Work Text:
The front door of the Kennedy clone’s modest suburban home swings shut with a sigh, the sound swallowed by the thick silence of the late afternoon. JFK shuffles inside, his sneakers thudding against the linoleum in the entryway. The scent of pine cleaner and something vaguely herbal—Carl’s new aromatherapy incense, probably—hangs in the air. He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud, the leather scraping against the tile. It's too quiet. He can hear the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant, muffled voices of the afternoon news coming from the living room.
“Yo! Foster dads!” JFK bellows, his voice echoing off the walls.
A moment later, a head pops out from the living room archway. It’s Wally, his graying hair a perfect, fluffy halo. He’s wearing a cozy-looking sweater vest over a plaid shirt, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. A warm, gentle smile spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Hey, sweetie,” Wally says, his voice as soft and comforting as a fleece blanket. “Rough day at the cloning factory?”
JFK grunts in reply, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. He feels a knot of confusion tightening in his chest. It’s been building all day, a prickly, confusing sensation that feels like a bunch of ants crawling under his skin. It started yesterday, the moment he saw "John Dark," the new transfer student. He had felt something... different. Something that felt like a jolt of electricity, a spark of pure, unadulterated interest that he usually reserves for cheerleaders and, well, for Cleo.
JFK lumbers into the living room, collapsing onto the plush velvet sofa. Carl is there, too, seated in a worn leather armchair, a book resting in his lap. He looks up from a crossword puzzle, a playful smirk on his face.
“Don’t sweetie me, Wally,” JFK mutters, slumping deeper into the cushions. He stares at the television screen, where a mustachioed news anchor is talking about some international event. "It’s a real drag, is what it is."
“Oh, darling, what’s a drag?” Carl asks, setting his book aside. “Did the school’s star-spangled banner of a football team fail to win against the local high school’s under-equipped rivals? I told you, a good football team has to be more than just a bunch of guys in tight pants.”
JFK ignores the jab. He stares at the television, trying to find the right words. His chest feels tight, and the air around him feels thick with the thing he can’t name. He can’t just say, “I think I might like a boy.” Not to them. Not even to his own foster dads, who are, like, totally gay and cool with it. It feels… personal. It feels like a secret, a secret so big it’s making his insides feel all twisty and gross.
He clears his throat. “Okay, so like, you know how I’m always, like, watching Bosom Buddies?” he says, the anachronism sliding out of his mouth without thought. He’s been using it as a mental placeholder for his confusion. “And you guys are always watching All in the Family reruns or whatever, and I’m like, ‘That’s weird,’ but then I’m like, ‘No, it’s not weird, it’s just different.’”
Wally and Carl exchange a knowing look. “It’s about Will & Grace, isn’t it?” Carl says, a gentle tease in his voice.
“Dude, All in the Family is about a guy who hates everything, and you think I’m a fan? Get serious,” JFK replies. He pauses, and then continues. “No, it’s not that. It’s like… you know how I’m always watching SportsCenter in my room? It’s, like, my jam. It’s all about the jocks, the big moves, the winning team. But then there’s all this other stuff on TV, right? Like… like, I don’t know, Fame or something. With, like, all the singing and dancing and stuff.”
Wally leans forward, his expression full of concern. “Are you saying you think you’re a dancer, sweetie? Because we can totally sign you up for tap dance lessons. Your old man was known for his two-step.”
JFK groans, burying his face in his hands. “Gag me with a spoon! No! It’s not about dancing! It’s like… I thought I was just SportsCenter. But then, this other channel, this… Fame channel, or whatever… it just… it looks really good. And I’m like, ‘Am I supposed to like that? Am I, like, not who I thought I was? Is it, like, okay to switch the channel?’”
A smile spreads across Wally's face, a soft, encouraging thing. “Oh, sweetie,” he says, his voice a low hum. “You can switch the channel whenever you want. There’s no law against it. Your television set is your own. You can watch SportsCenter, you can watch Fame, you can watch both. It doesn’t matter what you watch, as long as you're enjoying the show, you know? There's nothing wrong with liking a different show."
Carl nods sagely, a quiet reassurance radiating from him. "It’s not just about what you watch, Jack," he says, using JFK’s real name, a sign of seriousness. "It's about letting yourself be interested in something new. It's about opening yourself up to things you didn't expect to like. And you know, a lot of the time, the best things are the ones you didn’t see coming.”
JFK stares at them, a flicker of something he can’t quite place—relief? Understanding?—shining in his eyes. The knot in his chest doesn’t entirely disappear, but it loosens a little. The words feel like a cool salve on a nasty burn. Maybe it’s okay to be interested in Fame. Maybe it's okay to watch the other show.
The next day, the halls of Clone High are a teeming mass of teenage chaos. Lockers slam shut with a bang, sneakers squeak on the polished floors, and the low, constant hum of a hundred conversations buzzes in the air. JFK, feeling a strange mixture of bravado and nervous energy, spots "John Dark" by his locker, a few feet away from JFK’s own. The other clone is fumbling with a combination lock, his shoulders slumped in a way that suggests profound exasperation.
JFK’s heart thumps. His mind races, searching for the perfect opening line. He can't just blurt out his feelings. That would be, like, totally grody to the max. He has to be cool. He has to be subtle. He saunters over, his chest puffed out just a little, and leans against the locker next to "John's."
“Yo, transfer dude,” he says, his voice a low rumble. "You know, your whole vibe, it's like… it's like that movie I saw. Making Love, you know? It's about a guy who finds out he's into other dudes and it's like, a whole big thing."
"John" stops fiddling with the lock, his head cocked to the side. He doesn't look at JFK, just stares at the locker door. "Uh-huh," he says, his voice a noncommittal monotone, a sound as bland as unbuttered toast.
JFK forges on, his confidence a fragile thing. “Yeah, and it's like, so intense. The dude, like, totally falls in love with his best friend. It’s a real tearjerker. You get it? It’s, like, super deep.”
“Yeah, totally,” "John" replies, his voice lacking any discernible enthusiasm. He finally gets the lock open, and he yanks the locker door open with a squeak. "I'm gonna go to class. See ya, dude."
"John" disappears into the river of students, his "uh-huh" echoing in JFK's ears. JFK’s face falls. He leans his head against his locker, his eyes closed. He feels like a total nerd, a complete dweeb. He had put himself out there, and for what? Nothing. He sighs, the sound a soft puff of air. The lockers are so loud, the hallways so full. He feels so alone in the middle of it all. A new presence arrives to his right, a familiar, gangly form. It’s Abe. Not that JFK notices. Abe is fiddling with the combination lock on his own locker, which is conveniently right next to “John’s,” directly above JFK's. Abe hums a tune under his breath, a little ditty from a new synth-pop group. He’s completely oblivious to JFK’s mini-crisis.
“I’m just sayin’,” JFK mutters to himself, the words meant for no one. He’s still got his eyes closed. “Like, it’s not just about, like, one movie. It’s about a whole… a whole… genre, you know? It's like, some of the greatest love stories ever told are about dudes who totally love other dudes.”
Abe, who has just gotten his locker open, makes a small, frustrated, sighing noise as he shoves a stack of textbooks into his locker. “Uh-huh,” he says, the same flat, noncommittal sound that “John” had made just moments before.
A jolt shoots through JFK’s body. That sound. It's the same. Closing his eyes, he grabs who he thinks is "John" with a wild, panicked look in his eyes. He shoves the locker door shut, grabs Abe's face, his palms cupping Abe’s cheeks, and kisses him. It's a clumsy, desperate kiss. It’s only as he pulls back that he snaps his eyes open, and his mind registers what his hands and lips already know. He sees Abe. Abe. Not "John." It’s Abe. He's confused, bewildered. His locker door, which had been open, is now closed.
“Abe?” he says, his voice a bewildered whisper.
Abe stands frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. He stares at JFK, a dazed, stupefied expression on his face. He blinks once, then again. His brow furrows in a deep crease. Abe is still with Cleo. He loves Cleo. But Cleo was just yesterday, like, totally flirting with "John." And now, JFK just kissed him. The air crackles with confusion, with the echo of JFK's desperate, misplaced kiss.
Abe's eyes narrow. He’s a simple guy. He understands one thing: if Cleo can flirt with a guy who looks like a girl, then he, Abe, can totally, like, kiss the guy who just kissed him. He takes a breath. He’s not going to be, like, the last one to be cool. He’s not going to be the guy who gets left behind. He’s not going to be a loser.
So, he does it. He leans forward, his hands finding the collar of JFK’s letterman jacket, and he kisses him back. The kiss is different this time. It's not a panicked, fumbling thing. It's a deliberate, soft press of lips. Abe’s mind races, a flurry of disjointed thoughts: What am I doing? Is this, like, a thing now? Does this mean I’m not with Cleo? Wait, what? But the questions are drowned out by the feeling. The feeling of JFK’s lips, soft and surprisingly warm. And Abe, lost in the chaotic, confusing moment, just kisses him back.
JFK’s mind goes completely blank. Everything stops. The loud chatter of the hallway, the squeak of sneakers, the rhythmic slam of a locker door—it all fades into a distant, muffled noise. All he can feel is Abe’s lips on his. A jolt, a spark, an electric current shoots through him, a feeling so familiar, so potent. It’s the same feeling he had yesterday when he first saw "John." It’s the feeling he had worried was about "John." But it's about Abe. It's about Abe. It’s not about the transfer dude he thought was so cool and mysterious. It's about Abe, his best friend, the guy he’s been, like, totally bros with since they were, like, tiny clones. And now Abe is kissing him back.
The kiss deepens, and JFK's mind screams. It’s screaming with a thousand different, contradictory thoughts: I shouldn’t be doing this! This is, like, a total freak-out. Cleo is going to freak. Cleo! Wait, does Abe, like, want this? He must, right? He’s kissing me back. I'm kissing Abe. I'm kissing Abe. I'm kissing Abe. His heart, which had been racing, feels like it has completely stopped. This is it. This is the moment. The moment he realizes that the channel he wants to watch isn't Fame at all. It’s just Abe. And maybe, just maybe, Abe is watching the same channel he is.