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Ross searched through every corridor, every room and every closet. He was promised a tall, dirty blonde boy with a mole on his cheek to be in the house, but he just didn’t seem to be in the house.
He had received a text from the boy in the middle of the night. It wasn’t ominous, just out of the ordinary, but wasn’t unusual.
“Wanna hang out? My place is empty since everyone is busy.”
What was unusual was the strange game of “Hide & Seek” he wasn’t expecting to participate in when he hopped over the backyard fence, nor was he prepared for the unlocked door that was always locked—his uncle was stern on protecting the house since losing his.
“Guess where I am, it’s a surprise xP”
Ross sighed as he pulled the shower curtains, revealing an empty tub and a shelf stored of various toiletries for different people who lived in here—plus a rubber duck. Ross was lucky this wasn’t a school night, he would’ve texted his leave and dropped onto his bed as soon as he could.
Ross pulled his phone out, “Got a hint for me?”
“Think outside the box,” he received a text back as soon as he sent his.
“Wow, thanks a lot.“
The boy was playing some riddle on him, and once Ross found him, he would have to think of some sort of revenge for making him search this place for ten minutes like a cop.
At least it took only a minute for it to click.
He only had to read over the message again, the boy wasn’t in the house, he was outside, somewhere.
In a heartbeat, Ross stuffed his phone back into his pocket and swiftly walked out of the bathroom, through the hallway and back where he came in, the backyard.
Closing the door, Ross looked around the yard. There wasn’t anything at all, a large patch of grass that he was stepping on, a shed and a ground-level patio. Ross figured he would be in the shed, so that was where he headed first.
Standing in front of the door, he felt watched, and he looked back at the house. There, the boy sat on top of the roof, some sort of beverage in his hand as he waved with his free one.
Ross took out his phone and sent another text, “Found ya.”
“How did you get up there?” Ross yelled, putting his phone away again.
“The attic!” Robert shouted back, a wide grin plastered on his face, his brightness illuminating with the shine of the moon that had risen tall behind him.
Robert hasn’t shown the attic to Ross fully, it was always dark when he looked up the stairs that lead to what resides in the obscured room. It was partially off limits, anything could’ve been there; but Ross was never that curious.
Walking back inside the house as he yawned, and up the stairs to the attic, was boxes and unwanted storage. Everything had dust, he could faintly see specks of it fly by that he held himself from sneezing, cautious about any debris falling onto him if he did so.
There was a small window at the end of the room. The small gust of cold hit his head, as he didn’t feel the need to wear his hat. The window was left unopened and enough for him to go through. So that was what he did.
He almost slipped when he was finally on the roof, expecting the rough texture of the tiles to prevent himself from falling off—unless that was just him thinking too little.
“Hi,” Robert said beside him, motioning Ross to sit beside him, if he could.
Ross scooted over with prudence, looking beneath him at how high he was—which he didn’t expect. He could feel himself grow lightheaded the more he focused on the height difference.
He bit his bottom lip, staring at the ground and disregarding that his grasp on the surface weakened, his hands were red and not exactly sweaty—but warm. His grip became too smooth and he slipped again.
But he didn’t fall off, he didn’t break his bones on the pavement from a dumb move from a teenager like him. A hand held onto his arm with force.
“Ross!” It was Robert, “You okay, man? Can you get up?”
Ross held his breath, frozen. He might’ve yelped or screamed like a girl, but couldn’t tell from the vision of his near death.
He kicked himself back up, he was near the edge of falling to his death, “Yeah—fuck.”
Scooting himself up and now beside Robert, he spoke after finally exhaling the air he held in, “How did you even get up here?”
“It’s my house, duh,” Robert smiled, “My parents usually don't let us, but it’s only me here.”
“Is it like,” Ross paused, “Off limits?”
“Kinda. One time, my uncle came by to store some of his stuff from the fire," Robert giggled, “He told a story to scare my little sister away from going up there. Surprisingly, it worked well since he kinda sucks at telling made-up stories.”
He seemed more laidback than he usually is, more smiley than he already is. Ross could see the evident smile lines forming; he could admit that they suited Robert’s features.
Ross watched his friend take another sip from the drink. Examining it, a dark green bottle that was held between his lanky fingers. Robert caught his glance and looked back at him, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Robert,” Ross whispered, “Are you drinking?”
Robert took another sip, “Maybe.”
Robert brought the end of the bottle he had been holding to his lips once again, furrowing his eyebrows a bit at the bitterness of the drink.
Ross squinted as he read the label attached to it; a majority of what Robert was drinking had alcohol.
He was drinking straight-up vodka.
“Are you drinking vodka?” Ross asked, “Since when did you drink?”
“Only with you guys,” Robert giggled again—It was getting to Ross’ head, “This is the only time I can drink alone.”
“Well,” Ross commented, “You aren’t.”
“Shit… Guess so,” Robert laughed back, stared at the label, reading it—or possibly zoned out.
“Give it to me,” Ross held his hand out, “I think you’ve had enough.”
Robert refused, holding the bottle onto his chest as if it were his baby, “Nuh uh.”
Ross raised his eyebrows. Normally, with Robert and Roy—and occasionally Susie—they would drink together in desolate areas of the times where once the sun slept, it became a ghost town. From playgrounds at night, or the local park that was accompanied by rows of lampposts that highlighted the pathway. If they got on Susie’s good side—which was whenever Roy said the right words to persuade her—she came by with a bottle of rich liquor that only suburban kids with parents who go on a business trip for a living could only afford. For short, the best ones to have.
Roy would sneak his own stash from home, but they somehow seemed out of his reach or were solely decoration; left to collect dust and tasted awfully sour. So, it was either Robert’s or Susie’s.
Ross reached out for the bottle, straightening his arms out as far as he could, “Why not? We drink like—all the time.”
“Let me see,” he persuaded, “I’m not gonna drink the whole thing or anything.”
But Robert protested, pulling the bottle further away from Ross’ reach as he inched closer, the side of the drink merely touching his fingertips.
He held his arm over Robert, waving his hand, then grabbing the other’s arm to move it downwards to where he could touch the bottle with his other hand. The tussle was a mess, and Robert stayed stubborn from passing the bottle down.
“I thought you brought me out here to drink,” Ross strained his fingers out, “Not to comfort you as you drink.”
“And what if I did?” Robert said, straightening his arm away from Ross.
Ross ignored what Robert said back for the meantime, and instead scooted closer, knowing how to hold onto his weight to prevent another near fall to his death.
He muttered under his breath, “What is with you lately?” Then, he spoke more audibly, “How much did you drink?”
“A quarter,” Robert answered, “I didn’t drink that much,” he slurred.
“Lies,” Ross argued.
Robert obviously did not drink a quarter, with his sudden behaviour and attitude and child-like stubbornness, his tolerance couldn’t have been this resistant to alcohol at all.
The alcohol swished around the container as Robert couldn’t think of another strategy to keep his arm in the air.
He could fully see the curls that sprung out free from having been hidden under his hat, in which Ross wished was washed and smelled like clean laundry for once. Thankfully, his hair had a better, pleasant odor, and looked softer than when it’s unkept and tangled—maybe those “12 in 1” shampoos really do wonders.
Their faces were now inches from each other, Ross could smell the alcohol from Robert’s breath. The dark crescents under his tired eyes, indicating his promise to improve his sleep to him, has broken. He could see the mole more visibly—he remembered being told that moles were a placement for where you were kissed in a past life, by a god of a previous lover.
Robert’s eyelashes were long, not as visibly long as Roy’s, but elongated to the length that a girl with shorter lashes desired. If he closed his eyes, they were like satin curtains obscuring a view, as if they closed in on a window. And when Robert winked at Ross, he plastered a smile as he usually does, but this time so as to distract him.
It almost worked, his face said so.
Ross pulled himself together, raised his posture, and yanked the bottle out of Robert’s hand.
“Thanks!” Ross proudly said to Robert, who huffed with his loss. Ross glanced at the bottle. The cold glass—which he assumed was straight out of the fridge, was making the palm of his hand shift to red, and only half of what was left of the alcohol remained.
His expression quickly switched, “Dude, you drank half of it. It’s half empty.”
“It’s not,” Robert slurred out, “It’s half full.”
“I think you’ve had enough,” Ross said as he swirled the liquid inside, turning it around and forming a mini tornado.
“Give it back!” Robert declared, “I’m fine!”
Ross now held the alcohol up high from his reach, but Robert was taller than him, and had longer arms and hands than him. No matter where he straightened his arms out at any angle, he could touch the glass with one finger.
Robert moved faster than Ross had expected, shuffling closer than the first time, his torso pressing onto Ross’ side, his arm stretching past him—it looked like a strange hug.
“Dude—You’re drunk,” Ross choked out, straining his arm in the process, “Look at your face.”
“I can’t!”
He cupped Robert’s face with his other hand he managed to squeeze out, and harshly pinched his cheek, “Your cheeks are so red.”
“I think that’s just how my skin is,” Robert replied, grinning like a puppy.
He did look like one being in Ross’ hand. Not comparable to a Golden Retriver—although his hair colour said otherwise—but maybe a different, taller dog. One that was energetic after eating a meal, one that always looked happy, and was very smiley like Robert.
Now that he thought about it, a Golden Retriever does suit Robert.
“Fuck it,” Ross mumbled to himself, and twisted the bottle cap open, losing it as it bounced off the roof, falling onto the floor.
With his other hand still on Robert, he pushed his head away, held the liquor with both hands, and chugged what was left, preparing himself for the flavour.
Ross smacked his lips, a strong, bitter taste left his tongue feeling dehydrated and dry. He regretted drinking the entire thing in one go—but it wasn’t fair that only Robert got to drink.
“Dude! You drank it all,” Robert complained.
Ross justified back, “You drank half of it,” and shoved a finger onto Robert’s chest, “It’s only fair this way.”
“Now, we’re now both drunk,” he said, looking for a flat surface on the roof to rest the bottle in, leaning back on the gravel-like tiles.
“Wasted,” Robert added bitterly.
“What’s up with you?” Ross chuckled, immediately sitting up again, “You’ve never been this—Um, dramatic?”
And it is true, Robert tended to be sentimental when drunk. He has spewed out his love for his friends as if they were never going to see each other, and has been unable to keep his hands to himself, shaking someone as he laughed, moving around so often—but he just wanted someone to lean on, literally. Ross remembered the time where he cried once, he cried so bad from the dizziness that he threw up on a front lawn—Susie held his hair up as he vomited his guts out.
Somehow, they haven’t gotten in trouble for that, or caught at all. The lawn was owned by a tough neighbour who isolated themselves from the rest of the neighbourhood, someone who was frightening when they opened their door and had campfire stories, originated and inspired by their nature.
The breezy air—yet not cold, made Ross feel empty. Something was off, he felt lonely despite being beside Robert. Something was missing.
He took a strand of Robert’s hair around his finger, fidgeting and wrapping it around as the boy left his mouth open to speak. No words came out unfortunately, and something was still missing.
Ross convinced him to speak, “What’s up?”
“I dunno,” Robert slurred his words once again, “I just wanted somebody to be with.”
“For real?” Ross questioned, “Or did you just want a drinking buddy?”
“Ha,” Robert laughed—which sounded more to a huff, “Maybe.”
Ross continued to play with Robert’s hair, mesmerized by the coil in his curls.
“I guess,” Robert muttered, “I just felt lonely today.”
He pouted as he sulked, “I guess I just wanted somebody to be with right now.”
Ross stopped his movements, he was witnessing a very different Robert. A drunken, emotional and drastically different Robert. Or, maybe this was how he has always been. Given that he drank down the entire alcohol, he must’ve been thinking too differently.
“Do you—Do you know what I mean?”
“Not really,” Ross replied.
Robert took the back of Ross’ outgrown mullet, and tugged as hard as he could at the response.
“What the hell!” Ross cried, still grasping onto Robert’s hair.
“What?” Robert laughed, “It’s only fair.”
“I wasn’t ripping your hair off, was I?” Ross retorted.
Ross held onto Robert’s hair. When it was the right time, he was going to pull onto it, yank it off his scalp in the process if he got the chance.
The mood swiftly shifted, “Are you—Like, um—Robert.”
“Hm?”
“Are you doing okay?” Ross asked with concern, “Like—really okay. You haven’t been this moody before.”
“Yeah,” Robert softly replied, “I’m okay now—Now that you’re here.”
Ross flushed, unable to contain look at Robert anymore, “Fuck—I’m so bad stuff like this, am I?” He laughed off.
The more he looked at him straight into his eyes, he could see something more visible in him. Robert stared at him with puppy-eyes, despite not begging for anything more. Those round shaped-like eyes, the frequent sleep-deprived look from the immense lack of sleep, still held an endearing charm to him. It was almost captivating to Ross and that was why he struggled to make eye contact solely with him. Robert didn’t have to be drunk for it to happen, it was in his features—it was natural, stupid, stupidly natural.
“Hm,” Robert hummed, “No, I don’t think so.”
With the hair Robert harshly pulled, the pain lingered little on the scalp. This time, he gently stroked Ross’ hair, a forgiving tool for hurting him. Ross shivered at his cold hands as it touched the back of his neck.
“You’re lying,” Ross whispered.
“I’m not,” Robert whispered back.
Ross shuddered again, “Your hands are cold.”
Robert smiled, “And your face is warm,” They were now going back and forth.
“It’s probably the alcohol,” Ross half-joked.
Robert didn’t say anything, and placed both of his hands on Ross’ cheeks, cupping them.
“You’re like a furnace,” Robert mentioned, “Or maybe warmmuffs.”
Ross felt flattered, he stumbled on his words at the touch, “Your hands are still cold.”
Robert hummed again, he always hummed whenever he was thinking. Ross prepared himself for what he would say next.
Then, he thought about it, “Kisses are warm, right?”
Ross blinked, and blinked again, “Huh?”
“You know—“ Robert kept going, he was drunk, he could’ve began rambling on, but he kept stuttering, and stopping on words, trying to reform his sentence and explain himself.
Ross interrupted, “How drunk are you?”
“I’m tolerable,” Robert replied—whatever that meant, “But it’s true, is it?”
“I don’t know,” Ross mumbled, “Are you saying you want one?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged.
Ross thought for a moment, “Aren’t they only for if you’re hurt?”
“Well, I’m hurt,” Robert sarcastically said, “Super hurt.”
Ross laughed. For a minute, he could hear himself. A drier tone from the aftermath of the vodka enhanced his already raspy voice, he was probably smiling from ear to ear like a dumbass.
“Ah,” Then, Ross fell speechless.
“So,” Robert asked again, “Can I get one?”
This was genuine, he was serious and meant it, but Ross wouldn’t stop blaming it on the alcohol affecting him greatly. All of the sudden, his head didn’t have any weight inside.
Ross felt warmer than he should be, his legs were paralyzed to the floor, he couldn’t feel his hands touch the ground. He started to feel as if he weighed like feathers—he was probably a hue of red all over, but when he looked at his fingernails, they looked as if they were building up to icicles.
“I think my hands are cold,” Ross shyly announces abruptly, which was meant to be said in his head.
Robert giggled at the response, it was as sweet as bubblegum music.
“Here,” Robert let go of his hands—he was already missing the feeling—and he took Ross’ hand, uncoiling the strand of hair he had been toying with, gracefully taking his hand like a prince. He faced the palm to his face, and softly pressed his lips.
If Robert’s theory was right, he was feeling warm for sure, he felt as though he was going to rapidly melt.
He pulled away, admiring his hand—imagining he left a mark on Ross. The rings on his hands shined of silver and proudly glistened their designs. Ross turned his palm to his view, the empty feeling of the weight of Robert’s lips, the faint gloss of chapstick imprinted in the middle perfectly. A slow and short kiss that he wanted to happen again for the first time. He hasn’t been this nervous as he usually is when he does public speaking.
He could feel Robert’s eyes on him, waiting for his response, a sign that he was still here and didn’t internally die. If he looked up now, he would see him smiling patiently at him, a little sigh slipping through his teeth. And god help Ross, send a signal—or even an angel to take him away, he struggled to process—register—put the words together.
“Ross?”
And he heard the voice, that sweet sweet voice that jolted him back to reality.
Rapidly blinking himself awake, forcing himself to look at the other. He still felt his hand on his wrist.
“Sorry, was that too weird?” Robert asked, “I… I get if it was—“
“No,” Ross replied as sharp as a dull knife, “It wasn’t.”
“Do you still want—“ He cut himself off, taking Robert’s hand and squeezed it.
He hesitated to say it, but here they were now, “You still want a kiss, right?”
“Do I still get one?” Robert asked one more time.
Ross didn’t hesitate this time, his answer was crystal clear and sharp through him and Robert.
He mimicked what Robert did, bringing his palm to his lips and closed the gap.
It felt like a long time—an hour or so. When he pulled away, Ross felt as if he didn’t put enough effort as Robert did. It felt more insincere than real and genuine, did it because they wanted to be equal and not because he truly meant it with his whole heart, his gesture felt fake because it felt as if he only did it because Robert asked. Ross would prove it to him he wasn’t doing it for the love of the game—this wasn’t a game to him, never has been.
He examined his hand first, the short-clipped nails with scratched-off nail polish from his little sister, the ripped off skin between his fingernails that were picked away out of habit, the boney look of his hands and the roots of his veins that faintly stretched visibly out of his skin—from his wrists to his palm.
Ross turned Robert’s hand around, his eyes landing on the small bumps of his hand. His knuckles, that’s where he placed his second kiss.
Saying it was a second kiss was a lie, he’d given more than he should, but who was he to care? He was drunk, it shouldn’t matter. Robert said his hands hurt, they were cold and hurt and lonely, someone had to do something. Every ambience, to the loud cicadas and the cars passing by were muffled away. Nothing more was audible other than the small giggles of Robert.
Ross had given a kiss for each knuckle he spotted, ignoring to keep count, and if did, he kissed them again to recount.
He had planted kisses everywhere, where the wrist first meets the flesh of the palm, on the placement of where a wedding ring was meant to be, on the back of Robert’s hand. The words “kiss” and “kisses” started to sound foreign more and more when he kept thinking of the word and its meaning.
Ross finally pulled away, and watched himself intertwine their fingers with ease. Looking back to Robert, his cheeked blushed with a giddy shade of pink.
“You’re still hurt?”
Now a new question laid onto Robert, and should he have spoken beforehand was left unclear—after all, actions speak louder than words.
He came to his answer, held the back of Ross’ hair, and desperately pulled him closer to him, closing the gap between them. Though, accidentally bumping noses, nobody cared to react to the little pain.
And oh, did Ross not hesitate to cling onto him, to hold him as much as possible as he could hold. Tugging onto one of his sleeves, moving up to hold Robert’s jawline in his own hands, caressing his thumb on one side, the urge to play with Robert’s curly hair like muscle memory. He just wanted to hold him.
And the bottle he should’ve been holding might’ve rolled off the roof, fell and smashed to bits on the cement of the backyard patio, or miraculously tumbled to the ground in perfect condition with slight scratches left on its body. But Ross couldn’t hear it, and Robert could care less.
He could feel a smile forming from Robert, the giggles again in between—He was a really happy person lately. The softening touch of his hand playing with a clump of his hair that was freshly retouched and washed, his other hand awkwardly clamping onto the side of Ross’ face, fidgeting with one of his earrings.
The kiss was of honey from a fresh honeycomb—if ignoring the lingering alcohol taste. A never-ending sweetness and alluring taste of true meaning to it. The world spun slow around them, time stopped in front of its tracks. In this town, in this neighbourhood, they felt like the only people in this world for once.
Ross sulked when they pulled away, playfully shoving Robert away from him when put back to reality, a leftover taste of chapstick with the flavour of a soda left on his lips.
“We’re really drunk, are we?” Robert laughed off, shuffling back to his spot.
“Oh my god,” Ross sighed, a smile that refused to fade away formed on his lips.
He covered half of his face with his fist in embarrassment, covering his smile and his face coated in red from blushing immensely.
“Why are you hiding your face?” Robert chuckled, pushing his arm down in front of him, “You weren’t awful.”
“Shut up,” Ross smirked, looking away timidly.
But Robert was the opposite, looking at Ross with fondness as he held Ross’ hand again, locking their fingers again.
Robert asked again, “It’s not weird, right?”
“It wasn’t,” Ross assured, “Never was.”
“Ross,” Robert shifted the atmosphere, “Is there school tomorrow?”
“No,” Ross remembered.
“Okay, good,” Robert replied, and searched for the empty bottle they had.
He carefully crawled to the end of the roof, looking over and found scattered, green shards of glass smashed on the ground.
“I think it broke,” Ross commented.
“No shit,” Robert joked, “Oh well,” he said, and shifted back to his spot.
“You don’t wanna go clean that up before anyone else comes home?”
“Hm, maybe later.”
“Okay,” Ross said, sitting beside the latter as he tried blinking his intoxication away—he had to walk home without throwing up on someone’s front lawn.
The both were still intoxicated, drunk together they were, and felt one another’s comfort equally. It was only fair that way.
”Oh,” Ross then remembered something else, “I forgot to mention.”
”Oh yeah?” Robert said, “What is it?”
Ross then took a fistful of Robert’s hair, and pulled it harsh to the same pain he felt when Robert pulled his. Now, it was fair.