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He'd started the blog his first semester. It had been a sort of outlet, a vent for all the words and worlds built up inside him. Sometimes he felt like if he didn't have somewhere to put them, he might literally explode. So that was there the internet had come in. It was liberating, safe and anonymous. It was a direct pipeline for the words, straight from his brain, through his fingers, and into the ether.
In the beginning, Derek had written about a lot of things. Identity, culture, politics, and justice. He had a lot to say, there, growing up with his Sioux mother and her Chicana wife, the legacy of his late Iranian-Black-Jewish father hanging over his head. He felt pulled in twenty different directions at once, and writing was one way to make sense of everything in his own head.
He'd started posting less on the blog when he met Theresa, the girl who sat next to him in his modern literature class that spring semester. Theresa was in some sort of avant-garde experimental jazz band, and she'd invited him to one of her shows at the Brew&Brew, local coffeehouse, microbrewery, and notorious hipster hangout.
It had been a fun night. The atmosphere had been chill, and the music better—if he was being completely honest—than he'd expected. He'd found Theresa after the show to congratulate her, and she'd kissed him, then introduced him to her boyfriend. Derek had kissed him, too. It had all been casual, easy. He still talked to Theresa when they ran into each other, a year later.
But the most important thing that had happened that night had been a chance look at a flyer on the announcement boards. Second and fourth Tuesdays of every month were slam poetry nights. Impulsively, he'd signed up for a spot the next day. He'd never read poetry aloud before—his or anyone else's—but it couldn't be too bad, and it was worth a shot, right?
It wasn't bad at all, he found after taking that tiny stage a week later. It was raw and vulnerable in a way that posting online wasn't, sometimes emotional, intense. It wasn't very chill at all, but he loved it.
That was Derek's secret, really. He wasn't that chill. When he cared about something, he cared about it a lot. But he only had so much energy, so he couldn't be that emotionally invested in many things. Sure, he'd watch sitcoms with Holster, and laugh along, but he didn't yell at the TV when one of the characters was particularly obtuse, or whatever it was this week. He'd watch romcoms with Bitty and Chowder, but when they would tear up during the emotional scenes, Derek would still be dry-eyed.
Maybe that was why he'd never invited anyone from the team to any of his poetry readings. It wasn't like they were a secret, and if anyone had asked him directly, he'd have been honest about it. But at the same time, he liked that they were his, a little niche space he'd carved out for himself, where he could be decidedly un-chill.
Will had never considered himself an artist. Even now, he still didn't, not really. There was just a lot in the world worth capturing, and he had a camera and the eye for it.
It had started, really, his first spring semester. Those couple of months had been a special kind of hell. He had had to juggle a full course load, hockey playoffs, and his job at the campus IT assistance center. He wasn't sure where he found the time for it all, let alone to sleep, but he'd managed. Will was no stranger to hard work.
And at least, every now and then, he'd been able to squeeze in a few minutes for his friends, and for himself.
One of those moments had been a cool evening in April, and he'd found himself out on the roof of the Haus—sorry, right, the reading room—watching the stars emerge from pale wisps of clouds. Bitty had invited him and the others out for an experimental banana custard pie. The pie had been just alright (it was a new recipe and the oven had been acting up, definitely not Bitty's fault) but the evening itself had been spectacular, the sky striated in a riot of gold and rose and lavender.
He hadn't been the only one to find it so. He'd been out there only a few minutes when the window opened and Jack had joined him, a camera cradled gently in his free hand.
They'd only exchanged a few words as Jack photographed the sky, the sun setting behind the newly-budding branches of the trees, and the roof lines silhouetted against the falling curtain of stars. He'd known Jack was taking a photography class, but that had been the first evidence he'd seen of it. When he showed Will the images a few days later, uploaded to his computer and touched up, he'd been inspired.
See, photography hadn't really meant much to Will, before. It was something that they did at family reunions, minutes of awkward posing, a bright flash, and then there was another picture of him looking uncomfortable. He never noticed how big his ears were or how prominent his freckles until it was in a picture.
Still, being on the other side of the camera was...appealing. To have a permanent image of fleeting moments.
In the back room at his job, there was a box of electronics which students had brought in to be fixed, but had been deemed lost causes. With permission from his manager, Will had managed to cannibalize one camera to get another working. Then, he'd registered for a summer photography class.
It was done entirely online, by correspondence. He had had to make a blog, and document his life with a daily photo. It had been weird and embarrassing, at first, but an easy fine arts credit was an easy fine arts credit. He'd taken pictures of the deep, pristine woods near his family's house, of the rocky coast, of the dingy lobster boat where he spent most of his days. He'd caught his little sisters laughing together over some game they were playing, and a rare smile from his father, his mother's stained apron as she cleaned fish for supper.
Altogether, the photos wove a rich tapestry of his life in rural Maine, of a rickety house filled with too many people, of a family poor in material wealth but overwhelmingly rich in other ways.
He'd gotten an A in the class, and a personal message from the professor congratulating him on his work—she recommended that he submit it to a photography contest that the university's visual arts program would be running. He hadn't, of course, but he did keep the blog running, even when the class was over.
He never told anyone about it, never took out the camera when the team was around—they'd chirp him for it endlessly—but that was alright.He kind of liked having something that was just his.
It started to change a few months after Derek had started regularly doing slam poetry nights at the Brew&Brew. He'd been neglecting his poetry blog, pouring time and energy into the pieces he'd read. Sure, he'd still post every now and then, short works, little snippets that didn't quite mesh with what he was trying to write for poetry night. But it was a lot less frequent than it had been.
He'd been in bed with his notebook, working on a piece, when all that changed.
The words were flowing as easily as they ever had, natural, like his pen was an extension of his brain.
It was a poem about privilege, about the intersection of class and race and gender, and how deliberately ignorant of it certain types of people liked to be.
He'd titled it White Boy.
He thought he might be about halfway through when he realized that his words were more fondly exasperated than damning, and that he'd been writing about one particular white boy, rather than the general institution of white masculinity, as he'd intended, and—
“Oh--
Fuck.
Of course.”
Those three lines were the next he wrote, and, he'd ended the poem there. There was no way he could read this at the Brew&Brew. It was miles and miles from what he'd set out to write. He had a lot to sort through, with this.
This spring semester had seen a thawing, a detente of sorts, between him and Dex, of course. Sure, Derek still loved riling him up; it was so easy to do, and he was mature enough to admit that he was an instigator.
But recently, he'd recognized a few things he'd really come to admire about his defensive other half. Dex had absolutely no chill, a fact which had once irritated the hell out of Derek (as much as he'd allowed anything to irritate him). But he'd come to realize that that lack of chill was synonymous with how much Dex cared about everything.
He approached every situation with such determined focus, really threw his whole self into everything he did. Nothing was half-hearted with Dex.
If Derek even tried to care that much, he was certain he'd burn out within a week.
So, of course it was him. In retrospect, it hadn't even been a surprise. He'd always been weak for freckles.
He'd posted the aborted poem on his blog the next day, “Oh-- Fuck. Of course.” and all.
White Boy no. 1, he'd ended up titling it. It was the first of many to come.
Now that Will's blog wasn't being graded, he had a bit more leeway to do what he liked with it. He changed the name to something that wouldn't be connected with him, and delved into the online photography community. He found other photographers, followed their work, kept track of his favorites, shots that inspired him to try something similar. One of the blogs he'd followed was run by a graduate student in Texas, if her bio was to be believed. Occasionally, she would reblog bits of literature and poetry.
Will usually skimmed past these without reading, but this post in particular caught his eye. She'd added a comment to it, which read, “Wow! If someone talked about me like you do about this boy, I don't know what I'd do with myself!”
Curious, Will had scrolled back to the beginning of the poem, entitled White Boy no. 13 and read the whole thing. Then he'd read it again. Something about the language used, the cadence of the words, the unbridled longing with which the author spoke, or maybe it was all three. It appealed to him.
He clicked over to the poet's blog, surprised to see it themed bright gold and orange and green—he thought most artists were into that angsty monochromatic aesthetic. The biography section was completely empty, no indication of who they were. As for content, White Boy no. 14 had already been posted, no less than half an hour previously.
He read through it, blushing a little at the raw and open affection with which the author spoke about the subject. The subject, who, apparently, had red hair and freckles, if he was interpreting the lines “he's like the night sky” and “set in cascading marigolds” correctly.
It was a very good poem, even by Will's inexperienced and, frankly, uninterested standards.
Something about the events described in White Boy no. 14 kept niggling at him. The author, whoever she or he (or “they,” interjected a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Shitty) might be, had talked about teasing the subject, just to see him get riled up.
It wasn't unlike how Nursey had behaved that morning after practice. And he had red hair and freckles. And he knew Nurse was into poetry. Could it be possible that—but, no, the concept was too ridiculous to even contemplate.
Did he even want Nursey to look at him and write something like that?
The sudden, unexpectedly visceral answer that rose up through his chest and into his throat was yes.
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why someone might be into Derek Nurse. He was smart, and humble, and funny—when it wasn't directed at Will. Lately, it hadn't been, not so much. It felt more like gentle ribbing than pointed jabbing, now. A gradual change, from active animosity to something like friendship.
And objectively, the man was gorgeous, six feet and then some of toned muscle and dark skin, so striking against his grey eyes. He'd seen models in his sisters' fashion magazines that didn't hold a candle to Nursey.
But that had never really mattered to Will. He'd seen plenty of beautiful people in his life, men and women, and he'd noticed, of course, but it hadn't ever really affected him. No fluttery nerves, no pang of want like he'd heard other guys, and girls for that matter, describe. It was like they were trying to explain the color red, but he could only see in shades of blue, green, yellow, orange. He'd comprehend that the things they'd describe were red, that red looked like this, but he'd still never see it himself.
Except, in that instant, he could. Nursey had become the red in his world.
He sighed a little, hit 'follow' on the poetry blog, and turned his laptop off.
Derek's blog got a startling amount of attention after he began posting the White Boy poems. The poems about Dex. He'd watched the follower count go from 15, to 50, to 300, to 1,000 in the span of a month and a half.
He was a little bemused about it all, but not too concerned. Flattered, even, in a way. Derek was, after all, an artist, and what was art but a shout into the void, to be acknowledged, to be remembered?
Either way, the audience was unimportant. The poems weren't for them. They were for himself. They were the dam built to hold back all this want, keeping it from ruining the friendship he'd built with Dex—and that's what it was, now, a year and a half later, the spring of their sophomore year. They were friends. Best friends, even. Not, like, Ransom and Holster levels of friendship, but Derek was pretty sure that was a superhuman standard unachievable by most bros.
Regardless, he wasn't about to fuck this up. They had a good thing going.
A punch to his arm brought Derek back to the present.
“Nurse, dude, you're the tiebreaker, come on.” It was Lardo, leaning up over the seat behind him where he'd been staring out the bus window, completely lost in his own head.
He started slightly, then relaxed with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, dude, what was the question?”
“We've been talking about this for the last fifteen minutes,” Dex pointed out from the seat beside him, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “Were you sleeping with your eyes open?”
“Something like that,” Derek admitted with a shrug, glancing back at Lardo expectantly.
She rolled her eyes. “Would you rather get into a fight with fifty goose-sized horses, or with one horse-sized goose?”
“Are we talking, like, a Falabella mini-horse or a Percheron?” Derek asked.
“Oh my god,” Dex muttered, while Lardo, rolling her eyes again, said, at the same time, “I'm not even going to question how you know so much about horses, but let's say it's the size of a thoroughbred or something.”
He pretended to think about it for a minute, then answered blithely, “The goose-sized horses, for sure. Horses can be nice but geese are always evil.”
“But there are fifty of them!” Dex exclaimed, exasperated, throwing his hands up.
“Yeah, but last year one goose-sized goose chased me and Chowder from Lake Quad halfway back to Faber,” Derek admitted.
“Only after you spilled your coffee on it!” Chowder added.
Derek, refusing to acknowledge this, went on. “...Anyway, if that's what a regular goose can do, I don't want to encounter a horse-sized one. Ever. Geese seriously need to chill.”
When he finished, he saw that Dex was shaking with silent laughter. Derek had never been more thankful for his dark skin, because he knew he'd be bright red otherwise. Dex had an adorable laugh. It wasn't graceful, or refined, but it was so genuine.
“What's so funny?” he asked, after a maybe too-long moment of staring.
“You. Derek Nurse. Mr. Chill. Being chased by a bird.”
“Yo, Chow was there too,” Derek insisted.
Dex, still laughing, had to wipe the corner or his eye before he could reply. “Sure, but Chowder seems like the type of guy to get chased by wildlife all the time.”
“Hey!” Chowder interjected from across the aisle, but Derek couldn't help but to crack a smile, to snort out a breath, and then they were both laughing.
And if he reached up after a second or two of this, clapped Dex on the shoulder, held on a little too tight, a little too long, then, well, that didn't necessarily mean anything.
It was the perfect storm. The Samwell Men's Hockey team had won their game the night before, 3-1 against Cornell. Chowder had gotten a shutout while he'd been in the goal. Meanwhile, the Providence Falconers had won their game that week as well. So the whole team was still riding an adrenaline high.
But that wasn't all. It was Valentine's day, as well. Which meant that it was also the birthday of one D-man Derek Nurse.
In retrospect, Will would have been more surprised if there hadn't been a kegster. No matter that it was Sunday night and they all had class the next morning.
They'd crashed at the Haus the night before, after the game. Will had had the energy to lug the air mattress into Chowder's room and inflate it, but Nursey had immediately crashed on the questionable-at-best green sofa and refused to move.
Even without any alarms set, they'd managed to wake up within minutes of one another, dress, and wander into the kitchen in search of whatever it was that smelled so nice.
“I think our D-man synchronicity is being threatened,” Ransom had commented to Holster. His captains were both seated at the table in nothing but their boxers, Ransom on his laptop, Holster slouched in his chair, feet sticking out the other side of the table. Over by the oven, Bitty had his earphones in and was gently swaying to some unheard beat while he finished frosting a tray of glorious looking cinnamon rolls.
“Homework? This early in the morning?” Nursey had asked with a yawn, gesturing at the computer.
“Nah, man,” Ransom had replied, “Putting together the facebook event for the totally 'swawesome kegster we're having tonight!”
“We're having a kegster.” Will's voice was flat, still a bit thick from sleep. He shouldn't be surprised by these things anymore, but somehow he always was. “This seems a little bit last minute.”
“Um, dude. Our win? Jack's win? Chowder's shutout? Valentine's day? Nursey's birthday? Happy birthday, by the way, man. We got you a party.” This last part, Holster had directed at Nursey, who was pulling out a chair across the table from him.
“Thanks, dude,” Nursey responded with a nod. “That's a pretty rad gift.”
Will, still standing stupidly in the doorway, felt himself blanch at those words.
It was Nursey's birthday. Of course it was Nursey's birthday. He had no idea how it had slipped his mind. He had to do something. Get him a present. That was the kind of thing you did for the guy who had sort-of accidentally become your best friend, let alone for your sort-of accidental best friend who you kind of really wished would be your boyfriend.
“I have to go,” Will blurted, and immediately turned tail and went to get his shoes.
“Dex, no, I made cinnamon rolls!” Bitty called after him.
“What's with him?” He could hear Ransom ask.
Nursey's voice was nearly inaudible from the distance he was at, now, but Will didn't need to hear him to know exactly what he'd say, see a perfect image of his nonchalant little shrug: “No chill, man. That's always Dex's problem.”
He'd managed to retrieve his shoes from Chowder's room without waking him up, and was on his way out the front door when he found Nursey there waiting for him, leaning elegantly against the banister like the fucking supermodel he could be if he'd wanted to.
“Don't go without a cinnamon roll,” he said, holding out the pastry, wrapped carefully in a paper towel.
“Thanks,” Will said, accepting it and ducking his head to hide the flush he felt rising in his cheeks.
“You gonna come out tonight?” He asked, turning as Will stepped past him toward the door.
“Yeah—of course,” Will stammered, a little tongue-tied.
“Cool,” Nursey said, and his grin cracked into a real smile. “Wouldn't be the same without you there.”
Will didn't know what to say, could feel his face heating up further, so he just nodded slightly, and let himself out. Chirping he could deal with, but this sincerity was going to kill him.
He made it all the way to the little block of shops, cafes, and bars that constituted 'downtown' Samwell before he realized he had no idea what to get Nursey. And, frankly, he was still too tired from last night's away game to even think straight. Without thinking twice, he ducked into the nearest coffee shop, a little place called the Brew&Brew, that he'd never been in before—it was a little...esoteric for his tastes.
But the coffee was good, and it was still quiet and sparsely populated at this hour. He went through a checklist of things Nursey liked.
Literature? Sure, but Will wouldn't have any idea what to get him specifically, and a gift card to the bookstore was the lamest present he could think of.
Floral snapbacks? He had at least two already, surely Nursey didn't need another one.
Those fancy hipster-artist notebooks? Moleskines or something like that? Nursey was always jotting things down; he seemed to have one of those on him at all times. But that didn't seem right, either.
Will thought of the kind of things he might like to get for his birthday. A new box for his tools, a decent wallet, books on computer programming, socks were always nice. Things he needed, or were at least useful, but couldn't spare the money to get on his own. Nursey's family was loaded, though. That wasn't a concern he had. Which made him much harder to shop for.
With a huff, Will finished his coffee, and went to return the cup to the bar. As he was setting it down for the barista to take, he paused.
A stack of flyers was sitting on the counter, advertizing 'slam poetry nights' at the cafe. Will grinned. That was totally the kind of thing Nursey would be into. He grabbed one of the sheets and folded it so it would fit into his back pocket, and wandered out into the cold February morning.
He ended up in front of another store he'd never been in, which sported Bob Marley posters in the display window and very clearly catered to a crowd that was into “hemp.” Will rolled his eyes, but opened the door anyway. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of patchouli, but he wrinkled his nose and pushed through it and into the crowded space. One glance around told him that it was probably the best place in Samwell to find a gift for a hard-to-shop-for hipster.
Some of the items were immediate “nos.” One glance at the dream catchers hanging in the corner made Will relive the lectures on cultural appropriation he'd gotten from Shitty the year before, and with Nursey being half Sioux...Suffice to say he was certain it wouldn't go over well. The faux-African decor was also right out.
Will poked through the shelves and racks with increasing dismay. Maybe this was a bad idea; maybe he should just go with a six-pack of Nursey's favorite IPA or something else that would be easy. That was when he saw the little wooden stand holding bracelets marked “for men.” He could practically hear Shitty's response to this, too, but he found himself fingering one of the bracelets anyway. It was wrap-styled, leather cords twisted into a loose braid, the strands dyed gold and orange and green, the ends held together by a carved wooden bird. At first he thought it was a parrot, but a second glance showed that it was some sort of waterfowl. A duck, maybe. Or, Will's thoughts returning to a recent game of “would you rather” on the bus, maybe it was a goose.
It was perfect, but something nagged at him. He'd been instantly drawn to this piece over the others. The colors had immediately reminded him of Nursey, but he wasn't certain why. Then it hit him—it was the same color as the blog he followed, the one run by that poet. The one who wrote the poems about a boy who may or may not look like Will.
The one he liked to pretend was Nursey, even if he felt stupid and embarrassed about that.
He got the bracelet from the stand and, without thinking about it too much, took it up to the register to purchase. The cashier offered to gift wrap it for him, which he accepted. Mercifully, she didn't ask any questions about who it was for, especially given he was buying this on Valentine's Day.
Package in hand, Will made his way back to his dorm room. He had some time to kill before the party, and he'd been neglecting his photography blog the past few days.
The first thing he saw, however, when he opened his browser and navigated to the site, was that the mystery poet had made a new post, timestamped approximately two minutes previous.
White Boy no. 43 focused on the poet's appreciation for the subject's ability to blush easily, and their frustration with not knowing why he did it. There were a few typos; it had obviously been written quickly, but it was good, like all their other work. Will felt himself blushing as he read it, and tried to force himself to stop hearing it in his head with Nursey's voice.
“Fuck me,” Will muttered, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, and made himself focus on his own work. But not before he clicked “like” on no. 43.
This party was lit, Derek thought, already a little bit buzzed. Not the wildest the Haus had seen, but if an Epikegster was a solid 10/10, this one was at least an 8½. His twentieth birthday—and all that other stuff—definitely felt adequately celebrated.
Derek went to the kitchen to trade out the dregs of his drink for a fresh one, and found Lardo and Bitty already there. They were laughing over something, both in good cheer—Bitty's skype call with Jack must have gone well. He'd been a little bit bummed earlier, with Jack out of town for an away game.
“Code fuchsia,” Lardo announced when she noticed him, “Derek Nurse, unattended at my ten o'clock.”
“Goodness,” Bitty replied over a laugh, “Where's Dex? I texted to assign him Nursey Patrol fifteen minutes ago.”
Derek huffed good-naturedly.
“I try to crowdsurf at one event and now I need a babysitter at every kegster?” He laughed, reaching into the back of the fridge, where Holster had hidden the good beer. Secretly, he was rather pleased to hear that he had an excuse to spend the whole party with Dex.
“It's for your own good,” Bitty chided, mom-friend that he was. Derek grinned and cracked open his can.
He leaned nonchalantly against the counter a few feet away from the two of them, and asked, as casually as he could manage, “Where is Dex, anyway? He said he'd be here but I haven't seen him.”
Bitty and Lardo exchanged a look.
“If he's not with you--” Lardo began.
“Which he's supposed to be,” interjected Bitty.
“Then I don't know where he is,” finished Lardo.
As if summoned, the front door to the Haus opened and shut, and William Poindexter, out of breath and gloriously rumpled, made it into the kitchen a moment later.
“Speak of the devil,” Bitty said, already turning to get him a drink.
“Whoa,” laughed Lardo, “What's with the sex hair, Dex?”
“Huh?” Dex asked, raising a hand to his hair to smooth it, then scowled when the question registered. Derek, on the other hand, was trying not to look too interested.
“I was taking a nap earlier and...accidentally slept for six hours,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the music, but softly enough to show that he was embarrassed. “Your text woke me up, Bitty.”
Derek failed to stifle a laugh. Dex didn't do anything by half-measures. Not even napping. He liked that. A lot, actually.
“And you ran all the way here?” Derek asked.
“Well, I was already late,” Dex replied, nodding absently as Bitty pressed a cup into his hand.
Derek grinned. “It's a kegster, Poindexter. I don't think the concept of 'late' really applies.”
Dex huffed, and said, “Tell that to my father. 'Early is on time, Billy, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.'” He affected a gruff tone in apparent imitation of Gregory Poindexter. Derek chuckled again, just happy he'd shown up at all, and Dex looked from him to the floor.
After a second, Derek said, “Hey, now that I've got my partner, let's go destroy Rans and Holst at flip cup.”
Dex looked up then, a grin on his face. “Gonna show them who the best D-man pair is?”
They bumped fists, clicked their drinks together, and set out into the main Haus, following the sound of Holster's voice.
As it turned out, they did not destroy at flip cup. Their captains weren't about to take it easy on Derek just because it was his birthday, not when their honor and their reputation as the best defensive pair in NCAA hockey was at stake. But it was fun, and all four of them were flushed with laughter (and alcohol) by the end of it.
As Ransom and Holster walked away, arms thrown over each other's shoulders as they crowed in victory, Derek and Dex were challenged to another game by some lacrosse douche and his girlfriend.
This time, they did dominate. A rematch was declared, and at the end of that one, Lardo and one of her art friends shoved their way in to challenge them.
By the end of this game, Derek was having to hold onto Dex's shoulder to keep the room from spinning. Also, it just felt kind of nice.
“Maybe we should take a break,” Dex said after that humiliating defeat.
“It's all chill, dude,” Derek said, immediately disproving the point by tipping forward so that Dex had to put a hand to his chest to steady him.
“Yeah, it's definitely time for a break,” Dex declared, ever the responsible one, even though he was almost as wobbly as Derek. Must be something that came with the territory of being the eldest child in a large family.
“You want to go outside?” he asked, tugging at Dex's sleeve and pointing to the door. He just nodded and they made their ways out to the front lawn, grabbing their coats on the way and waving at Chowder and Farmer where they were dancing.
The frigid blast of air when the door opened was enough to sober Derek up, at least a little, and the comparitive quiet and stillness of the night, compared to the riot of noise and bodies inside, was equally helpful to clear his head.
“Want to go for a walk,” Derek asked once the dark had had a chance to settle around them.
“Sure,” Dex shrugged, and they made their way down the row of frat houses, their feet crunching on the snow. The houses were eerily silent and dark—which made sense, as they were probably all at the Haus party or other Valentine's day festivities. The alcohol still buzzed through Derek's veins, no longer overwhelming, but enough to make everything feel pleasant, and a little like he was floating.
That may have just been Dex, though.
The walk had been quiet, companionable, but at the end of the street, Dex said, “I got you something. For your birthday.”
Derek looked over, at where Dex was studiously looking at the bare trees, the darkened windows, anywhere but at him.
“You didn't have to do that, man,” Derek replied, a beat too late.
Dex shrugged, still looking away, and fumbled in the pocket of his coat for a moment, bringing out a small paper-wrapped package. He passed it to Derek without another word.
His hands were numb from the cold, so he struggled a little with the paper, but it gave way after a few seconds, opening to reveal a leather bracelet. Derek was a jewelry guy, and it was exactly his style.
“You don't have to wear it or anything,” Dex was muttering, “I just thought that—“
Derek cut him off, “No, man, it's perfect. These are, like, my exact favorite colors and everything. How did you know?”
The look Dex gave him then was curious, inscrutable, and Derek was halfway through a verse about it, when he answered. “I didn't. It just...reminded me of you.”
“Well, thanks. This has been a pretty 'swawesome birthday.” Derek said, unable to help a smile as he tried to fasten the bird-shaped clasp around his wrist. He got it on the third try, and when he looked up, Dex was holding something else.
“I also found this at a coffee place I went to this morning. Looked like something you might be interested in,” he said, and Derek rached out to take the folded paper...which turned out to be a flyer for poetry nights at the Brew&Brew. He had to laugh.
“What?” Dex asked.
“Nothing, just...I've been going to these for like. Over a year. They're pretty chill.”
Dex gave him another look. “You ever write anything?”
Derek shrugged, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Sometimes,” he admitted. The real answer was 'almost every time.' He hadn't stopped writing poetry about the issues that mattered to him just because he'd started writing embarrassingly romantic poetry about his best friend/defensive partner.
Dex seemed to accept this, and didn't question it further. By unspoken agreement, they turned around to head back to the Haus. They had at least a few more rounds of drinking games left in them before it was time to call it a night.
Will felt stupid. What was he doing here? He stuck out like a sore thumb. Well, sure, he was wearing flannel like half the people here, but he knew his was country flannel, not hipster flannel. There was a difference.
But no one commented and, after two (surprisingly tasty) small-batch craft beers, he was starting to relax despite himself. And no one had really noticed him, anyway, where he sat in an alcove toward the back. He certainly hadn't seen anyone he knew.
Of course, on poetry night at the Brew&Brew, that wasn't really unexpected for a varsity hockey player.
Still, he kept his knit cap pulled low over his hair and ears. Just in case. It wasn't that he was hiding or anything. But he...didn't want to be recognized. Recognition would lead to questions, would lead to him having to explain why he'd made the impulsive decision to come tonight.
Once the performances started, all attention was on the tiny corner stage anyway. There had been a few readings already. A tall girl had done one on the frustration of constantly having her girlfriend mistaken for her sister. Will had almost started clapping at the end of it before he noticed everyone else snapping, and he blushed, changing the motion halfway through. That would have been a way to out himself as clueless about the arts scene.
There had been a few more, one about depression, another about the writer's heritage as an immigrant, a piece about a childhood friend the writer missed. Will was starting to get antsy. It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying this, or anything. He actually really was, to his own surprise—Samwell was changing him.
No, he was just beginning to wonder if Nursey would even be here. He hadn't seen him in the crowd, or at the bar.
A few more poems, and Will was about to give up on Nursey showing up at all, but the next person to step up onto the stage was him. The room erupted into friendly greetings, and Will could see Nursey's mouth curve into that smile that always made him want to kiss him. Clearly he performed here more often than 'sometimes.'
“So, hey,” Nursey began, and the room quieted. “I was running late—they had to let me in through the back. Running late is kind of a theme for tonight, though.” He paused, adjusted the microphone, scanned the room. Luckily, he didn't notice Will there, in the back.
“Anyway, I promised you all a follow up to Heritage last month,” he continued, and there were a few snaps at the mention of what was presumably a title. “But I didn't have time to finish it.” There were murmurs of diasppointment. “I know, I'm sorry. But I do have something for you. I'd like to read an older piece of mine instead. Please indulge me; my birthday was a few days ago.”
He took a deep breath and took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. When he lifted it, his sleeve fell back enough that Will could see a peek of orange, gold, and green leather at his wrist. His eyes widened. He was wearing it.
“This is a poem about someone special to me. It's called White Boy no. 7.”
Will froze. The sound of blood rushing in his ears drowned out the sound of Nursey's voice, but he didn't really need to hear the poem. He'd read it, of course. No. 7 was one of his favorites.
He spent the whole time trying to reconcile everything in his head. Months of dreaming about Nursey talking about him like that poet talked about the eponymous white boy. But he was. They were one and the same. Will entertained a brief moment of thought that he had written about someone else, someone he didn't even know, but honestly? The evidence all pointed to Will.
The kicker was when Nursey finished, to a chorus of snapping, and looked up—directly at Will. And he blanched at the recognition, physically recoiled, turned, and didn't quite run toward the back exit. It was the least chill he'd ever seen him.
Will didn't hesitate. He leapt off his stool and went for the door after him, shoving past people where he needed to. He'd never been more thankful for his hockey training.
Nursey had a head start on him, had made it halfway down the narrow, otherwise-deserted back street, but he was still within earshot.
“Nursey,” Will called. “Derek. Wait. Please.”
Reluctantly, Nursey came to a halt, turning to face him, looking nervous while Will jogged to catch up.
“So, uh, that was pretty lame of me,” Nursey said when Will came to a stop a step away, rubbing the back of his head.
Will rolled his eyes, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, that could make this all make sense.
“Apparently, I've been following your poetry blog for months.”
“Oh.”
“I didn't know it was you.”
“Oh.”
Will took a shaky breath, and had to break eye contact. It was too much. The next words out of his mouth were some of the most difficult he'd ever spoken.
“But I wanted it to be.”
“...Oh,” Nursey replied, at last, barely more than a breath.
Will resisted rolling his eyes a second time. “Actually, you know what, I'm beginning to have my doubts about your being any sort of poet.”
Rather than defend his linguistic virtuosity, Nursey took the step forward to close the distance between them, took Will's chin in his hand, and pressed their mouths together.
He was a little shocked, unable to process. It was something he'd thought about, dreamed about, for so long, that he couldn't believe it was really happening until Nursey started to pull back, a furrow in his brow.
“I hope that was okay,” he said sheepishly.
“Fuck yeah, it was,” Will replied roughly, and grabbed the lapel of his coat to pull him back in. Nursey laughed softly against his mouth, then kissed him properly, the way he'd written about, they way they'd both wanted.
Will's hands moved over Nursey's shoulders, his arms, tracing the contours of his muscles, and he gave as good as he got, their lips sliding together with the desperate friction of a year of pent-up want. One of Nursey's hands pulled off Will's cap so that the other could tangle in his hair, using the grip to tilt his head and deepen the kiss.
The sound of a passing car startled Will into pulling back, and Nursey jumped too, though he kept his hand on the back of Will's neck. Once it was gone, they both laughed, forehead-to-forehead.
“Come on,” Will said after a minute, “Let's head back to campus.” Nursey nodded, and took a moment to replace the hat he'd stolen, pulling it carefully over Will's ears. He smiled at that, then wider when Nursey, almost hesitatingly, took his hand.
They made it a block in comfortable silence before the question came.
“Why were you...you know, here?” Nursey asked, using his free hand to gesture back at the Brew&Brew. “Not that I'm complaining, given how things turned out.”
Will looked at the ground. “I don't know, really,” he said. “You said you performed here, sometimes, and I was curious and. Well, I did have a giant crush on you.”
“Did?”” Nursey repeated, mock-offended. “Am I that bad of a kisser?”
Will rolled his eyes, fondly this time. “You know you're not, you don't need me to feed your ego. Besides, is it still a crush when you find out it's mutual?”
Nursey laughed softly but didn't reply, just squeezing Will's hand a little tighter.
“It's whatever you want it to be. I guess you could tell from the, uh, forty-three poems I wrote about you, but I kind of like you a lot,” he admitted, after a long pause.
Will blushed. Honestly, he was still having a bit of trouble believing those poems were about him. How Nursey saw him, felt. What Nursey wanted to do to him, he remembered with a surge of heat.
But he had to reply. Had to make sure. “I want this to be a thing. Officially. Like, dating, boyfriends, and all.”
Nursey looked over at him, smile wide, grey eyes luminous in the fluorescent glow of the streetlights.
“I want that, too,” he said, and Will leaned in to kiss him again.
The next post on Derek's blog was the start of a new series: White Boy and Me, no. 1.
The next post on Will's was his first self-portrait: his face, laughing, eyes closed, and Nursey's lips pressed against his jaw.
It was a beginning.