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Bart and Martin had been friends for years now—not the kind of friendship anyone in Springfield would have ever predicted. It started small, almost accidental: Bart begrudgingly completed Martin's butterfly project. The guilt that had eaten at him had been heavy in his chest like a cinder block. Martin ended up tutoring Bart in math when he was on the verge of flunking as thanks.
Somewhere along the way, the teasing softened, the awkwardness faded, and Bart realized he enjoyed having Martin around. A lot.
By the time they were sixteen, it was normal to see them together. Bart would skate over to Martin’s house after school, Martin would show up at the Simpson kitchen table with his neat stacks of notes, and they’d spend hours talking about everything from comic books to college applications.
Bart still couldn’t believe college was even possible for him... all thanks to Martin.
Bart had noticed things. The way Martin’s laugh lingered in his chest longer than it should. The way his hand brushed Bart’s arm when they leaned close over homework, and Bart didn’t want to pull away. The way Martin’s eyes lit up when Bart said something unexpectedly thoughtful.
It was driving Bart crazy.
One evening, they sat on the roof of the Simpson house, a place Bart had claimed as his own since childhood. Martin had followed him up without hesitation, sitting carefully on the shingles.
“Do you ever think about the future?” Martin asked, his voice quiet.
Bart shrugged, staring at the stars. “Sometimes. Mostly, I think about getting out of Springfield. Doing something bigger. You?”
Martin smiled faintly. “I think about it, too. Mostly… about how different things might look later. And I guess I just hope… whatever happens, you’ll still be around.”
Bart’s chest tightened. Something unspoken stirred inside him, a restless ache that made the quiet feel louder. He thought about all the nights like this, all the times Martin had been beside him, and how badly he wanted to hold on to it. But the words refused to come. The chill of the shingles pressed through his jeans, grounding him in the moment.
Instead, he leaned closer, his voice low. “Most people don’t stay long when it comes to me.”
Martin turned, his expression soft. “Bart… I’ve stuck around this long, haven’t I?” He reached out, his hand brushing Bart’s. “I’m here, am I not?”
The line hit Bart like a spark. “Yeah. You are.” He hesitated, then reached for Martin’s hand, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of it.
Martin’s breath caught, his cheeks flushing pink. “Bart…” he whispered, unsure but hopeful.
Bart shifted, his fingers curling around Martin’s hand, holding it tight. “I don’t want to just be your friend,” he said, softer than he’d ever spoken.
For a moment, Martin was silent, his wide eyes searching Bart’s face. Then, slowly, he smiled—not the nervous smile Bart was used to, but something steadier. “Then don’t,” he whispered back.
The rooftop seemed to shrink around them, then, until they only focused on each other. Bart leaned in, resting his forehead against Martin’s. Clumsy but sincere. For a long moment, neither spoke, and neither needed to.