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Blood drips onto the sink, sliding fast on the wet porcelain; Art just barely pulls his damp t-shirt out of the way before it gets even dirtier. Foolishly, he thought the bleeding was over and had stopped squeezing his nose, wanting to focus on rinsing the stain off his shirt before it stuck to the fabric (what was he thinking, wearing white at a time like this?). But, his vessels had other plans and, before he realized, another glob was running down his face. Massaging icy water onto the ruddy spot with his thumb, he tears off more two-ply, wets the pieces, and plasters them against his nose bridge, pinching tightly. It isn't the most effective cold compress, but it's better than nothing. If he was smart, he'd have grabbed some ice from the party before rushing to the bathroom. Although, by now, whatever had been in the ice buckets is probably already melted. Sighing, he keeps on steering the jet of water at the stain. A bit more and it'll be gone, and hopefully without the rest of the garment being too wet to wear. House parties aren't his favorites — the alcohol is never any good and too many people get mean when they're drunk — but now that he's here he'd rather spend the time with his friends, not hiding in a bathroom waiting for his clothes to dry. So far the wet area is contained, though, and the stain is fading. He'll rejoin the musketeers soon, perhaps before they even notice he's gone.
The bathroom door yanks open. Art jolts, bumping against the faucet with his hand and splashing the (dirty, so no harm done) mirror. Darn, he forgot to lock! And now he'll be seen half-naked and with toilet paper on his face. If he's lucky, it's one of his friends who's come looking for him. It would be just like Hank to sense he's wasting water and burst in with righteous environmental anger.
But Art is not lucky. He's truly the unluckiest person in the world, because as he whirls around, the person he comes face to face with is none other than Collie Parker.
They stare at each other. Collie's eyes are wider than Art has ever seen and his mouth hangs open as he takes in Art's appearance, starting with his bare stomach and gliding slowly upwards. Flushing, Art instinctively crosses his arms in front of his chest to gain some sort of reprieve from Collie's dark gaze. Why did it have to be him? Literally anyone else would've been better. Even Barkovitch would've been better, and Barkovitch is one of the few people Art might claim to hate. But it's Collie, and he's of course looking perfect as always.
They're acquainted but not at all close, despite Art's efforts and prayers — Collie simply isn't interested. It stings, to be the only musketeer Collie doesn't like. He's closest with Pete, gets along great with Hank, is cordial with Ray, but rarely speaks to Art. Beyond curt greetings when running into each other (and moments of accidental and inexplicably long eye contact when Collie hangs out with them), they don't interact. It's a shame, because Collie is a nice guy, with integrity and excellent dry wit. Under other circumstances, Art would've jumped at the opportunity to form a friendship. Just not now. Now, he's dying of embarrassment. Whatever impression Collie had of him before, it absolutely just got worse.
Collie’s attention finally settles on Art's face. The bewildered, almost dreamy look in his eyes morphs into fury, eyebrows drawing together and chin jutting. "Who did that to you?" he snaps. "What happened?!"
Art blinks, feeling besotted even though he's still completely sober. He touches the crusting blood on his upper lip. "No one. This just happens sometimes."
It's not completely a lie. He did used to just get random nosebleeds as a child, and the guy that accidentally smacked him in the face tonight (and apologized profusely when he realized what he'd done) is no one to Art, because they don't know each other. So it's basically a truth, and the best thing to tell Collie. See, Collie is a fighter. He fights every injustice on anyone's behalf, even for people he doesn't like. Art can vividly picture him marching out to give that poor sod a lecture in spatial awareness. No need for that.
Collie studies Art closely, as if searching for an indication he's lying. When he doesn't find one, he hums and nods. Stepping closer, he reaches out like… like he's about to touch Art's face. Art tenses in anticipation, imagining Collie's fingers cupping his chin and thumb caressing his lips, skin calloused but grip gentle. It's close enough for him to sense the warmth radiating off Collie's hand, but at the last moment Collie falters and he lets his arm fall back to his side. He clears his throat, cheeks redder than a second ago. He's most definitely tipsy.
"Uhhh… D'you want help?" he asks.
"Um, no, s'fine," Art mumbles, trying not to open his mouth too wide when he speaks. Is that copper taste in his mouth from when he licked his lips earlier or is there blood on his teeth? "I'm used to it. Think it stopped anyhow…" He rubs beneath his nose; dry flakes come off, but no fresh liquid.
"Right. I'll just…"
Collie shrugs, backing away until his shoulder hits the doorpost and he leans against it. He doesn't leave the bathroom. Why would he? He presumably came here to pee, so why risk someone else occupying it when Art leaves. Art turns back to the sink and continues washing. Every couple of moments, as many as he dares but fewer than he'd prefer, he steals a glance of Collie in the mirror. He really does look perfect. His long dark hair shines beneath the crappy fluorescents, his shirt sleeves are rolled up to reveal defined arms, and his face, even when boredom is etched into his features, is painfully handsome. Seriously, Art's chest aches. Shutting off the faucet, he chances one last glimpse only to find Collie's eyes already trained on him. Art hastily pulls his shirt over his head — it gets stuck on his ear and he's equally embarrassed by his gracelessness as he's grateful to hide his face two seconds longer. By the time he emerges from the t-shirt prison, Collie has returned to stonily staring at the wall ahead of him. The epitome of coolness, unlike Art who awkwardly pauses in the doorway on his way out.
"See you around," he mumbles, then flees before Collie can do much more than nod.
He doesn't slow down to breathe until he reaches the downstairs living room. Digesting his own mortification is easier when surrounded by sweaty, sloppily dancing drunks and music so loud he can't hear his own thoughts. The musketeers are all gathered by one of the sofas, Hank pacing in front of the seated Ray and Pete. He's ranting about library fees to a grinning, and slightly hazy-eyed, Pete. No need to guess who got Olson riled up, then.
"Hey, buddy, where you been?" Ray asks when Art squeezes in betwixt him and the armrest.
"Bathroom upstairs. Nosebleed."
Ray claps him on the shoulder.
For a while, the night doesn't get much more exciting than that. The highlight, despite their earlier encounter, is Collie joining them, a fresh bottle of beer in hand. Perching on the other armrest, he joins the animated argument, challenging Pete in who can give Hank an aneurysm the quickest. Ray tries to play mediator, though mostly succeeds in backing whatever Pete says, no matter how deserving. Art leans back and enjoys the show, occasionally interjecting but mostly listening and watching. To his embarrassment, the one he watches the most is Collie. It's just so hard to keep his eyes away. Even as Collie catches him looking several times, Art cannot stop. At least he doesn't seem to mind — truthfully, based on the increasing flush on his face, Collie may be juuuust too drunk to register Art's longing.
"There y'all're!"
Barkovitch's exclamation alerts them of his presence mere moments before he stumbles to a halt in front of them. He bumps his knee against the coffee table and, grin momentarily turning into a pained grimace, sits on it. He, if anyone, is drunk.
He opens his mouth, freezes like that for an uncomfortable amount of time, before a string of giggles pour out.
"Saw… Saw you two" — he points at Art and Collie — "together in the toilet. Whatcha do in there for so long, huh? Blow each other?"
He giggles again, hysterically, until the chorus of 'shut up' and 'eff off' smack him in the face. Then he gets serious, and indignant.
"What? I'm just fucking asking! I didn't tell 'em to fucking… go suck dick—" he says, words slurring together. The more everyone yell at him, the farther down he doubles, the angrier the air becomes. Ray, Pete, and Collie all jump from their seats, spitting obscenities, Collie seeming ready to climb over Pete and bite Barkovitch's head off. Barkovitch himself is resembling a cornered wildcat. When Ray shoves him and his face screws together with frenzied hatred, Art steps between them.
"Stop."
And they miraculously do. Ray withdraws and Barkovitch, though his hackles remain raised, shuts up. Assured no one will attack, Art turns to Barkovitch, asking: "What wrong with that?"
"Huh?"
"What you say about us together… You makin' it sound like there somethin' wrong with it."
"Wha— It— It's queer!"
"And? What wrong with it?"
Somehow, that's enough. Barkovitch, red-faced and refusing to meet Art's eye, mutters that he was just asking and they're the ones who took it the wrong way. Then he slinks off, whispering something inaudible but probably rude under his breath.
Hank clicks his tongue. "Why does that guy always have a fucking problem?"
Art only shakes his head. He doesn't know — doesn't want to find out. Confrontation over, he heads outside to smoke. His hand shakes when he lights the cigarette. He doesn't regret speaking up, because it was the right thing to do, but that doesn't mean his heart isn't hammering inside his ribcage. Nicotine will help.
The porch door creaks open; Collie steps out.
"Hey," he says. "You okay?"
Art blows out a long stream of smoke. "Yeah."
Collie strolls up and leans one shoulder against the wall right next to Art. In the warm, golden light pouring from the kitchen window, he looks divine. Black hair cascading down his shoulders, eyelashes casting long shadows on his soft cheeks, the top buttons on his shirt undone (when did that happen? Art would've noticed if it'd been like that all night).
Art's chest is aching again.
"That was pretty stupid of you," Collie says, tone too gentle for it to be even remotely reproachful. "I mean, I respect you for it. You shut him up good. But people will be spreading rumors about you now."
Art shrugs and scuffs his shoe on the floor. "Is it really rumors if they might be true? 'Cause. I dunno." He swallows the lump in his throat. No harm in admitting this much. At least, not to Collie. "I think I might be queer."
Collie straightens. Like a dog picking up a scent, he shoots up. His expression is odd, nothing Art has previously seen directed towards himself. "Me too. I mean, I know I am."
Oh, that's a relief. Not that Art expected Collie to be mean about it, but… it's a relief.
"I— I'm pretty sure also, but I dunno 'cause I've never been with a guy. Not really been with a girl either, but I kissed a few and, uh, I like it, so… " Art stops his ramblings by taking another drag.
"So…" Collie shuffles closer, smiling a strange, sly little smile. "All that's left is kissing a guy, and then you'll know?"
Art licks his lips. The cigarette is burned down; he stubs it out and contemplates lighting another. He needs something to occupy his clammy hands, needs an excuse to silence his nervous mouth. The way Collie is looking at him is…
"Y— Yeah, I s'pose so."
"Wanna try it now?"
... is punching the air out of Art's lungs. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, yet still end up feeling lightheaded. "You… Are you drunk?"
Collie laughs. "Nah. Just been sipping and spitting out my drinks all night." Winking at Art, he puts his almost empty beer bottle on the window sill.
Taking advantage of someone in an intoxicated state is wrong. But, Collie's eyes are bright and alert. His voice is steady. Even this close, he smells more of aftershave than of beer. By all intents and purposes, he's sober.
So Art agrees.
The kiss is soft and slow. Collie takes his time caressing Art's lips, before gently coaxing his way past them. Their play of tongues is a leisurely one, almost polite, but given an intimate edge by the content little sighs Collie slips into Art's mouth. It's a lot like kissing a girl, except better, because it's Collie. Everything is better with Collie.
Art is ready to fall to his knees and beg for more once the kiss ends. Fortunately, Collie doesn't pull back more than an inch — just enough to sultrily gaze up at Art through his lashes, his breath tickling Art's chin.
"How's that?" he whispers.
Art giggles. "Oh, um, yeah, yep, I am indeed queer."
"Thank God."
Collie surges forward, pushing Art up against the wall. There's nothing polite about their second kiss — there's only passion. Their bodies press and slot together, Collie grabbing Art by the hips and angling him so their pelvises rut in unison. Collie's sweet sighs are gone, replaced by panting and slurping. Art grasps Collie's strong shoulders as his knees buckle. Despite losing breath, he never wants this to end.
But end it must.
They pull apart with twin-gasps. The world spins in front of Art's eyes and he's got Collie Parker's saliva on his lips. Collie looks pleased, no, he looks giddy. Wearing a huge smile that has his eyes crinkling at the corners, he plants a chaste peck on Art's cheek, then the other cheek, then his jaw and his temple, peppering them everywhere. He finishes by rubbing their noses together.
"And how was that?" he asks, sounding so darn smug, yet also so darn enamored. "Did I rock your world?"
Art exhales shakily. "You did."
"Nice. You rock mine just by existing."
It's a silly line, one that would sound awful if coming from Art instead. But Collie says it with such easy confidence and affection, it only makes Art melt.
"D— Did I taste of ashes? Or blood?"
"No? You taste good. You taste like…" Collie smirks. "Like a boyfriend."
Art guffaws in surprise. "Yeah, you drunk."
"Drunk on you."
Still chuckling, Art shakes his head. "I didn't think…"
"What?"
"Nothin’. Can we—"
And as if reading his mind, Collie kisses him again. He really is perfect. Smiling into the kiss, Art wraps his arms around his boyfriend's (?) neck and gives in to the beautiful sensation of falling.