes naturally.”
“—I’m just saying the almost-apocalypse…inspired me. Gave me an idea.”
“That’s good, actually,” Chris says. “I already told the girls to think about pins and stuff, ’cause we should probably have merch ready to roll out when we—”
“I don’t give a shit about pins, dude,” Josh interjects. Then, on second thought: “Well, I do, because they make crazy money, but that’s not— This isn’t about the channel. It’s personal.”
“Oh.” Chris’s brow begins to knit together. “Like, realizing we could theoretically be wiped out at any moment made you wanna live life to the fullest, self-improve, yada yada yada? ’Cause for anyone else, that’d be a natural side effect. But for you… yeah.” He nods toward the cigarette holder. “Hey, are you taking suggestions on where to start?”
Josh actually hadn’t thought about it like that before. Maybe everything that transpired should drive him to kick his bad habits and do some good for the world they narrowly avoided losing.
Alas.
“Nah, I think I’ve got a clear direction.”
“Okay,” Chris says, elongating the word. “Do you…care to be more specific?” He sounds unsure, like he doesn’t know if he’s treading on safe ground. “Or is it not my business?”
“Oh, it’s very much your business.”
Chris’s hand stills mid-cut. “That so?”
“Yup. If you’re interested, that is.”
Chris sets the knife down altogether, and he’s centimeters away from wiping his hands on his pants when he remembers what he’s wearing. Costume tux or not, he redirects to the nearest towel, hanging over the handle of the oven.
“You’re giving me a choice?” he asks.
Josh tries to ignore the fireworks show going off in his brain, the specific pattern of color and sound that means only one thing: he has Chris’s attention.
“You always have a choice,” Josh argues. “I didn’t make you do the channel with me, did I?”
“Thought you said this wasn’t about the channel.”
“It isn’t. I’m just using that as an example. You could’ve said no, and I would’ve respected that. Just like you can say no now.”
Josh tells himself that’s true, wants to believe that it is, but he supposes it’s never been put to the test. Because Chris keeps saying yes, and Josh keeps pushing for more, keeps twining their threads together.
Be my friend.
Be my best friend.
Be my business partner.
Be my—
Well. No point getting ahead of himself. By this point in his life, Josh is sure he won’t be satisfied with this little web he’s weaving until there’s no hope of untangling them, but he does need Chris’s permission.
“Let me make sure I have this straight,” Chris says. “It’s not existential. It’s not professional. It’s something…personal. About you.”
Josh nods.
“And about me,” Chris adds.
Josh nods again.
Chris looks at him. A common occurrence, given how much time they spend in each other’s eyeline, but this is different. He’s really looking. And even though Josh has spent the entire summer watching two of his friends survive mind-melting shit, encounter things that would permanently shift anyone’s perception, this is where his world turns upside down: in the curious, knowing glint in Chris’s eyes.
“Well,” Chris says at last, crossing his arms over his chest. “That is interesting.”
“It is?” Whoa. Down, boy. “I mean…you wanna know?”
“Sure I do.”
Okay. Permission granted. That’s awesome. Beyond awesome. It’s the best news Josh has heard all day, and yeah, he is including the casual crisis averted 👍 text that Chris sent him earlier, when he was laid up on the couch with a hangover.
It’s just a damn shame that every line Josh rehearsed while he was starfish-posing on his bed—every shot he planned from this point forward—evaporates from his mind, like it was never there at all.
Chris’s detour to the oven put some distance between them, but he begins to close it. A touch of heat sparks in his gaze—which is strange, Josh thinks, because if he had to describe Chris’s eyes— Like, he wouldn’t, but if he had to, gun to his head and all, he’d call them a glittering ocean blue. Cool, not warm.
They are not cool now. As Chris crowds into Josh’s space, boxing him in, they bypass warm, too. All Josh can do is sit there, arrested and mute, helplessly wondering if he’s about to become the world’s first scientifically proven case of spontaneous human combustion.
“C’mon, Washington,” Chris implores. “What’s your big idea? I know I’m not the brightest, but if you go slow, I’m sure I’ll catch on.”
No way. No fucking way. This is supposed to be Josh’s scene, his smooth move. Chris is pulling lines from a script Josh has never seen before, toying with him like—
Shit. Maybe he’s taught Chris too well.
Josh wrestles against the invisible hands squeezing his throat. He tries to force his words—hell, any words—up to his tongue. Chris is annoyingly patient, hands planted on either side of Josh as he waits.
Finally, Josh has something. He’s sure of it. He opens his mouth, ready to reclaim his rightful seat in the director’s chair, and says: “Uh.”
Chris’s laugh is a bright, beautiful thing. He removes his purple top hat, which Josh is astonished to realize he’s still wearing, and tosses it aside. He ruffles some volume back into his hair.
“I seriously have to do everything around here, huh?” he remarks.
Then he leans in.
Josh would love to stop thinking, for once in his life—would kill to turn his brain off and just enjoy the feeling of Chris’s mouth against his. But he has a lot of questions, a whole laundry list of them, springing to mind at once.
Has Chris always been capable of that?
Where the hell did he learn to kiss like this?
And most importantly—
“Why do you taste like gasoline?”
Ah. There’s Josh’s voice.
“Still?” Chris balks. “I ate so many mints!”
“Mm, I got the mint for sure. That was— It was a very mint-forward kiss. But then on the back end…” Josh runs his tongue across his bottom lip, so distracted that he doesn’t fully appreciate the way Chris’s eyes track the movement. “Yeah, dude, that is definitely gasoline.”
“I— It was important! We needed to clean that graffiti shit off the van. Someone had to siphon it from the tank.”
“Right. And you were the obvious choice. You know, because you’re so good at sucking.”
Chris slaps his hands over his face. “If you think about it…”
His voice is a little muffled, but otherwise perfectly understandable. Doesn’t stop Josh from holding a finger to his ear, head tipped. “What’s that, bud?”
Chris drags his hands down. “If you think about it,” he repeats, “I had to drink gasoline. To save the world.”
“You didn’t actually drink it, did you?”
“Oh my— No! I just—you know—choked on it. And then spit it out.”
“Hm. So maybe you’re really bad at sucking, actually.”
“Shut up, man.”
“I was wondering why you were hacking up a lung in the background of that footage. Thought a chip went down the wrong—”
“Where are my hors d’oeuvres, Christopher?”
Josh turns to find Emily marching into the kitchen, Jess trailing behind her. The fancy dress code must’ve been their idea, because they’re taking it very seriously. Emily wears a sleek, scarlet dress with slits running up the sides of her legs. The better for her to strut around barking orders, Josh supposes.
Jess’s dress isn’t long by average standards, but for someone who owns more mini skirts than the rest of the girls combined, it might as well be a ball gown. It’s silver and as sparkly as her nails, the fabric glittering like stars under the bright kitchen lights, but it’s her hair that draws Josh’s eye. Gone are the long braids, replaced by tiny pigtails that don’t quite reach her shoulders. That’s going to take some getting used to.
They’re both killing it, though. In fact, Josh is sure these looks would do a lot for someone who wasn’t singularly interested in a man dressed as a comic book villain.
“I saved the world this morning,” Jess declares, “and I would like some cheese.”
Josh and Chris look to the cutting board in perfect unison, and Josh wonders if they’re sharing the same realization, too: that pitifully little work got done after he entered the room.
“Sorry, ladies,” Chris says. “Got a little distracted. Food’ll be out in five.”
“I saved the world this morning! I shouldn’t have to wait for cheese!”
“Three. Final offer.”
Jess heaves a big sigh, leaving Josh torn between pride at the theatrics and irritation that these two beautiful girls are standing between him and more gasoline-flavored kisses. As though reading his mind, she turns on her heel and stomps out.
“Fine,” she calls over her shoulder, “but it better be the fancy stuff!”
Emily begins to follow in her footsteps. At the doorway, she stops and looks back. With a gaze that also makes people feel like they’re going to spontaneously combust, though for very different reasons, she takes in the sight before her: Josh, uncharacteristically quiet as he sits on the counter. He realizes—too late, yet again—that opening his big fat mouth might’ve actually helped him this time. And then there’s Chris, neglecting his creepy butler duties in favor of standing awfully close to Josh. So close that Josh wonders how he didn’t notice the faint gasoline smell earlier. He also wonders if he can convince one of his doctors to analyze the effects of Chris Hartley on his brain, because whatever’s going on in there needs to be studied.
He does not need to wonder if Emily Davis’s 4.0 brain has put two and two together here. Time seems to slow as her mouth opens, and something like fear slithers up Josh’s spine.
Then she says, “Actually, I don’t care,” and walks out.
“How long do you think they’re gonna leverage that against us?” Chris asks, tugging Josh’s attention back to him. “The whole saving-the-world thing.”
“About as long as I’m gonna bring up the whole drinking-gasoline thing,” Josh replies. “Forever.”
“Almost drinking gasoline. Very important difference.”
Josh laughs a little too hard at that. A sick swell of relief overcomes him, like the time he nearly ate shit on a staircase at the Winchester Mystery House, and Chris caught him at the last second. He reaches for the lapel of Chris’s tux and grips it tight in his fist, as though he’s about to fall all over again.
Chris lets out a low chuckle. He lays a hand on Josh’s wrist and squeezes. “Seems I’m officially on the clock, so…to be continued?”
“It better be,” Josh says, trying not to let his displeasure show on his face.
Chris grins at him, that intoxicating blend of warmth and exasperation, and Josh doesn’t even care that it means he failed.
“So dramatic, the lot of you.” Chris’s gaze darts to the doorway. Still empty. Their three minutes aren’t up just yet. He presses his lips to Josh’s, careful and close-mouthed. “Now grab some cheese from the fridge before the girls come back with those freaky knives of theirs.”
***
“Hey. Need your help.”
Chris’s voice curls around him in the dark. Josh has no idea what time it is, thanks to the blackout curtains in his room, but it doesn’t matter. As far as he’s concerned, it’s not-time-to-get-up-yet o’clock.
“Mm. Ask someone else.”
“No way. This is a Josh-only job.” A hand finds Josh’s shoulder, gives it a gentle shake. “You’re the only one who qualifies, bro.”
Josh grumbles and rolls onto his back. “Fine, fi—”
Chris swallows the rest of the complaint in a slow, easy kiss. He slides his hand up into Josh’s hair, carding his fingers through messy morning curls.
When they break apart, Chris asks, “Well?”
To which Josh replies, “Wha?”
Frankly he’s impressed he manages that much, considering he isn’t sure he’s in a solid state anymore. He feels like he’s fucking liquefied, melted right into the mattress.
“I brushed my teeth again. And I used your mouthwash. Like, a lot of it. Sorry.”
Josh isn’t sure why he’s been woken up for this play-by-play of Chris’s morning routine, but he’s definitely done complaining.
“My mouthwash is your mouthwash,” he says, still in a daze.
“That’s very sweet, Josh, but I’m seriously asking if I still taste like gas.”
“Oh.” Josh blinks the sleep out of his eyes, his brain beginning to kick back on. “Well, I dunno. I wasn’t… You might have to run that by me again.”
All he can make out is the shadowed outline of Chris’s face, but it’s enough to catch the smirk that lifts his lips. He heaves a sigh, like this is all a big chore.
“If you insist.”
To Josh’s credit, he tries to pay attention this time. It’s just hard, given the distractions. Chris is a comforting weight as he leans against Josh’s ribs, and Josh finally remembers how to use his limbs. He traces the line of Chris’s jaw, the budding stubble rough beneath his fingertips.
“I think you’re in the clear,” Josh says, “but I wanna be really sure before I give you my—”
He knows he can’t get away with another, so he makes this one last. And by now, he’s positive he doesn’t taste any gasoline. Just mouthwash. Lots and lots of mouthwash. He wants to know what Chris really tastes like, underneath everything, but he supposes they’ll have plenty of time for that. Now that the world isn’t ending.
“Alright, you’re definitely good.”
Chris flops down on his side. “Oh, thank God. I was starting to think I’d never be rid of it.”
He wriggles his arm underneath Josh, and Josh rolls into him, letting himself be wrapped up. Head tucked under Chris’s chin, legs tangled together. For the moment, it’s enough to satisfy him.
“Hey,” Chris says, “I think I’ve got an idea of my own.”
“Mm?”
“Yeah. You really got my wheels turning.” Josh must be surrendering to Chris’s warmth without realizing, because the next thing he knows, he’s being jostled again. “You wanna know or what?”
“Lay it on me, big guy.”
“I think…we should stay here until they start banging on the door.”
Josh snorts. “Probably won’t be long.”
They already drag themselves out of bed after everyone else. Now, with all these shiny new incentives to stay under the covers, Josh has a feeling they’re about to go from bad to worse.
“Probably not. I think I heard the breakfast brigade getting into formation downstairs. But it’s worth a shot, at least. What d’you say?”
Josh hums in thought. “I dunno… Not saying no. Just saying we can go bigger.”
“Oh yeah?”
“For sure, for sure. Lemme hit you with this: we stay here until they start banging on the door…”
“Uh-huh…”
“And then we tell ’em to fuck off.”
They snicker. Chris braves Josh’s untamed hair once more, this time to plant a kiss on top of his head.
“Now that sounds like a brilliant idea.”