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“Guys, jus’ checkin’ in with the menu, is there any fried chicken on-”
Bradley freezes in the doorway. All of a sudden, everything’s vanished. The uneven, splinter-risk frame beneath his hand; the draft that urges him to button up his jacket; even chicken completely disappears from his thoughts as he blurts out his second-in-command’s name.
Nero smiles awkwardly and scratches the back of his head. "Looks stupid, huh?"
Bradley feels blood rush to his face. “Yeah.”
"Boss, you’re red as a tomato!" One of his boys pops Bradley's bubble. "What, the sight’s too much for ya to handle?”
"Shut up!" Bradley gives the guy his angriest glare. "Nero, two minutes."
Someone whistles. Bradley hears him say well, no wonder, Nero’s quite a hottie in that dress even in the hallway, behind the door slummed shut.
“Brad?” Nero’s face—attractive for real—wrinkles in confusion. Receiving no answers or excuses, he just lets Bradley grab him by the wrist and lead him down the hallway.
He can be so understanding sometimes. And his wrists are pretty thin. Bradley hadn't noticed before.
In the privacy of an old staircase in the old building of delinquents school, closed for renovations and then abandoned, Bradley looks Nero over again. The maid dress suits him well. "How’d they even talk you into this?"
"It just sort of happened. I couldn't refuse. It's a joke, I won't be wearin’ it at the festival."
"Thank goodness."
"Yeah. I don't even have any boobs to fill it,” Nero’s gaze drops to his chest. “It looks stupid.”
Boobs have nothing to do with it, Bradley wants to say, but chooses to protect his peace. Not staring at Nero's thighs, that narrow slit of skin between his stockings and ruffly hem of his skirt, takes an inhuman effort. The last thing Bradley wants is some horny shithead drooling over them.
And Bradley shouldn't be doing that either. He doesn’t remember ever feeling so strange. Has Nero always looked this good?
"Is that all you wanted to talk about? I still have a menu to figure out," Nero says, leaning against the wall. Old, crumbling plaster has to be staining the back of his dress, but Bradley doesn’t want to bring much attention to it. Nero’s utterly relaxed, boyish stance clashes with fetishistic attire; Bradley finds the contrast mesmerizing. He swallows sharply.
No one ever comes here. Surely it’d stay a secret if Bradley knelt down and clutched that pale, untouched thigh?
What is he even thinking about?
"Brad?"
Bradley blinks and looks up at Nero's face. It doesn’t help much: Nero’s face is beautiful as well. Stupid dress.
Nero, take it off.
Wait, no, that’d just make matters worse.
Damn. The situation is hopeless.
“Ah, ‘s nothing. Ya look good.”
Nero laughs hard, throwing his head back and showing off taut lines of his neck and large, full Adam's apple.
"Come on, don’t make fun of me.”
Bradley, sitting on the steps, could only stare up at the playful curves of his throat, as the snow-white ruffles of Nero's dress and the elastic band of those tight stockings flickered at his eye level.
"I’m no-" Bradley cuts himself off mid-sentence. "So what's on the menu? Will fried chicken be there?"
Nero shakes his head. "No. We’re not gonna serve anything deep-fried, actually. The school doesn’t have proper equipment. Don't look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With your puppy eyes. It won’t work on me.”
“I’m not tryin’.”
“Yeah, sure.”
"Can ya blame me? Your chicken is the best."
The first few years into their friendship, praise used to get Nero real embarrassed: he’d look away and mutter something unintelligible under his breath. Now, he doesn’t even blush, just smiles awkwardly, apologetically; peels himself away from the wall and takes a step forward. His thighs grow closer and wider. Bradley's mouth waters.
"Next time," Nero says, taking a seat on the same step. His shoulder brushes Bradley's, and Bradley wonders absently how Nero's biceps ever fit into those tight, stiff sleeves. "I'll do it when I get a chance. Maybe even at your place."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. You have more space."
"Well, even at mine," in the dirt maze of Bradley’s mind, his older siblings, just like ants, are scurrying back and forth in the narrow box of a kitchen, “—no problem! Once we’re living together, you’re gonna make it for me everyday.”
Nero turns his head towards Bradley with a snap.
“Who said we’re gonna live together?”
“What, you have other guys?”
"To do what?"
"To move in with ya,’" Bradley shrugs. "I feel like we’ve already talked about it, no?”
Nero blinks in confusion, his eyes wide open and stuck in one place, then, slapping Bradley hard on the back, bursts out laughing.
"You're gonna exploit my kindness even as an adult? Your insolence knows no bounds."
"It's not exploitation. I’m doin’ quite a lot for you too, if ya didn’t notice."
"Well, I," Nero covers his mouth, but his eyes remain smiling, “I do notice.”
"So, yes, we're gonna be happily—” he stumbles around the word, “—cohabiting. And I'll get to eat your food every day.”
"You'll get tired of seein’ me every day."
Bradley glances at Nero.
“I’ll never get tired of you.”
“Idiot,” is all Nero has to say in response to that declaration, but it sounds silly, childish, without any real spite.
Nero, sitting on these cold, concrete steps, has completely forgotten about his skirt—his knees are spread, his ankles are crossed. One unfortunate glance, and there it is: the inner side of his thigh, the line of his ligaments thin, the tight, clean cut edge of his blue boxers, of color so light it matches Nero’s hair. Bradley wonders what shape he trims it in down there, or does he just let it grow. If he's going to walk around their future apartment in this underwear, Bradley's done for.
"Was it hard gettin' into these stockings?" Bradley blurts out, surprising himself. "Doesn’t nylon tug on hair?"
"Huh?" Nero doesn’t even blush, which means that this question is perfectly normal and natural and everything’s fine. "Sometimes it did, yeah. But it was mostly fine.”
“Will you shave it next time?”
“There won’t be a next time!”
Ah right. He did it as a gag. The carriage has to turn into a pumpkin. The pretty maid Nero will be forgotten tomorrow. Or maybe even today.
"Are you done? Then let’s go," Nero stands up. Bradley pulls down his skirt.
"Yes. Let's go."
A few minutes later, Nero returns the dress and the apron and changes into a tracksuit.
Lying on his bed that evening, Bradley has gotten lost in thought.
Nero is handsome. And that dress didn’t make him any less attractive. If he'd stayed in that vulgar attire all day, all the boys would have been staring at him. And who knows what they'd have been thinking.
Bradley could guess. He pictures Nero with his hair pulled back, his lips parted, bitten, and his eyes moist. The image evokes righteous anger in Bradley—treating his right hand like that? Unacceptable. Don't even dare think about it. Banish such fantasies, or you'll lose your teeth and end up with a fashionable, 2 kg cast on both arms. It's his responsibility, as a leader and a friend, to ensure Nero’s happiness and wellbeing. He would treat Nero much better. In his arms, Nero would only smile. And if he’d make such faces, it would only be from pleasure.
Bradley tosses and turns in his bed until midnight, and then, hoping for the calming power of a glass of water, heads for the kitchen. As soon as refreshing coolness hits his throat, he recalls that day when he was lying in the school infirmary, all beaten up, and Nero was cradling his neck and holding a water bottle to his mouth. Bradley smiles to himself. Nero’s so caring. He’s meant to be held close. And he has such a sweet smile. Has Bradley even thought about it this often before today? Bradley’s not sure.
It's all that dress’ fault. His mind simply mistakes Nero for a beautiful, maybe slightly taller than average girl. If he removes that unfortunate piece of fabric, the illusion would definitely disappear.
At the thought of dress-less Nero Bradley gets an immediate boner.
"I imagined my best friend in an apron over his naked body and got sexually aroused; does it make me gay?"
Anyone would say yes. There's really no point in asking strangers on the Internet.
Life is surely full of surprises.
The next week flies by.
Bradley gets into more fights than he can handle. By evening, his body succumbs to pain—wounds ache, muscles burn—and he thinks of nothing. He sleeps like a dead man. And he doesn’t dream of Nero in a dress. He doesn’t dream of anything at all. His mind can’t bear another sweet nightmare.
And Nero looks so good in a fight. Ferocity suits his features. Even un-girl-like, he’s just as hot.
"What was that, Brad?" Nero asks, pouring hydrogen peroxide on a cotton pad.
"What was what?" Bradley plays dumb.
"Why did you freeze in the middle of a fight? What, got your brain punched outta you?”
"No, I..."
"I knew it was gonna happen!" Nero cuts him off. " But you didn’t listen! Did something happen? You’ve never been this hard on yourself.”
“Ya noticed?"
"I notice everything."
The peroxide stings on his cheekbone. Bradley really could’ve dodged that blow. But Nero, at that moment, gave the guy from the other gang such a satisfying, elegant knee to the face that Bradley forgot all about his own opponent. Even rookies don't make mistakes like that.
"’M sorry."
"I’ve no use for your sorries." Nero breathes out. "Hand."
Bradley holds out his hand, bent, scraped, burgundy-purple-brown.
"It's gonna hurt."
Bradley doesn’t have time to steel himself before his vision goes white, and the pain shoots through him like a lightning: from fingers up to his wrists, all the way to his shoulder. His palm lays flat, limp in Nero’s not-so-gentle grip. His mind latches onto the comfort of Nero’s warmth, but that’s all Bradley gets.
"Y’know," Nero says through the darkness of his tightly clenched eyelids, "you'll never find a girlfriend like that."
"Huh?" Bradley's eyes snap open. "What’re ya gettin’ at now?"
"It's just," (index finger, a nerve, Bradley shudders whole and bites his lip to draw blood), “no one would like doin' this.”
“These things happen in manga all the time. The main guy gets bandaged by a pretty girl. That’s romance in bloom, baby."
Nero sighs, rubbing dried blood off with an alcohol wipe.
"Life isn't manga. Bandages aren't going to cut it. And, well, I’m used to it, but for somebody not in the scene, it’d probably stink so bad it’d make them wanna puke.”
"So, you’re tellin’ me no one's gonna put up with it?"
"’S right."
"But you do. Does that make you my girlfriend?”
Nero freezes, flinches, and freezes again. His face goes pale, then flashes red. He lowers his face, hiding his eyes behind his bangs, and yanks the bandage. “Fuck you mean girlfriend? I’m not puttin’ up with that either.” Nero kicks him in the leg in confirmation. "You're always jokin’ around. You should’ve gone to the hospital with injuries like this, instead of, well..."
"The hospital would’ve reported it."
“Maybe that’s how it should’ve gone. Maybe it would’ve put your brains back in their place.”
Bradley laughs awkwardly. “You wouldn't do this to me.”
Nero frowns. "No, ‘course not. But you know. I couldn't be your girl even if I were a girl. It's gettin’ hard for me too."
Bradley leans forward, lifting Nero's chin and looking him straight in the eyes—no matter how hard he tries, he can't keep these trembling citrines in place.
"Wanna quit?”
It comes out harsh, damp, like the creaking of floorboards in an old house. Bradley doesn’t mean it like that. His voice distorts in a way he isn’t able to control. He doesn’t want to scare Nero, but Nero is scared—his shoulders are shaking.
But even so, Nero answers with honesty. "I want to. Or rather, I don't want to continue like this. It hurts to look at you. Be nicer to yourself. Please. There are other things to focus on, and I need you to... I wanna go to college. If you want us to stay together, you have to try too. I can't force you, but..."
Nero's face falls from his palm, rolling back like a bead of pure, unclouded glass. Bradley's fingers sink lower, to his arm, and clutch the prickly fabric of his sweater.
He feels… strange, in some way. He wants to say something. To sort out these feelings. Nero isn’t leaving. Good. Nero isn’t leaving yet. Bad. Losing Nero would be excruciating. But so would be giving in. A choice between heart and ego, one choice Bradley can’t make.
"Besides, if something happens, something that even school can't bail us out of, we'll never get a chance to continue our education. And I'd like to have money. Preferably honest money."
So thoughtful of the future. As always. Bradley does love him, it seems.
“And, sure, we can make it without," that’s where Nero’s voice trembles, "an education. But you? There’s only one you. What if you get yourself hurt really badly? That's luck, too. It's here now, but it might not be there tomorrow. I don't know. It’d break me. I'm really worried 'bout ya, and..."
Nero abruptly stands up and shakes Bradley off. In the only lamplight in the emptied out garage, he looks completely pale.
"Sorry. I don't know what came over me. I'll go, ya can deal with scratches yours... Brad!?”
Nero yelps, his heart beating faster than ever as he’s pulled into Bradley’s embrace. Bradley presses one hand between his shoulder blades and, on instinct, shoves the other under his sweater. Nero wears it over a shirt, so it’s not inappropriate, it’s not too much. It really does get colder at night.
Don't go. Please, please don't go.
What kind of leader is Bradley if even his closest teammate can't trust him with his worries?
"I'll try," he says. "I can't promise anything, but I'll try. And while I'm tryin’, stay with me. I'm not gonna change otherwise.”
Nero's body heat spreads across his chest and stays there—no amount of energy exchange could warm the cold, heavy ball that has settled in Bradley's stomach. Trying to hide his shudder, Bradley pressed his fingers harder into Nero.
He feels pathetic. A sticky, sour lump closes his throat. Nero clasps his hands clumsily behind Bradley’s back.
"You're scarin’ me.”
“I’m scared too.”
“Of what?”
“I… I dunno. Of you leavin’, I guess.”
Nero sighs so low Bradley barely catches it.
"I won't leave ya, not ever. Just be careful."
Bradley couldn't tell him he’s been trying to get rid of the pent-up rage under his fingernails, to calm his boiling blood. Fighting is fun. It takes the edge off. But without Nero, it'll never be fun again.
Bradley nods heatedly. He wants to sink his teeth into Nero's flesh. Instead, he says, “Stay with us today.” If he doesn't see Nero first thing in the morning, there's no point in waking up.
"But aren’t you already short on space?"
"Big sis went to uni, so I moved into her room. There's room for you there, too."
"You didn't tell me."
"It never came up."
"Fine, I'll stay."
Bradley rubs his forehead against Nero’s shoulder.
What if he tried? Took a step toward him, even if it was hesitant. Bradley doesn’t want anything experimental, not with Nero. Anything less than certain would undoubtedly hurt him. But if Bradley doesn’t try, he wouldn't know for sure. Nero can be stolen from him at any moment. Bradley needs a man like that to himself. He tightens his embrace.
But how do you even hit on a guy? Especially when that guy is your pessimistic, nagging best friend. While one careless move wouldn't ruin their long-standing friendship, even a fleeting image, a sly fantasy of a disdainful gaze, is enough to grip Bradley’s heart in a steel fist.
"You’re jus’ like a dog," Nero says suddenly, his thumb tracing the edge of Bradley’s torn ear.
Bradley raises his head and stares at Nero.
"How exactly?"
Nero grins. “All beaten up.” Him smiling like that makes Bradley feel better. "Sharp fangs, fur sticking out in all directions," Nero adds, ruffling his hair. "And really warm.”
"You're gettin’ carried away. You've completely forgotten who's the terror of all the streets and courtyards here."
Nero laughs. "Yeah. That’d be a street dog.”
"You’re not afraid of me in the slightest."
"Not when you're this cute."
Not giving Nero a chance to be surprised, Bradley pushes him away with the speed of light, and, grabbing his wrist, brings his open palm closer to his face. It tastes bitter and salty, alcohol and sweat coating Bradley’s tongue.
Nero blushes to his ears and, staggering, takes a defensive stance: feet shoulder-width apart, brows furrowed, face resembling an angry porcupine.
“What’re ya doin’?”
“Dog things,” Bradley smirks, watching the corners of Nero's mouth twitch in held back anger.
“Yeah? What’re ya gonna lick next? My face?”
"I could.”
"No. No, you could not," Nero falters and, pulling his hand away, hides behind it. "That’d be bad, like, really bad. Don’t look at me like that, y’know how teenage boys can be…”
Bradley blinks once. Blinks twice. Reality doesn’t change. So that's it. So there is a chance after all.
"Nero," Bradley rises from the old bench and takes a step forward. Nero's hair, dry and split at the ends, seems quite soft between Bradley’s fingers. "Don't even think ‘bout other dogs. I'll get jealous."
Nero recoils, then thrusts his fist forward—pushes it where no one has ever landed a hit. His body swings like a pendulum, like a metronome. One step forward, one step back.
"One day, you’re gonna joke your way into ER," he says at last.
"’S not my fault you’re easy to make fun of. I'd do nothin’ but that for the rest of my life."
Nero lowers his head.
"Just don't pull anything like this at home."
"Fine, fine, I won’t."
At home, they eat, laugh, sit down at the PlayStation, and laugh some more. Nero wins and sticks out his tongue as if he were nine instead of sixteen. Bradley pinches it, then thinks it would be nice to wrap his own around Nero's, but that day, it doesn’t work out. Nero falls asleep on the other side of the futon, and Bradley, keeping his promise, doesn’t reach out to lick his neck—even though he really, really wants to.
“Nero”
“Mhm?”
“Why do ya take such care of your lips?”
Late spring: cherry blossoms have already faded, and now the trees are green, tall, swaying in the warm breeze. Nero is enjoying a rare break from his part-time job at the cafeteria. Bradley, of course, couldn’t be more thrilled that his best friend—and future boyfriend—has something all to himself, but having lunches alone is incredibly boring. Bradley no longer fights with such ragged desperation, and despite all his doubts and worries, he is slowly but surely moving towards his goal. He does like guys, that’s for sure—he’d hit on Mithra if Mithra wasn’t such an asshole—and Nero will be his by the end of the school year. There’s plenty of school years left, anyway.
"Your lips weren't this soft before," Bradley adds, leaning back on his elbows and letting the sun's gentle rays warm his face.
"And how often do you stare at my lips?”
“Each time I see ya.”
Nero throws a plastic cup at him. “I told ya not to joke like that.”
Bradley rubs his forehead, crushes the cup, then kicks it away.
"’Kay, what jokes d’ya want me to make? I won’t stop, y'know. I’ve missed all these funny faces you make."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah," he says, completely serious. “You barely have time for me now.”
Nero shrugs and turns away. "Don't exaggerate. You and your friends come there every day, I have no peace."
"Owen is not a friend of mine.”
"So everyone else is? Knew it."
"Come on, Nero, don't make that face. We fill up the cash register."
"And my brain."
"C’mon, ya can deal with a little noise."
Afternoon. Algebra, chemistry. Japanese, if he’s not mistaken. Should he skip it? Bradley yawns and swiftly moves to rest his head on Nero’s thigh.
"Find yourself a girl. I'm nothing but bones," Nero comments, poking Bradley in the cheek with chopsticks. His container is already empty. "And shave. You have stubble."
Here he goes again.
"And you? How often d’ya stare at my face? Anyway, if you want it so much, find me a girlfriend yourself."
"Are you askin’ me to manage your dating apps profiles? Can you do anything by yourself?"
"Nope. You’ve spoiled me rotten.”
"Brad—"
"Why would I need one anyway? I don't even have time for that."
"Well, I think if you really liked someone, you'd be willing to sacrifice something."
Yeah. That's why Bradley’s pulled out of all midday tournaments and instead hangs around the buffet counter. Notice already, you great blind man.
“And where should I look for a girlfriend? Don't suggest apps, they're boring.”
“Look ‘round?”
Bradley looks around.
“There’s only you ‘round, Nero.”
“Go to the club.”
"Don’t wanna."
"Then what do you want?"
"To enjoy my youth.”
Nero falls silent. Bradley falls silent too. It’s annoying and unpleasant to hear his happiness tell him to look for that same happiness in other people.
"Why do ya even need me to have a girlfriend?" Bradley finally interrupts Nero's thinking.
"I don't know.” Nero looks away. “I jus’ thought our school years have almost passed, and you’ve never dated… Do ya even like girls?"
Bradley raises his hand and tugs on Nero's cheek.
"Yeah. They're cute and smell nice. Why’re you askin’?"
"It jus’ puzzles me. Unlike me, you get what you want. Have you never wanted to, uh, make out? And stuff?”
Oh, if only he knew.
But that’s for later. Pulling it out of blue won’t help. No need to push Nero into the cold water.
"I've got everything I need for now." And that is true: laughing with Nero is a fundamental human need. "Once ‘s not enough anymore, I’ll figure it out."
Nero sets his empty lunchbox aside.
"You’re still such a boy," he notes flippantly. "Won't you regret wastin’ so much time on—" he gestures around himself, "—this?”
"What exactly are ya talkin’ about? There's nothing ‘round except you," Bradley repeats himself.
"Well," Nero shrinks into himself, "yeah. I’m talkin’ ‘bout myself here."
A click of a live wire cutting through the air. Bradley sits up abruptly, his ass positioned right between Nero's spread legs. His sad face is so close that Bradley can count every fleck of blue in his light brown eyes.
"I’m happier than I’ve ever been," Bradley says, deadpan. "I’m sure I’ll be happy rememberin’ it in the future too."
Nero, unable to find a reply, simply throws his arm around Bradley’s shoulder. He doesn’t try to run away anymore, which is good, at last. “Thanks.”
"What’cha thankin’ me for? Tellin’ the truth?" Bradley laughs, and the bell joins him—such a bright, brilliant sound. "Let's skip,” Bradley suggests, resting his head on Nero’s shoulder.
"It’s… chemistry, I think," Nero recalls with visible effort.
"I didn't do my homework. And we ain’t done yet."
"What were we talkin’ ‘bout, anyway?”
Bradley runs his thumb over Nero's lips—thin, yet so soft. "This."
Nero, resigned to his "jokes," exhales. "It’s to feel the texture and temperature of food better. Things that are important in cooking, y’know.”
“You sure like cooking."
"Mhm," Nero nods, slightly embarrassed.
Seeing Nero so happy brings a genuine smile, one of those that make cheeks hurt with their enormous force, to Bradley’s face.
"And you’re not takin’ care of yours at all."
"Huh?"
"Your lips, Brad. They’re all chapped.”
Nero's touch on his lower lip tingles as if calling for more. As Bradley’s stomach clenches in response, Neros hand pulls away.
Damn it, he’s right. Nero most likely wouldn't enjoy kissing parched lips. Bradley needs a quick fix. "What do you use?”
"A regular lip balm will do. You can find a bunch of those in a convenience store. Or anywhere, really. I have the mint flavored one."
"They come in different flavors?"
"Yeah, like strawberry, orange—”
"Meat?"
"Nobody needs such crap!"
Nero slaps him on the shoulder and laughs brightly, ringingly, so loudly that it’s definitely heard in the classrooms, the stadium, and even in the park behind the school. Let them listen and envy our youth, Bradley thinks, nuzzling his nose against Nero’s collarbone. It is indeed a rather intimate position to take. But Nero doesn’t seem to mind.
"Tsk," comes a voice from somewhere above. "And here I was wondering why it reeks of birds all over the roof, but there they are, all lovey-dovey. You’re sickening to watch.”
"Owen!"
Bradley tilts his head back and finds himself staring into a pair of mismatched eyes. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but Owen's unblinking gaze always makes him a little uneasy.
"This is my place. Go hang out somewhere else."
"You can lie down on the other side of the roof. We got here first."
"Owen?" Nero belatedly breaks away from the hug and, pushing Bradley away, stands up. "You never skip chemistry, though?”
"Figaro's filling in today, can’t stand his face. He's always meddling with my plans."
"Figaro? Shit, good thing we didn't go. Bet he never even got a degree."
"Don’t think so, no," Owen winces. "His saccharine tone is unbearable. But, you know, so are the two of you.”
"I thought you liked sugary things," Nero blurts out, placing his hand on Owen’s shoulder in a somewhat friendly manner. When did they become so close?
Owen takes a step to the side.
"Tsk. You make me sick. Why weren't you at work today? I thought I'd have a chocolate-filled puff, but no: sorry, Nero’s off today.”
The corner of Nero's mouth twitches.
"Come by tomorrow, I'll make some."
"I will. If those donuts aren't in stock—”
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we heard ya," Bradley chimes in, fed up with their not-so-friendly discussion. "Owen, got your deal? Now go your way, you’re interruptin’."
"No, it’s you who’s interrupting," he smiles, and Owen's smiles never bide well. "I was planning to take a break here, but no, you, lovebirds, just have to take everything for yourself. Have you gotten banned from all those shady karaoke places?"
Nero frowns in confusion. "What are you even talkin’ ‘bout?"
"Oh! You don’t know? Or are you just pretending not to?" Owen's eyes dart like large beads, from Bradley to Nero and to Bradley again. "Who’s fooling who?"
"Owen, listen," Nero carelessly reaches for his hand and forces a nervous, crumpled smile. He doesn’t get to express his thoughts, though.
"Listen, bro, just ‘cause your boyfriend's buried in his notebooks again and isn't payin’ ya any attention doesn't mean you should ruin everyone else's day. Go get on your guy’s nerves, he should be in music class right now."
"I know.”
“Stalker.”
“Delusional.”
“Virgin.”
“Easy.”
"If you don't go away now, you're gonna be chattin’ Cain up all beaten up."
"Talking big for someone who’s sweating bullets after a little bit of shouting and yelling.”
"Ya can't deal with heat either!"
As if in confirmation, a large, heavy bead of sweat rolls down Owen’s temple.
"Tch, as if you’re a match for me," he hisses, pulling his cap down. "Next time, cuddle up somewhere else. Or I'll curse you.”
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we got it. Good riddance!"
After Owen disappears, Nero switches his intent gaze to Bradley. "Owen has a boyfriend?" is the first thing he says in private.
Bradley sighs and sits back down.
"Well, I'm not sure if they're, like, official or anything, but there’s this guy Owen’s obsessed with. You know Cain? He films TikToks."
"Huh... so you are friends," Nero says, sitting down next to him.
"We’re not! We jus’ chat sometimes."
Yeah. Bradley should’ve been wiser than to open his mouth in Owen’s presence. He didn't even mention Nero's name, he just asked what it was like with a guy. Who knew Owen would figure it out? This asshole is never this smart when Bradley needs him to be.
"Tell ‘im he got it all wrong next time."
"Don’t worry, he got it all right. He just likes to mess with people."
Bradley purses his lips. Owen is right, to a certain extent—but Bradley isn’t keeping quiet on purpose either. It’s not like he enjoys hiding things, not from Nero. Nero is his second boot, his best friend, his most precious dream. Bradley has been meaning to tell him for a long time.
But Nero, being who he is, wouldn’t get it. It’s a delicate matter.
And Owen needs to mind his own business. His curses—manipulating chats and leaking information on SNS—aren't that terrible, but not exactly pleasant either. Nero is sensitive; it would hurt his feelings.
"Let's go to the arcade tomorrow," Bradley suggests. "You can play there for the price of two for three hours now."
Nero tilts his head to the side and says, like a bolt from the blue. "I don’t think I can. I have things to do."
Nero has been disappearing more and more often, and Bradley can’t help but feel bad about it. It’s not boredom, he can entertain himself just fine. But without Nero around, soda doesn’t taste quite as good and jokes aren’t that funny, and he just has to ignore it.
If Nero got himself a girlfriend, he could’ve said so. Bradley wouldn't try to steal her like he used to do with his gum and trading cards when he was ten. Six years have passed. He’s a changed man.
Or maybe it isn’t a girlfriend. Owen has been whispering to him about seeing some pretty-faced, curly-haired, bespectacled guy from that school for smartasses by Nero’s side. Nonsensical, incomprehensible even. Nero? Hanging around with nerds? What’s gotten into him?
So when Nero drops a can of lemonade on his forehead, Bradley, to his own dismay, is genuinely surprised.
"What d’we have here? Finally decided to honor our long-standing friendship and pay me a little attention?" Bradley says. The moment he sits up the can rolls right into his lap.
"Don't say it like that. ‘M not avoidin’ you on purpose.” Nero sits down next to him and begins unwrapping his lunchbox.
"Oh, so did ya come on purpose? Or did ya jus’ stumble upon me on chance?"
"Brad," Nero sighs, "with woods like these, you’d break a couple of bones before you’re here “on chance”."
The abandoned, muddy pool of the art school has long since lost all its visitors. Bradley, however, likes this place—under this thick, lush canopy, he could always doze off, knowing for sure that no one would disturb his afternoon nap.
"No, seriously, where have ya been?"
Nero shrugs. "Studyin’, workin’... there's plenty to do.”
"It wasn’t this dire before—"
"Brad," Nero turns to him and lowers the lunchbox onto his lap. "Shut up and eat."
The box, wrapped in a funky little cloth with tiny yellow chicks on it, is filled with chicken fried in honey sauce, rice, and finely chopped vegetables. Holding onto his grudge, Bradley considers not eating greens in protest, but Nero glares at him so menacingly that he has no choice but to shove peppers and carrots into his mouth as quickly as possible.
Having eaten his fill, Nero drops his head onto Bradley’s shoulder.
"Hey, don't fall asleep here."
"Don’t be so noisy. You sleep here all the time.”
"’S been a while. I wanted to talk."
Nero opens one eye. "About what?”
“Is there a man you’d fuck?”
Nero chokes.
"What prompted this?” he asks, suppressing a coughing fit, and stares at Bradley, his eyes saucer-big and cheeks chalk-pale.
"Just curious.”
"I'm not gonna answer," Nero folds his hands in front of him and leans against the tree. "How’d you even come up with that?"
"I mean, there’s plenty of guys like that… I wanted to know ya better. What ‘bout girls?"
“Haven’t thought ‘bout them like that.”
“So you have thought about men?”
“I haven’t thought ‘bout anyone at all!”
“Now, that’s a lie!”
"Why would ya need to know it in the first place?”
"I just do! Is it that guy from the nerds school?"
"Faust?" Nero blurts out in one breath, his face twisting in confusion. "Why would I want to fuck Faust?”
"You're hangin’ out with him."
"And how do you know that? And, well, it doesn’t mean anything. He's helpin’ me with math. And he’s not even my type."
"And what is your type?”
"I’m… not sure? It's not that Faust isn't attractive, I mean, he is, objectively, but I prefer people with more… how d’ya say it… cool looks?”
"All this overexplainin’ for a guy that’s not even here?”
"I’m tryin’ to make myself clear.”
"What d’ya mean by cool then?"
Nero looks away and scratches the back of his head. "Tall—preferably taller than me—and with good muscles, a wide jaw, and a piercing gaze, I guess?"
Bradley can’t help but laugh. "You're definitely into guys.”
"’S enough!" Nero glares at him. "Go laugh at somebody else! I thought we were friends!”
"We are, we are! ‘M fine with that."
"Yeah? What’s your type then?”
"Ha," Bradley glances at Nero. "Well." Evidently, literature lessons and all those flowy, poetical classics have slipped past him. “Somewhere between spiky and soft?”
Wrinkles gather on Nero’s forehead. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could ya not know, that’s your type.”
“I mean, I know, I jus’ don’t know how to explain it.”
“Why’d I even ask…” Nero drops his face into his hands and then parts them, like curtains, and, with the precision of an artisan, tucks his side bangs behind his ears. It makes his face a little rounder, a little cuter and flashes its handsomeness, all at the same time. Those cheekbones are to die for, Bradley thinks and swallows hard. "Lets drop it," Nero suggests, moving as close to Bradley as he'd been before this conversation started. "Lend me your shoulder."
"Anytime," Bradley picks up a piece of chicken. "Just… come. I miss you a lot."
One heartbeat. Two. Nero's ragged breath, shaking his shoulders with a spasm. He looks up, so plaintive, open, lips pursed, and Bradley feels his chest tighten.
He wants Nero to know what this have confession cost him.
“Really?”
But Nero doesn’t know at all.
Bradley nods. The abandoned backyard closes around him; the heat is suffocating.
“I see.”
Bradley’s eyes sting. Are all lovesick teenagers this sensitive? Bradley has never been interested in soap operas; he's never related to romance-induced melancholy. But now the prospect that Nero might not give his answer feels like certain death.
Obsessing over Nero’s reaction, he notices Nero's arms—real and simple and grounding—only when, as if demanding his attention, they tighten around his waist. Nero's chin is firm on his shoulder, and the embrace is so personal, tender, and intimate that Bradley forgets how to breathe.
“It’s finals season," Nero says. "I’m tryin’ real hard on them. I’ll have a lot more time once it’s over. We'll be able to see each other often during the holidays and next term too. You'll even have time to get tired of me.”
Nero's head slides down, his forehead brushing against Bradley's shoulder. His breathing has lost all rhythm, bouncing off Bradley's skin like a faltering radio signal. Bradley’s hand instinctively reaches for his sweat-damp hair.
"I’m never gonna get tired of you," Bradley reassures him once more. "You always manage to surprise me.”
"You always say such embarrassing things."
"Oh, I’m so-o-o sorry. Still wanna take a nap?"
"Yeah."
“Hmh. Dream ‘bout me.”
“There’s plenty to get ‘round irl.”
“Could’ve humored me, at last.”
“Dream on.”
"Bored yet?" Nero asks, laying out a blanket for them.
"Nope," Bradley replies, flashing his cheeky smile.
"Hm." Unless he’s imagining it, Nero blushes slightly. "Glad to know.”
The purple dusk has already overtaken the sunset.
In the span of the past three days, Bradley and Nero have barely spent twelve hours apart (combined). Getting home only after midnight and leaving at dawn, they have wandered along the coast, spent an obscene amount of money on vending machines, and gorged themselves on junk food in the park. It’s been so much fun. More fun than winning a fight, more fun than looking at pictures of girls in magazines. Bradley wants to kiss Nero stupid.
"Will it really happen? I can't see anything yet.”
"It should. But even if we don’t see that meteor shower, I’d still be glad we came here.”
"Hey," Nero’s knee bumps against Bradley's as he crosses his legs. "I didn’t climb up the fifth floor of some abandoned building in the middle of nowhere to see nothing. It better happen.”
"If climbing this little was hard for ya, it just means you’re gettin’ outta shape.”
"That's not the point, Brad," Nero says under his breath. "Come a bit closer.”
"I’m as close as— Oi!"
Without a warning or at least a moment to comprehend what’s about to happen—Nero can be cruel like that—Nero puts an arm around his shoulder and drapes a thin, worn blanket over their backs.
"It's gettin’ cold already," he explains, resting his cheek on Bradley's shoulder.
He’d lie if he said all these little displays of affection made him anything less than overjoyed, but that doesn’t mean he could ever stop himself from making jokes at Nero's expense.
"What, gettin’ nostalgic all of a sudden? You’re a bit too old for these things.”
Nero kicks him in the thigh.
"Shut up, we're only sixteen. Our childhood ain't over yet."
“You’re so busy with all those adult worries, you can’t blame me for forgettin’.”
"You should start thinkin’ about your future, too.”
"I will, I will.”
Bradley's stomach hurts from laughing too hard. The future is as uncertain as it was before that conversation in his father’s empty garage, but now there’s one thing he’s certain about: whatever future may bring, he wants to face it with Nero.
Perhaps he should declare it now, before star shower steals Nero’s attention. State it so clearly that even this self-depreciation champion gets it: Bradley wants to look in the same direction as Nero for the rest of his life.
“Nero,” Bradley calls, barely above whisper.
And Nero responds. And as he says yes? his lips part, the tip of his pink tongue peeks out. Only a saint could resist.
Nero's lips are perfect under his.
Bradley hasn't planned to savor them for hours—one quick, gentle touch would be enough for a first time. Still, the kiss ends too quickly, too abruptly, with a good amount of hurt on top. His cheek burns from a slap so sentimental and amateur that it takes a few seconds to realize whose hand has left it.
"W-what the fuck!" Nero recoils, his back moving dangerously close to concrete, and his elbows, having kept him from falling flat, shake.
His eyelids, previously wide-open, close around his faltering irises as if he’s holding back tears.
At a loss for words, Bradley rubs his cheek. He was so sure Nero would like it.
"It was my first kiss," Nero says, his voice so crushingly defeated it hurts to hear. "I..."
"Mine too," is all he can manage. "Nero—"
"Don't!" As Bradley tries to move closer, to touch Nero’s face, Nero retreats even further. "I didn't want it like this.”
"Sorry—"
“Sorry won’t fix this.”
Nero has frozen in place: he doesn’t yell or cry, but the wall between him and Bradley, though invisible, is palpable and thick. Bradley is left with guilt, incomprehension, and dread so intense it makes his insides clench. Losing Nero like this is the last thing he wants. It dawns on Bradley, then, that it was thoughtless, stupid, and probably downright rude of him, but the revelation doesn’t bring him any knowledge on how to make things right.
"Let's forget all about it," Bradley suggests in desperation. "Let's pretend it never happened. It was stupid, I’m sorry. Your first kiss will be with someone you actually like. Nero, please, look at me," he pleads those folded hands, bent back, torn curtain of hair.
Nero glances at him from under his brows.
"I like you. You! But that was terrible. You could’ve, I don’t know, warned me! Instead of scarin’ the hell outta me…”
He falls silent and hides his face again. He leaves no openings, no clues on how to approach him now, and even the joy of receiving confession doesn’t make Bradley feel any better.
"I’m so—”
"I've heard that already!”
"Then what do you want me to say?"
Nero exhales and his body lets go of a good amount of tension.
"I don't know. I kinda wanted it to be special and, well, for me to want it too.”
"Should I have asked?"
"Of course you should’ve asked! My heart nearly stopped. Forever.”
With extreme caution, Bradley crawls closer. "I'll ask next time. And every time after that," Bradley places his hand on Nero's knee. "Nero. Give me another chance."
Nero takes a sharp breath. “Explain why you did it first.”
"’Cause I like ya," Bradley answers bluntly. "And I wanted to kiss ya. That's all there’s it."
"Why didn't you ask?"
"Didn't think to.”
"Oh, so it didn’t occur to ya that my opinion may matter?”
"I thought you'd like it!"
"You...!”
"Sorry!"
Nero slams his hand against the roof and then, wincing in pain, brushes the dust off it. The respite has calmed him: his face has finally stopped being a perfect copy of an overripe radish; he’s breathing steadily and slowly, blowing cooling air on his palm. When Bradley crawls even closer, he doesn’t move away.
When Bradley grabs his wrist, he only raises his eyebrows and expects an explanation.
"I could kiss it better," Bradley looks at Nero’s hand then at his face and then at his hand again. It’s raw, bare flesh—beetroot red. Nero should’ve been used to this sight. "Like a pretty girl in manga would do. If ya want."
Nero narrows his eyes in disbelief, but after a few seconds, he leans back and opens his hand wider.
"If ya want.”
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
In response, Nero simply turns away and, in one rush movement, thrusts his hand into Bradley's face. Bradley laughs right into his skin, its tender core, the triangle of innate wrinkles. He nuzzles it, licks it. Nero's fingers tremble, curling inward. Bradley cups his hand, kisses his knuckles, lingers at his wrist, feeling Nero’s pulse with his lips. Nero's heart is beating three times faster than normal.
When Bradley pulls him towards, kissing the tree of veins and higher, and higher, and higher—to the crook of his elbow—Nero blocks his path, placing his free hand on Bradley’s face—forehead, eyebrows, eyes?—who cares—and pushes him away.
"That's enough," he mutters weakly, his cheeks flushing again. "It'll heal. C’mere."
Bradley doesn’t have time to respond—Nero's arms, strong and hot, whether from blood or the summer heat, wrap around his neck. A second is enough to find himself nose to nose with Nero. Bradley impulsively kisses him on the cheek. And again, again, again, all the way to his ear. Nero smells of Nero.
Nero kisses him on the cheek too. For a while, they simply peck each other like birds, and it makes Bradley so happy, so calm; it’s so reassuring to be forgiven.
"Can I try again?" he asks, resting his head on Nero's shoulder.
Nero rubs his cheek against him and replies, impatient yet shy, "Go ahead.”
Taking Nero's head in both hands and locking eyes with him one last time, Bradley leans down and presses his lips to Nero’s.
It’s brief, tender. Like a scircuit, a sudden, bright flash. Bradley kisses his upper and lower lips separately—each deserving its own attention—and, anchoring himself on Nero's shoulders, pulls away. Nero falters under his scanning gaze.
"Better than the last time," he says from behind his hands-curtain, keeping his eyes low.
“Forget ‘bout the last time. Please.”
“Make me.”
“Huh?”
"Kiss me so often I'll forget all ‘bout it."
His face is red, but honest. Bradley has never dreamed of hearing such a thing from him. His hands tighten around the sleeves of Nero’s shirt in delight.
"You'll stretch it out," Nero complains.
"Let me take it off, then."
"No, I'm not ready for that yet."
"Tell me when you are.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself!”
Bradley chuckles and gets Nero closer, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and his legs around his waist. Night is painting the city in its colors, carrying a slight chill that covers their skin with goosebumps. Bradley and Nero still haven't seen the stars.
"Go out with me," Bradley says. "I'll make ya happy."
Nero pauses, playing with Bradley’s hair as the silence settles comfortably between them.
"Don't make big promises. Even I don't know how to make myself happy."
"We've been friends forever. I know ya, inside and out."
"Ya know me so well you didn't even think to—”
"Jus’ let it go!"
Nero throws his head back, bursting out laughing. Bradley, puffing out his cheeks, puts out more of his conviction.
“We’re young. We have all the time in the world to figure it out.”
"And what'd ya want in return? Or would the great Bradley Bain put an effort for free?”
"Love me," Bradley asks for the first thing that comes to mind. "And make me lunches. Never go away."
"Don’t be an idiot." Nero mutters, intertwining their fingers. “‘M already doin’ all that.”
"Even if I'm an idiot, I'm your idiot."
"Where d'ya pick that up!?"
Nero slaps him hard on the back and, still ardent, quickly kisses Bradley on the top of his head. Happiness pools under his skin. Finally, Nero is his, his alone.