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Tank stepped out into the night air, the sounds of the party getting muffled as he closed the door behind him. The cool, dry breeze and fresh smell was a welcome change from the stale, sweaty funk of armpit and beer that had started to envelop the entire building as time went on. There ahead of him, leaning on the railing, with a bottle dangling somewhat precariously from his fingers, was Almeric. Calm and cool, just like he always was, just like the night that stretched out below and ahead of him. One glance at him, and Tank could feel the headache that had been pissing him off slip away like water around the back of his head.
"Been looking for you," Tank muttered as he folded his arms over the railing beside him. He had quickly debated saying something a bit more charismatic, but everything he could think of felt corny and fell flat. Oddly enough, Almeric didn't respond immediately. He hadn't actually turned to look at Tank at all -- instead, his eyes were fixed on some nonexistent thing between the bottom of his beer bottle and the sandy ground.
"We need to talk."
All of a sudden, Tank's hair stood up straight, and Almeric's expression seemed more complicated. Was it supposed to be a sign that he was upset? Had Tank missed a hint to leave? At that moment, the only thing he wanted to do was leave, but he knew he had gotten himself in too deep already. He dug his fingers into the leather of his bomber jacket, and stayed put.
"Alright. Shoot."
Almeric took another pause to gather his thoughts, before turning to Tank with a furrowed brow. "Do you want me?"
"What?"
"Do you want me, Tank? Yes or no?"
Tank stared at him a little bit dumbfounded. Was it not obvious? After all those nights, wasn't it clear?
"Wh... Why are you asking?" His voice dropped a bit, "Of course I do."
"Because you never seem to act like it, except for when we're in our room. For all I know, I could be dreaming it every night."
There was a little edge to his voice that made Tank's stomach cramp. Almeric could get mean, but he was always sort of... funny about it. He was bitchy, he was catty. This was something entirely different. He could almost see the flex in his jaw where he was clenching it.
"Almeric-"
"Tank."
"Well, what do you want me to say? What do you want me to do, here, Ricky? My hands are tied."
He looked at Almeric pitifully, who just sighed in a way that killed him. "Look..."
"Just say what you need, and I'll do it."
He wanted to reach for his hand. He wanted to pull him closer, look in his eyes, keep some kind of grip on him so he wouldn't just walk off like he seemed to want to. Instead, as always, he just stood there, sincerely and dumbly.
"Tank, I get it."
"Get what?"
"I know how guys like you are. I know why you won't do it. You wouldn't dare."
It was Tank's turn to sigh. He repeated his name again, "Almeric," like it would fix it. Like if he said it enough, it would show that he cared. He still didn't move, except to avert his eyes out toward the black horizon.
"You said it yourself. Your hands are tied -- I know."
Like a guilty dog, he stayed quiet and let Almeric continue.
"You know how many times I've done this, Tank? How many times I've been through this cycle? A few months of experimenting, a few great nights, just to be dropped when Mommy and Daddy start getting suspicious? And I get it. If it's me or your house, me or your family, me or your safety... Well, I'm not stupid. I know I'm what has to go."
"That's not-"
"Then what is it?" Tank could see his shoulders hunch a bit more out of the corner of his eye. "What are we doing here, if not that?"
"Look."
"Oh, I'm looking. I know how it's gonna go."
"Do you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. You're going to occupy my time, my room, and my brain, ignoring me all day until you come home to me every night, until you can't keep it up. A rumor starts spreading, or your father hears about it, or you let something slip. And even if you don't, in a few years you'll be tossed into the barracks in a base somewhere a thousand miles away, no matter what."
Tank didn't have a response, aside from, maybe, 'I told you all that when we started,' which he was sure was probably the worst thing he could possibly say. He kept his mouth shut, except to chew on his lip where the cold air had cracked it. Almeric seemed to settle back down.
"You have to decide, Tank. Are you with me, or not?"
"Don't..."
"I know. But I can't keep doing this. You say so many things to me, and then the second we're out of bed, you don't know me. You're embarrassed to be seen with me."
"I am not!"
"You are! You don't want people to know! You're scared of what your father will say, even when he's a hundred miles from you!"
"What other choice do I have, Davis? Do you want me to just- just run out there and ruin my life? My future? For what? So we can hold hands and play house?"
The quick flash of Almeric's face when he said it burned into his eyes, even though he looked away as quickly as possible. It occurred to him that he had never seen him pull that expression before. He felt his heart slam against his lungs so hard he almost struggled to breathe.
After a few seconds, he risked a look back at Almeric, who was staring at the little bit of liquid still in his bottle, turning it over in his hands. When he started again, his voice was softer, like he was afraid to put more force into it again.
"You have to hang on to me, Tank, or you have to let me go. You can't keep me at arm's length forever."
Tank watched him put his beer down on the floor, and turn back to put his hands right above Tank's elbows, grip firm but not crushing. Tank's own hands drifted up to rest at Almeric's waist, as they had many nights before.
"So?"
Tank hesitated for a moment, and then another, trying to think of something to say.
There was a noise like a gunshot in the distance, and Tank's head snapped to the red glow in the distance, as did Almeric's. Someone must've snuck fireworks on campus somehow. In the second before the light dimmed again, he tried to save Almeric's face in his mind, every subtle shape the scarlet chemical light had brought out in him. He lost it before he could commit it to memory.
Taking his answer from the silence, Almeric looked back at him again, his face suddenly looking hollowed out. His hands dropped back to his sides, and he bent down again to grab his bottle. He stood back up, face blank again, and began to walk off, pausing for just a second to toss, "Happy New Year, Tank," over his shoulder.
Another firework went off, and Tank flinched at the noise, watching a faint blue flare over the squares of the balcony where the railing didn't block the light. With a groan, he sank down to the floor, burying his head in his arms so he was staring down at his lap. He rubbed his thumb over his fingers, grimacing at how dry they were, and went back to chewing his chapped lip. The next firework made him jump again, and he bit a little piece of it open. It hurt a little bit, but for the most part all it did was make his mouth taste like blood.
He could hear the people inside starting to get loud again, and realized it must be approaching midnight. Suddenly spurred to action, he jumped up and ran back in.
Once, when he was a little kid, he had been sitting in the living room with his father while he watched some movie or documentary about a war. The only thing he really remembered, aside from thinking that the grainy black-and-white footage was a little scary, and his mother saying he shouldn't be watching things like this so young, was this one soldier telling the story of how his friend threw himself on top of a grenade, in an effort to protect his buddies. Tank's father had made some comment about being heroic and brave, and little Tank had asked how he had done it. How had this guy jumped on top of a live explosive? Wouldn't the fear have stopped him?
Pushing his way as nicely as he could through the random drunken college kids standing around, and trying not to step on the little noisemakers and 2006-shaped glasses that had ended up on the floor, he made his way toward the center of the room. The shitty box TV was cranked up to the loudest volume it could get to, and was starting the countdown in thirty seconds.
There, leaning up against the wall a few feet from it, was Almeric, jacket on like he was ready to leave as soon as he could. Tank made a beeline toward him, tripping a little bit over somebody's discarded shirt.
"Almeric-"
"Tank," he whispered, "don't."
Even though the lighting wasn't even close to good, Tank could see that he looked weird. Red in the face.
"You alright?"
He shook his head. "I'm drunk. Don't worry about it."
Tank pointed to the empty beer he was still carrying around. "That's the only drink you've had tonight."
"How do you know?"
"Because when we got here, and that girl was handing out drinks, she was writing everyone's names on the labels, and she misheard you and wrote Albert."
Almeric lifted up the bottle, and lo and behold, the name ALBERT was scribbled out in messy permanent marker. He chuckled a little bit, and pushed up his glasses with his free hand to rub at his eyes.
Someone yelled that the countdown was starting, and suddenly everyone who was still awake was crowding around the television, blocking Tank and Almeric in.
10, 9, 8. People started chanting.
7, 6, 5. Tank looked at Almeric one last time.
4, 3, 2. The grenade was about to go off.
That day, Tank's father had leaned over to him, and said, very plainly, "You just move before you can get scared."
At 11:59:58, Tank grabbed Almeric by the collar, blurted out, "Happy New Year," and dragged him in for a kiss, in front of a few dozen screaming, cheering losers.
Three seconds past midnight, they broke apart, both of them wide-eyed and hanging on to each other for dear life.
"I hate you," Almeric giggled, and pulled him back in.