Archive of Our Own

The dream was always the same.

Duff was leaning against the wooden fence that separated the two houses, his muscular arms resting on the weather-worn slats, the late afternoon sun turning his blond hair into a golden mess that fell over his broad shoulders. He wore a simple white t-shirt, his jeans had a tear on the left knee. His blue eyes, so light they seemed to hold a piece of the summer sky, were fixed on Izzy with an intensity that only existed in dreams. There was a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that wasn't the easy, loud smile that Duff gave to everyone at school, but something quieter, more secret, as if it were saved only for that moment, only for the two of them.

"You're late," Duff would say, and his voice wasn't the loud, playful voice of real life, it was a lower, more intimate voice, that made Izzy's chest tighten in a way that hurt and warmed at the same time.

"I was here the whole time," Izzy would answer, and in the dream he could say it without fear, without his throat locking up, without feeling the weight of years of silence crushing his words. "You just didn't see."

And then Duff would reach out his hand. His long fingers, the calluses from playing bass, his wide wrist where the leather bracelet rested. Izzy would look at that hand, and in the dream he knew that all he had to do was hold it. Just one gesture and everything would change. His heart would race, his breath would become short, and he would start to raise his arm, his fingers approaching, almost touching, almost, almost.

The alarm went off.

A shrill, metallic sound that drilled through Izzy's skull and shattered the dream into a thousand pieces. He opened his eyes and stared at the bedroom ceiling, his chest still rising and falling fast, his right hand extended in the empty air as if still searching for something that wasn't there. The morning light filtered through the black curtain and drew pale stripes on the wall covered in posters.

"Jeffrey!" His mother's voice came up the stairs, muffled but clear. "You're going to be late!"

Izzy let his hand fall onto his chest. He felt his heart beating against his ribs, still fast, still caught in the remnants of the dream. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to grasp the image of Duff leaning against the fence, the secret smile, the outstretched hand. But the dream was already slipping through his fingers like water, dissolving in the brightness of the day that was beginning.

"I'm coming," he shouted back, and his voice came out rough, drawled, the voice of someone who had slept poorly and dreamed too much.

He stayed in bed for another minute, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling fan spun slowly, making a click-click-click rhythm that had been with him since childhood. The wooden blades were dusty, and a thin spiderweb swayed between them. He should clean that. He should do a lot of things. But the only thing that really occupied his mind was the fact that this was the last day of school before summer break, and Duff was going away.

Duff was going away. The phrase hammered in his head.

Izzy's room was small and carried his personality in every inch. The walls were lined with posters, Ramones, The Clash, Sex Pistols, Misfits, some torn at the edges, others taped with yellowed adhesive tape. The guitar rested in the corner, a worn black Fender with faded stickers on the body. There were vinyl records stacked on the floor, near the record player he'd bought at a thrift store for ten dollars, and the notebooks full of lyrics were scattered on his messy desk, some open, showing pages filled with small, slanted handwriting, others closed with black covers that hid everything he'd never had the courage to say out loud.

The air in the room smelled of incense, his mother lit it every day, said it purified the environment, and a faint trace of cigarette that Izzy tried to hide by blowing the smoke out the window. The black curtain swayed with the breeze coming through the open crack, and outside the sun was already high enough to bathe the street in a warm, golden June light.

Izzy got up slowly. His bare feet touched the cold wooden floor, and he felt a shiver run up his legs. He wore an old Clash t-shirt, so worn that the design was almost disappearing, and gray sweat shorts that hung loose on his thin hips. His thin but defined arms, he skateboarded, carried his guitar, had a lean, quiet strength, were goosebumped from the morning cold.

He went to the mirror hanging on the closet door and looked at himself. The reflection showed an eighteen-year-old boy with dark hair falling over his shoulders, still messy from the pillow, his dark brown eyes still swollen with sleep, his thin face, his thin lips. The nose ring shone in the light coming through the curtain crack, a tiny silver ball he had gotten two years ago and that his mother still wasn't used to.

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to tame the unruly strands, and sighed. One more day. One more day of having to see Duff in the school hallways, having to smile and wave and pretend everything was okay while his chest ached with the force of a love that couldn't be spoken.

The shower was quick. The cold water helped wake him up and dissipate the last traces of the dream, although the image of Duff leaning against the fence continued to throb somewhere in his mind, like a song that wouldn't leave his head. Izzy put on his black skinny jeans, his Misfits t-shirt, the leather jacket that was his second skin even in the summer heat. He put on his boots and went downstairs.

The house was small and modest, but it had the warmth of a home. The living room was decorated with old furniture that his mother restored on weekends, the walls painted a soft shade of green, the windows letting in the morning light. There were plants scattered in ceramic pots, ferns, succulents, a cactus Izzy had given her for Mother's Day three years ago that had miraculously survived all the forgotten waterings. The smell of fresh coffee and toast came from the kitchen, mixed with the aroma of wet earth from the garden his mother cultivated with care.

Izzy's mother was by the stove when he entered the kitchen. She was a thin woman, with brown hair tied in a loose bun, eyes the same dark color as her son's, her face marked by fine wrinkles from someone who smiled more than she frowned. She wore a flowered apron over her blouse and jeans, and had a spatula in her right hand.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said, without turning around. "I thought I was going to have to come up there with a bucket of cold water."

"Good morning." Izzy sat at the table and took an apple from the fruit bowl. "You didn't need to. The alarm did the dirty work."

His mother put a plate of toast in front of him and sat on the other side of the table, holding her coffee mug with both hands. She watched her son in silence for a moment, that mother's look that saw beyond words, beyond ready answers, beyond the cool teenager facade.

"You slept badly," she said. It wasn't a question.

"The heat," Izzy lied, shrugging and biting into the toast. The melted butter ran down the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it with the back of his hand.

His mother didn't insist. She knew there were things her son didn't tell her, and she respected that silence with a delicacy that Izzy was grateful for without ever saying out loud. Instead, she changed the subject, talking about the garden, about the roses that were blooming, about the neighbor who had bought a new dog. Izzy listened and nodded, chewing his toast and feeling the buttery taste mix with the knot that still persisted in his throat.

"Is Duff leaving today, isn't he?" his mother asked, casually, as she got up to wash her mug.

The name hit Izzy like a light punch, the kind that doesn't hurt but leaves a mark. He swallowed the toast with difficulty, feeling the dough go down dryly.

Izzy finished chewing his toast before answering, buying time. "Yes. He told me his uncle is coming to pick him up after lunch."

"Are you going to say goodbye to him before?"

"He's coming by here before he goes."

His mother nodded, and for a moment Izzy had the impression that she was going to say something else, something about the gleam in her son's eyes whenever his friend's name was mentioned, something about the sadness that had hung over him in recent days, but she just smiled and ruffled his hair, the affectionate gesture she'd been doing since he was a child.

"Then enjoy the day. Last day of school before break. There must be something good in that."

Izzy finished breakfast, grabbed his backpack, and left the house. The June sun hit his face as soon as he stepped onto the porch, a warm, golden light that made the asphalt shine and the leaves of the trees shimmer. The street was quiet, the houses lined up with their well-kept gardens and white-painted wooden fences. The sky was such a clear blue it hurt to look at, and the air tasted of summer, warm, dry, carried by the distant buzz of cicadas.

Duff's house was three doors away, a little bigger than Izzy's, with a light blue facade and the bedroom window facing the street. The window was open. From inside came the muffled sound of music, something by Led Zeppelin, probably, and Duff's loud, carefree voice humming along.

Izzy stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking at that window, feeling his chest tighten with the familiarity of the scene. How many mornings had he spent there, waiting for his friend to come out so they could go to school together? How many times had he stood by the fence, just like in the dream, listening to Duff's voice singing inside the house? How many times had he wished that moment, the waiting, the anticipation, the certainty that Duff would appear, would last forever?

"Stradlin!"

The voice came from the window, loud and excited, and Izzy looked up. Duff was leaning over the sill, his blond hair falling over his face, his blue eyes shining in the sunlight, a huge smile showing all his teeth. He wore a simple black short-sleeved t-shirt that highlighted his muscular arms and the tan that was already starting to appear on his light skin. The nose ring, a small silver hoop, sparkled in the light.

"I'm coming down!" Duff shouted. "Wait there!"

Izzy shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and waited. His heart beat a little faster, as it always did when he was near Duff, but he had learned to hide it. Learned to keep his face impassive, his voice controlled, his treacherous eyes under control. Years of practice. Years of silence.

Duff's front door opened with a bang, and he came out almost running, his backpack hanging from one shoulder, his combat boots hitting the porch floor. Duff's mother appeared in the doorway, a tall, blonde woman with an expansive smile and a voice even louder than her son's.

"Good morning, Izzy!" she shouted, waving. "Don't let this one get into trouble!"

"I'm the one who needs him to keep me out of trouble, Mrs. Marie," Izzy answered, with the hint of sarcasm that was his trademark.

Duff approached, his smile even bigger, and put his arm around Izzy's shoulders with the naturalness of someone who had been doing that since they were six years old. His arm was heavy and warm, and Izzy felt the familiar smell, the sea, cheap deodorant, mint gum, invade his senses and muddle his thoughts.

"Last day, man," Duff said, as they started walking. "Last day before summer. Ready for two months without me bothering you?"

"Ready for two months of peace and quiet," Izzy answered, his voice dry, but the corner of his mouth twitched with an almost-smile.

Duff squeezed his arm around Izzy's shoulders, pulling him closer, and Izzy felt the familiar smell, sea and cheap deodorant and mint gum, invade his senses in a way that was both comforting and painful.

"You're going to miss me," Duff stated, and it wasn't just any provocation. There was a certainty in his voice, a quiet confidence that came from years and years of that friendship.

"I doubt it," Izzy retorted, raising an eyebrow and keeping his eyes fixed on the street ahead, because he knew that if he looked at Duff now, the smile would escape and he wouldn't be able to hide anything anymore.

Duff laughed, a low laugh, almost a breath, that made Izzy's chest vibrate where the arm joined them. "You will. You know you will. You've known since we were kids and I went to stay at my grandma's for a week and you kept sending letters."

"That was your mother's idea."

"It was your idea. My mother just gave the stamp." Duff turned his head, and Izzy felt the blue gaze burning on his cheek. "You're going to miss me, Izzy Stradlin. And I'm going to miss you. A lot."

Izzy didn't answer. He just shook his head and kept walking, feeling the weight of Duff's arm on his shoulders and his smell permeating his clothes. The sun beat down on his back, warm and comforting, and the sound of their combat boots echoed in unison on the asphalt. It was the same steps as always, the same path as always, the same routine that had been repeating since elementary school. But there was something different in the air that morning, a silent melancholy, an invisible countdown, the feeling that something was ending.

It was the last day of school. After that, Duff would leave. Two and a half months without seeing each other. Two and a half months without the warm arm on his shoulders, without the smell of gum and deodorant, without the loud voice and the easy smile. Two and a half months for Izzy to try, once again, to forget what he felt.

It would be another summer. Like all the others. With one difference: Izzy didn't know, but that summer would change everything.

---

The school was a fifteen-minute walk away, a route Izzy and Duff knew by heart. The same tree-lined streets, the same houses with white fences, the same bakery on the corner where they sometimes stopped to buy donuts before first period. The neighborhood was lower middle class, a quiet suburb of some Midwestern American town, where everyone knew each other and news spread faster than the wind.

The sun was higher when they arrived at the school gates. The building was an old red brick construction, with large windows and a central courtyard where students gathered before the bell. There were groups scattered everywhere, the athletes near the soccer field, the nerds on the benches near the library, the cool kids leaning against the back wall. Izzy and Duff belonged to their own category: the rockers, the ones who wore leather jackets and band t-shirts, the ones who played guitar and bass and dreamed of forming a band that would play in the city's underground circuit.

As soon as they passed through the gates, a group of girls approached. There were three of them, all seniors like them, all with their eyes shining in Duff's direction. Izzy recognized the one in front, a blonde girl with blue eyes named Stephanie, whom Duff had dated for two weeks at the beginning of the semester and then dumped without much explanation.

"Duff!" Stephanie called, giving a little wave with her fingers. "We heard you're going away!"

Duff took his arm off Izzy's shoulders and turned to the girls with that easy, charming smile that made half the school swoon. Izzy stood still, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, watching the scene with a neutral expression that hid the tightness in his chest.

"I am," Duff answered, approaching them. "Two months at the beach. Surfing, sun, sea. It's going to be epic."

"Are you going to send messages?" one of Stephanie's friends asked, and her voice came out shy, almost uncertain, as if she wasn't sure she had the right to ask that. She was a short girl, with brown hair tied in a ponytail, and her eyes shone with that silent hope that so many people placed in Duff without him even noticing.

"Of course I am," he answered, and his voice had that warm, carefree tone that was his trademark. "I'm not going to let you forget me that easily. Two months is a long time. Who knows, when I get back you might not even remember me anymore."

"Impossible," the girl murmured, and the others laughed, agreeing.

Stephanie rolled her eyes, but she was also laughing. "You're such an exaggerator, Duff. No one's going to forget you."

Izzy walked away slowly, leaving Duff surrounded by the girls. It was always like this. Duff was the sun, and people gravitated around him like planets in orbit, drawn by the heat, the light, the glow he emitted effortlessly. And Izzy was just one of those planets, spinning on the periphery, invisible and silent, doomed to admire from afar what he could never have.

He went to the back wall, where he used to sit before class, and took his notebook out of his backpack. It was a black notebook, with a simple cover, the edges already worn from so much use. Inside, the pages were filled with song lyrics, some complete, others just fragments, most never shown to anyone. He opened it to a blank page, took out his pen, and began to write, letting the words flow without thinking too much.

Summer starts today, and you're leaving.
The sun will shine on the beach, but here inside it's cold.
I'm going to count the days, even if I don't want to,
Because every day away from you is a day I don't live.

He stopped, read what he had written, and made a face. It was sappy. Too sappy. He tore out the page, crumpled it, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then he started again, the tip of his pen scratching the paper harder than necessary.

The smell of the sea will take you away,
And I'll stay here, with the same empty streets.
You'll smile in the photos, and I'll smile too,
But no one will see what I hide behind my eyes.

Better. It still wasn't good, but it was a start. He scribbled a few more lines, crossed out words, wrote over them, and when the bell rang, he put his notebook back in his backpack and stood up, feeling the weight of that unspoken love tighten more and more.

The day passed in a blur of monotonous classes and furtive glances. Izzy sat by the window, and Duff sat next to him, it had been like that since the first year, when Duff simply dropped his backpack on the desk next to him and said "this is my spot." No one ever questioned it. No teacher tried to move them. It was just the way things were: Izzy and Duff, Duff and Izzy, side by side since the first day of elementary school, as if the universe had decreed that those two should always be together and no one dared to disagree.

In history class, Duff spent most of the time drawing waves and surfboards on the edges of his notebook, while the teacher talked about the Cold War. Izzy watched the drawings take shape, the lines were crude, but they had an energy that captured the movement of the sea, and felt a silent tenderness that tightened his chest and rose up his throat.

"You should pay attention," Izzy whispered, leaning slightly to the side.

"You should stop being such a goody-two-shoes," Duff whispered back, with a sideways smile.

Izzy rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the heat that rose up his neck. "I'm not a goody-two-shoes," he retorted, his voice still low so as not to attract the teacher's attention, but loaded with indignation that wasn't real.

Duff rested his chin on his hand and tilted his head, his blue eyes studying Izzy's face with an attention that seemed excessive for a simple conversation during history class. "Yes, you are. You're the guy who does the homework the day the teacher assigns it, who never cheats on tests, who turns in assignments before the deadline." He paused, and the sideways smile softened, turning into something quieter, more intimate. "But I like you that way. I really do. I wouldn't change anything."

It was a simple phrase. An ordinary phrase. But Izzy's heart stumbled over the words, and he had to look away to the blackboard, his face hot, his throat tight. "I like you that way." Duff said it so easily, without knowing the weight it carried. Without knowing that Izzy collected those little phrases like someone collecting precious stones, keeping them in a secret chest inside his chest, where no one could see.

At lunch break, they sat in their usual spot, the wooden table near the wall, under an old tree whose branches offered generous shade. Duff had bought a sandwich at the cafeteria and was eating with the voracity of someone who hadn't seen food in days. Izzy nibbled on an apple, not very hungry.

"So," Duff said, his mouth still half full, "what are you going to do this summer?"

"Work," Izzy answered, shrugging and taking another bite of the apple. He chewed slowly, buying time, tasting the sweet, slightly sour taste spread through his mouth. "Save money. Write some songs. The usual."

Duff frowned, the sandwich forgotten in his hand. "That's so boring. You should come with me."

Izzy raised an eyebrow. "Spend two months at your uncle's house? Watching you surf and sunbathe while I get sunburned and grumpy? No, thanks."

"You wouldn't get sunburned. You'd get... tanned. It would be cool." Duff shrugged, but there was something in his voice, a slightly insistent tone, as if he really wanted Izzy to come along. "We could play on the beach. Imagine: a guitar, a bonfire, the waves crashing. It would be epic."

"You don't play guitar. You play bass."

"I'll learn. For you."

And there it was again. A simple phrase. An ordinary gesture. But it made Izzy's heart twist inside his chest like a trapped bird. He took a bite of the apple to have something to do with his mouth that wasn't answering something stupid.

"You're going to miss me," Duff repeated, and now it wasn't just a playful provocation, it was a statement, said with a soft certainty that made Izzy look up.

"Maybe," he admitted, with a shrug that feigned indifference. "A little."

Duff's smile widened, lighting up his whole face, and Izzy felt his chest ache with the beauty of it. How could someone be so beautiful without even realizing it? How could someone exist in the world with those blue eyes that changed color with the light and that smile that made the sun seem unnecessary?

"I'm going to miss you too," Duff said. "A lot."

And then he went back to eating his sandwich, as if he hadn't just completely messed up his friend's heart, and Izzy sat there, sitting in the shade of the tree, the apple forgotten in his hand, thinking about how unfair it was to love someone so much who didn't see.

---

The bell for the last period rang at three in the afternoon, and the school exploded into chaos of students running to the gates, backpacks flying, shouts of "happy holidays!" echoing through the hallways. Izzy left slowly, without hurry, letting the tide of teenagers pass him by. Duff was by his side, as always, their shoulders touching in the crowd.

"Let's go home?" he asked, and his voice was lower than usual, calmer. It wasn't just any question. It was the question they asked every day since elementary school, but today it carried a different weight, because it was the last time before summer, the last walk before two and a half months apart.

Izzy shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and nodded, feeling his heart tighten. "Let's go."

The way back was different from the way there. Not because of the route, it was the same street, the same houses, the same bakery on the corner, but because of the silence. A heavy, dense silence that neither of them broke. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, tinging the sky with shades of orange and pink, and the shadows of the trees stretched out on the asphalt. The heat of the day was still present, but was already beginning to give way to a warm breeze that carried the smell of cut grass and dry earth.

They arrived at the street where they lived, and Izzy felt his chest tighten when he caught sight of Duff's light blue house. The suitcase must be ready. Duff's uncle's car must be arriving. In a few hours, Duff wouldn't be there anymore.

"So," Duff said, stopping in front of the wooden fence that separated the two houses, the same fence from the dream, Izzy thought, and his heart leaped. "I guess this is it."

"I guess it is," he repeated, and his voice came out firmer than he expected, although inside everything was falling apart.

Duff stood still, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his blue eyes fixed on Izzy's dark brown eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. The wind tousled Duff's blond hair, and Izzy had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth the strands.

"Are you going to be okay?" Duff asked, and his voice was different, lower, more serious, without his usual playful tone.

"Of course I am," Izzy answered. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Duff didn't answer immediately. He stood still, his hands still in the pockets of his jeans, his blue eyes scanning Izzy's face as if reading a map. The wind tousled his blond hair, and he didn't even seem to notice. He was too busy looking at Izzy with an intensity that wasn't common, an intensity that Izzy couldn't decipher.

"I don't know," Duff said finally, and his voice was different. Lower. More careful. He looked away at the ground for a second, as if gathering courage, and then raised his eyes again. "Just... I don't know. You seem kind of sad."

Izzy felt his blood run cold. Was it that obvious? Did everyone see it? Had Duff, the oblivious Duff, the one who didn't pay attention, finally noticed?

"I'm not sad," he lied, shrugging and forcing a sideways smile. "Just tired. End of the semester, you know how it is."

Duff seemed to accept the explanation, or pretended to accept it, which was more likely. He opened his arms, and Izzy stepped into the hug without hesitation, as he had been doing since they were six years old, since they met, since their friendship was the most solid thing in the world.

The hug was long. Longer than usual. Duff squeezed Izzy tight, lifting him slightly off the ground, and Izzy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the smell of the sea and cheap deodorant and gum invade his lungs. He felt Duff's muscular arms around his thin body, felt the warmth of his chest against his, felt the blond strands brushing his cheek.

Duff murmured, and his voice came out muffled, blown very close to Izzy's ear, warm against the cold skin. It wasn't just any phrase, one of those said for the sake of saying. It was a request. A desire.

Izzy squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the back of Duff's shirt as if that was the only thing keeping him standing. He wanted to record that moment in his memory, the smell, the warmth, the pressure of the arms around him, so he could revisit it over the next two and a half months, when loneliness set in. "You too," he answered, and his voice came out more tremulous than he would have liked, a fragile thread of sound that almost got lost in the wind.

Duff loosened the hug, but didn't let go completely. He still held Izzy by the shoulders, keeping him at a minimal distance, his blue eyes scanning his friend's face as if he were memorizing every feature. "And don't go finding another best friend while I'm away," he said, and there was an attempt at a joke in his voice, but beneath the joke ran something more serious, an insecurity that rarely appeared. "I don't want to come back and find out I've been replaced."

Izzy felt the corner of his mouth tremble, an almost-smile escaping despite everything. "I can't promise anything,"

Duff laughed, a low, blown laugh, and finally let go of Izzy. The two looked at each other for another moment, and there was something in Duff's blue eyes, something Izzy couldn't decipher. Something that went beyond a friend's farewell. But it lasted only a second, and then the easy smile returned, and Duff patted Izzy's shoulder and turned his back.

"See you in September!" he shouted, already walking towards the house.

"See you in September," Izzy answered, his voice almost a whisper.

He stood on the sidewalk, watching Duff disappear through the blue door, and felt a solitary tear escape from the corner of his eye and trace a warm path down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, with the back of his hand, and went inside before anyone could see.

---

The first week of summer was the worst.

Izzy stayed in bed late every day, the curtains closed, the room plunged into a twilight that matched his mood. He listened to the same records over and over, London Calling, Never Mind the Bollocks, Walk Among Us, and let the music fill the void that Duff's absence had left. The record player's needle scraped the grooves of the vinyl, and the warm, analog sound filled every corner of the room, but couldn't fill the hole that throbbed inside his chest.

His mother came in occasionally, brought food, asked if he was okay, and he answered that he was, he was just tired, just resting from the school year. She would leave plates of sandwiches on his desk, glasses of juice, and leave on tiptoe, respecting her son's silence. But Izzy knew she was worried. He could see it in her dark brown eyes, the same eyes he had inherited, in the way she lingered a second longer at the door before closing it.

But it wasn't tiredness. It was longing.

Longing for the warm arm on his shoulders. Longing for the loud voice humming Led Zeppelin through the window. Longing for the light brown eyes and the easy smile and the simple phrases that messed up his heart without him being able to do anything about it.

He tried to write songs, but the lyrics all came out the same, melancholic, dragging, full of metaphors about the sea and distance and the sun shining elsewhere. He would scribble verses and then cross them out, tear out pages and crumple them, and the floor of the room became covered in paper balls as if it had snowed. Sometimes he would pick up the guitar and play loose chords, without forming a melody, just feeling the vibration of the strings on his fingers, the sound reverberating in his chest.

On the fifth day, his mother sat on the edge of his bed, ruffled his hair and said:

"Jeffrey, you can't spend the whole summer locked up in this room."

His mother's voice was calm but firm, in that way that didn't allow much argument. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her weight slightly sinking the mattress, and her hand rested on the blanket, near Izzy's knee, like a silent anchor.

"Yes, I can," Izzy grumbled, without taking his face out of the pillow. His voice came out muffled by the fabric, sulky, childish.

"You can't." She sighed, and Izzy felt her fingers run through his hair, untangling the strands patiently. "Go out, get some sun, meet someone. Your friends miss you."

Izzy turned his face to the side, just enough for his voice to come out clearer. "I don't have any friends. Just Duff."

His mother sighed, that sigh of someone carrying the weight of seeing her son suffer and not knowing how to help. She smoothed the blanket with her hand, and Izzy noticed the small cracks on her fingers, marks from working in the garden and washing dishes and taking care of the house alone.

"You have Duff," she said, her voice calm. "But Duff isn't the only human being in the world. Go for a walk. Go to that record store you like. Who knows, you might meet someone nice?"

Izzy grumbled, turned on his side and pulled the blanket over his head. But his mother's words kept echoing in his mind, prodding, insisting, and the next day he finally left the house.

The city in summer had a different rhythm. The streets were emptier during the day, with people hiding from the heat inside air-conditioned houses. The asphalt shimmered under the strong sun, and the air tasted of dust and hot asphalt. Izzy walked aimlessly through the downtown streets, past dusty shop windows and closed bars, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, which he insisted on wearing even in the heat, his steps slow and dragging.

It was on one of these walks that he stopped to smoke. He leaned against the wall of an old building, took out his pack from the inside pocket of his jacket, and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in slow spirals, and he stood there, watching the empty street, tasting the bitter taste on his tongue and the heat of the sun on his face. Smoking was a habit he had acquired the previous year, and his mother pretended not to know, although he suspected she knew everything, because mothers always know.

He finished the cigarette, stubbed out the butt on the sole of his boot, and kept walking. That's how he got to the record store.

It was a tiny place, squeezed between a laundromat and a used bookstore, with a faded sign that said "Vinyl Paradise." The door creaked when he entered, and the cool air inside, blessed air conditioning, enveloped him like a hug. The smell of old vinyl and cardboard flooded his senses, and he felt his shoulders relax for the first time in days. The shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with records with colorful, worn covers, and there were wooden crates on the floor with discounted LPs.

He was browsing the shelves, his fingers running over the worn covers, when he heard the voice.

"You like Misfits?"

Izzy turned around. Leaning against the counter, with a no-name guitar in his hands, was a boy with blue hair. Really blue, an electric shade that screamed in the dimness of the store. He was older than Izzy, maybe twenty, twenty-one, and his arms were covered in colorful tattoos that seemed to tell their own story. His eyes were green, lively, curious.

"Yeah," Izzy answered, holding up the record he was holding. "Walk Among Us. Classic."

The blue-haired boy smiled. "Good taste. I'm Andy." He held out his hand, and Izzy shook it, feeling the calluses on his fingers, guitarist calluses.

"Izzy."

"Izzy," Andy repeated, as if tasting the name. "Do you play?"

"Guitar," Izzy answered, and the word came out simply, without fanfare, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Andy smiled, a smile that lit up his whole face and made his blue hair look even more electric. "Good. Looking for a band?"

The question caught Izzy by surprise. He blinked, not knowing what to answer. "What do you mean?"

"Me and some friends have a studio. Nothing professional, a hole downtown, but we get together there to play. The rhythm guitarist left town last month, and we're looking for someone. You look like you know what you're doing."

Izzy looked at Andy, at his green eyes and blue hair and the tattoos on his arms, and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: curiosity. Interest. A spark of something that wasn't longing or melancholy.

"Where is this studio?" he asked.

---

The studio was indeed a hole. It was in the basement of an old building downtown, accessible by an iron staircase that creaked with every step. The walls were exposed brick, dirty and peeling, covered in posters of unknown bands and colorful graffiti. There were wires scattered on the floor, amplifiers piled in the corners, a drum set in the center of the room, and a persistent smell of sweat, cigarettes, and stale coffee. The light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly with the vibration of footsteps.

It was perfect.

Izzy was greeted by Andy and two other people: Lisa, a short-haired girl with a lip piercing who played bass like a force of nature, and Marcus, a thin, nervous drummer who seemed to live on caffeine. They were strangers and loud and had no idea who Izzy was. They didn't know him as "Duff's best friend." They didn't see him as the silent shadow of someone brighter. To them, Izzy was just a new guitarist, and when he picked up the borrowed guitar and started playing, their eyes widened.

"Holy shit," Andy murmured, when Izzy finished a fast, dirty riff. "Where have you been hiding?"

Izzy smiled. A real smile, the first in many days. "Around."

From that day on, Izzy's summer changed. He spent his afternoons in the studio, playing until his fingers hurt, writing with Andy and Lisa and Marcus, immersing himself in music like someone diving into the sea after years in the desert. They were a band, an improvised band, with no name, no pretensions, but they were a band. And for the first time, Izzy wasn't just "Duff's friend." He was the guitarist. He was the songwriter. He was someone.

His clothes changed gradually. He bought a new leather jacket, black, with studs on the shoulders. He bought t-shirts from bands no one knew, tighter pants, a worn buckle belt. He let his hair grow a little longer, and a stubborn strand fell over his left eye, giving him a mysterious air he didn't have before. Lisa said he looked like a rock star. Andy said he needed a blue haircut. Izzy laughed and shook his head, but kept the compliments in his chest like little medals.

His posture changed too, slowly, day after day. He no longer walked with his head down, his shoulders hunched to hide from the world. Now he walked upright, his chin up, his dark brown eyes staring people in the face. It wasn't arrogance, it was confidence. A confidence born in the dirty basement of the studio, between distorted chords and summer afternoons that stretched into the night.

They smoked together during breaks, sitting on the iron staircase that creaked, and talked about music, about life, about nothing. Izzy discovered that Andy had a cat named Sid, that Lisa worked in a vintage clothing store and hated every minute of it, that Marcus drank so much coffee he had an ulcer and didn't care. They became friends, real friends, the kind who didn't ask about the past, just accepted the present.

And then there were the photos.

Izzy started posting on Instagram. Photos of the studio, of rehearsals, of the guitar leaning against the amplifier. Photos of himself, a selfie with his hair falling over his eye, another with his new jacket, another smoking on the iron staircase with Andy and Lisa in the background. Duff's likes appeared on all of them, invariably, like clockwork. And the comments too:

"What place is that?"
"Who are these people?"
"You look different."

Izzy read and felt his chest tighten. Duff was seeing. Duff was paying attention. But he didn't know what to do with it, so he answered little, with economical words, protecting himself.

On a particularly hot night in July, Izzy was lying in bed, the ceiling fan spinning and making a click-click-click, when his phone vibrated. It was a message from Duff. Not a like, not a comment, a direct message.

"I thought you were going to message me."
"I've been kind of busy."
"Busy with what?"
"New band."
"New band? And I didn't know?"
"You know now."

There was a long pause, and Izzy stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Duff was typing, stopping, typing again.

"Who are those guys in the photos?"
"Friends."
"Friends I don't know?"
"You're at the beach, Duff."
"I am. But that doesn't mean I can't know."
"It's just a band. Nothing special."

Another pause. Izzy bit his lip, feeling something strange, a tension that didn't exist before.

"Okay. Send my regards to your new friends."
"I will."
"And to yourself too."
"Thanks."

The conversation ended there, and Izzy stared at the ceiling, his heart beating in an irregular rhythm. There was something in those messages, a tone, an insistence, that left him confused. Was Duff jealous? It didn't make sense. Duff had never been jealous of him. Duff barely saw him.

He turned off the screen, turned on his side, and tried to sleep. But sleep took a while to come, and when it did, it brought confusing dreams of blue eyes and waves crashing on the sand.

---

August arrived with summer storms that washed the streets and left the air smelling of wet earth and ozone. The rains fell torrentially in the late afternoon, turning the asphalt into a mirror, and then the sun would shine again, and everything would become damp and shiny. Izzy and the band played their first show, a real show, at an underground bar downtown, with an audience of thirty people who headbanged and screamed and asked for an encore. The bar was dark and cramped, with the smell of spilled beer and sweat stuck to the walls, and the stage was tiny, but to Izzy it felt like a stadium.

He played guitar until his fingers bled. The strings cut his skin, and he could taste the metallic taste of blood in his mouth from biting his lip so much during the solos. When he finished, drenched in sweat and adrenaline, he felt more alive than ever. The crowd screamed, and he stood on stage, the guitar hanging from his shoulder, his dark brown eyes shining in the dim light.

That night, he posted a photo on Instagram: the empty stage after the show, the guitar leaning against the amplifier, the lights still on. The caption said: "First of many."

Duff was the first to like it. And the first to comment: "Playing without me now?"

Izzy read the comment and felt a pang of guilt mixed with something that was almost satisfaction. Yes, he was playing without Duff. Yes, he was living without Duff. Yes, he was becoming someone on his own. And it hurt, but it was also liberating.

"When you come back, get on stage with us," he answered. It was the longest message he had sent in weeks.

Duff's response came in seconds: "You bet I will."

---

September arrived suddenly, as it always did. One day the heat was still unbearable, and the next the wind already brought the first omen of autumn, a fresh breeze that shook the leaves of the trees and announced the end of summer. The leaves began to turn yellow at the edges, and the sky became a paler blue, as if summer itself was saying goodbye.

It was the first day of school of the senior year.

Izzy woke up before the alarm. He lay in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling his heart beat in a strange rhythm, a mix of anxiety and expectation that churned his stomach. Today Duff was coming back. Today he would see Duff for the first time in two and a half months. Today everything could be different. Or maybe everything would be exactly the same, and that was the thought that frightened him most.

He got up, took a shower, and dressed carefully. He chose his new leather jacket, his black Ramones t-shirt, his skinny jeans, his usual boots. He left his hair loose, the stubborn strand falling over his left eye, his nose ring shining in the light coming through the window. He looked in the mirror and saw someone different from the boy who had said goodbye to Duff in June. Someone stronger. Someone more confident. Someone who had spent the whole summer trying to forget a love and discovered that, even without forgetting, it was possible to be happy.

"You know, you're an interesting guy now," he said to his own reflection, with a crooked smile. "Who would have thought?"

His mother was already in the kitchen when he came downstairs. She looked at her son and smiled, that smile of someone who knew something he didn't say. The coffee was ready, and the smell filled the house like a warm hug.

"Good morning, rock star," she teased. "You look handsome. Duff is going to fall over."

Izzy rolled his eyes, feeling his face heat up. "Don't say that."

His mother smiled over her coffee mug, her dark brown eyes, so similar to his, shining with a silent wisdom. "I will, mother knows things."

He ate breakfast quickly, feeling his stomach churn with nervousness, and left the house. The sun was still low, and the morning light bathed the street in golden, soft tones. The houses were the same, the fences were the same, the bakery on the corner was the same. But Izzy wasn't. And it was strange to walk down that street he had known since childhood and feel that the boy who used to walk it no longer existed.

He arrived at school early. He leaned against the wall near the gates and waited. The courtyard was still empty, with only a few scattered students, and the morning sun cast long shadows on the concrete floor. He took a cigarette from his pack and lit it, the smoke rising in lazy spirals. The bitter taste calmed his nerves a little.

And then he saw.

Duff appeared at the school gate, and Izzy's heart simply stopped. The world around him, the courtyard, the students, the sound of conversations, ceased to exist. There was only Duff, walking towards him.

His blond hair was longer, the tips sun- and salt-bleached. His muscular arms were tanned, standing out against the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing, a black shirt, simple, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His jeans were torn at the knee, and his boots hit the floor with the same sound as always. His blue eyes, those eyes that Izzy knew so well, that visited him in dreams, that shone in Instagram photos, scanned the school courtyard, looking for something. Looking for someone.

And then they met.

Duff stopped in the middle of the path. The easy smile he used as a shield disappeared, replaced by an expression Izzy had never seen before. It was shock. It was amazement. It was something deeper, something that made his blue eyes sparkle and his jaw drop slightly.

Izzy didn't move. He just stood there, leaning against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers, his dark hair falling over his eye, his nose ring shining in the morning light. He knew he looked different. And he knew Duff was seeing.

Duff walked towards him. His steps were slow, hesitant, as if he were approaching something he didn't fully understand. When he got close, they both looked at each other, and the air between them seemed to vibrate, charged with a silent electricity.

"Wow," Duff murmured. "You look... different."

Izzy smiled sideways, that new smile he had learned over the summer. "Long summer."

Duff blinked. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again. His blue eyes scanned Izzy's face as if reading a book, as if looking for something, as if trying to understand what had changed. There were fine sun lines around his eyes, and Izzy noticed that, noticed every new detail, every difference.

"Your hair. Your jacket. You." Duff shook his head, still dazed. "You look... wow."

"Is that a compliment?" he asked, and his voice came out calm, drawled, with the hint of sarcasm that had always been his trademark.

"Yes. Yes, definitely." Duff ran his hand over the back of his neck, a nervous gesture Izzy knew well. "You look amazing. Like... really amazing. I don't even know what to say."

Izzy felt his face heat up, but kept his posture. He was no longer the boy who blushed and looked away. He was the new Izzy. The Izzy who had played at an underground bar. The Izzy who had friends who saw him as he was. The Izzy who had spent the summer learning to be someone.

"You look good too," he said, and his voice came out calm, controlled. "The beach did you good."

"Not as good as... whatever you did." Duff was still looking at him with that dazed expression, and there was something in his blue eyes, something intense, something Izzy had never seen before, something that made his heart beat faster despite all his efforts to keep it under control.

The bell rang, and the two walked together to the classroom. Duff's arm found Izzy's shoulders, as always, but there was a hesitation in the gesture that hadn't existed before, as if Duff was no longer sure he had the right to touch Izzy. As if Izzy were a new person, and he needed to get to know her again.

During history class, Duff didn't draw waves in his notebook. Instead, he kept glancing at Izzy, his blue eyes fixed on his friend's profile, his brow furrowed in concentration that had nothing to do with the Cold War. Izzy felt the gaze on him, but didn't turn around. He kept his eyes on the blackboard and a small smile on his lips.

At lunch break, they sat in their usual spot, the wooden table near the wall, under the old tree. The midday sun filtered through the leaves, painting golden spots on the dirt floor. The cicadas buzzed, and the air was still, hot.

"Who are those guys in the photos?" Duff asked, without preamble, peeling an orange with his fingers.

"I already told you," Izzy answered, without taking his eyes off the horizon. His voice came out patient, but there was a hint of tiredness there, as if he had already explained that before and didn't want to have to explain it again. "Friends from the band."

Duff peeled another segment of the orange, his fingers working slowly, the peel coming off in small pieces that he let fall to the dirt floor.

"The band you put together while I was away," he said, and it wasn't a question, it was a statement, loaded with something Izzy couldn't name.

"Exactly."

Duff popped the orange segment into his mouth and chewed slowly, his blue eyes fixed on some distant point in the courtyard. The silence stretched for a moment, filled only by the distant sound of cicadas and the laughter of other students scattered around the courtyard. Then he swallowed and asked, with a casualness that fooled no one:

"And are they nice?"

"They are," Izzy answered, and offered nothing more. Not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how to talk about the band without making Duff feel left out, and deep down, he felt a pang of guilt for having built something so important while his best friend was away.

Duff picked up another orange segment, but didn't eat it. He just twirled the piece between his fingers, his blue eyes finally turning to Izzy. "Nicer than me?"

Izzy raised an eyebrow. "Is that jealousy?"

"It's not jealousy." Duff shrugged, but the movement was tense, forced. "Just... curiosity. You've changed so much I don't even know what you're doing anymore."

"You saw the photos. You do know."

"Seeing a photo isn't the same as seeing up close." Duff lifted his blue eyes, and there was something in them, a shadow, an insecurity, that Izzy had never seen before. "You look different, Iz. You look... more distant. And I don't know what I did."

Izzy felt his chest tighten. He wanted to say it wasn't Duff's fault, that the distance was a defense, that he had spent the summer trying to protect himself from a love that consumed him. But the words got stuck in his throat, and he just shook his head.

"You didn't do anything," Izzy said, and his voice came out lower than he planned, almost a whisper. He looked away to the leaves of the tree swaying above them, unable to face Duff's blue eyes as he spoke. "I just... grew up."

Duff was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was different, not angry, not accusatory, just sad in a quiet way. "Grew up without me."

The phrase hurt. It hurt because it was true, and because Izzy didn't know how to fix it, and because he had spent the whole summer trying to survive Duff's absence and now Duff himself was there, saying he had missed him, and nothing made sense.

"You were at the beach," Izzy murmured, and the words came out fragile, as if he didn't really believe them himself. It wasn't an accusation. It was just a fact. But facts could also hurt.

"I know. But that doesn't mean I wanted you to grow up without me." Duff peeled another orange segment and offered it to Izzy. "Want one?"

Izzy accepted, and their fingers touched briefly in the exchange. It was a quick, banal touch, but Izzy's heart stumbled anyway, because it was always like that with Duff, every touch was an earthquake disguised as a breeze.

---

The following weeks were a minefield.

Izzy and Duff remained friends, best friends, as they had always been, but there was something different in the dynamic between them. Duff was clingier than ever. He showed up at Izzy's house unannounced, sent messages all the time, made a point of sitting next to him in every class and at lunch. But at the same time, he was quieter. More observant. His blue eyes followed Izzy through the hallways, through the courtyard, down the street on the way home, and there was an intensity in them that hadn't existed before.

Izzy noticed, of course. He noticed every look, every touch, every prolonged silence. But he didn't know what to do with it. He had spent the whole summer trying to get over the love he felt for Duff, and now Duff was acting as if... as if he wanted him around. As if he couldn't stand the idea of sharing him with the world.

And then there was the studio. Andy and Lisa and Marcus continued to be his refuge, the place where he could breathe without feeling the weight of Duff's blue gaze on him. They met in the afternoons after school, and Izzy went straight there, without going home, without telling anyone. He played until his fingers went numb, wrote, laughed with his friends, smoked on the iron staircase. And for a few hours, he forgot.

But Duff didn't forget.

"Are you going out with them again?" Duff asked one afternoon, as the two walked home. The sun was low, and shadows stretched across the asphalt. Duff wore a gray long-sleeved shirt and a denim jacket over it, and his boots made noise on the ground.

"Yes," Izzy answered, adjusting his backpack strap on his shoulder. The sun was already lower, and the shadows of the trees stretched across the asphalt like dark fingers. "We're going to rehearse a new song Andy wrote. It's actually getting good. There's a riff I want to test."

Duff didn't answer right away. He kept walking beside Izzy, his boots hitting the floor in a rhythm that had once been synchronized and now seemed slightly off. "You rehearsed yesterday," he said finally, and his voice had a careful tone, as if he were treading on a minefield. "The day before too."

Izzy sighed, but there was no anger in the sound, just a light tiredness, the tiredness of someone who had already had that conversation before, even without words. "That's how a band works, Duff. We rehearse. The more we rehearse, the better we get."
He turned his head to look at his friend, and his dark brown eyes met the blue ones for a moment. Duff didn't look away, but also didn't say anything. He just nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line that Izzy couldn't decipher.

Duff stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and Izzy stopped too. "You spend more time with them than with me."

Izzy sighed. He knew this conversation was going to happen at some point. "You have your things too. You can't demand exclusivity."

"It's not exclusivity. It's just that..." Duff ran his hand over the back of his neck, frustrated, his blue eyes flashing. "I feel like you're pulling away."

"I'm not pulling away," he lied, and his voice came out lower than he would have liked, less convincing.

"Yes, you are. You answer my messages with one word. You don't tell me things anymore. You have new friends and I don't even know who they are." Duff's voice trembled slightly, wavering between anger and hurt. "You've changed, Izzy. And I don't know where I fit in this new life of yours."

Izzy was silent for a moment, feeling his heart beat hard. The afternoon wind tousled both their hair, and the sky was tinged with orange and pink. Part of him wanted to hug Duff and say he was still the most important person in the world. Another part wanted to scream, scream that Duff had no right to do this, to act as if Izzy belonged to him when he had never really wanted him.

"You'll always be my best friend," Izzy said, finally, and his voice came out more tired than he would have liked. "But I can't live my life in function of you. I spent... a lot of time doing that."

Duff frowned, and Izzy saw the gears turning behind his blue eyes, trying to piece together a puzzle he didn't even know existed until a few seconds ago.

"What does that mean?" he asked, and his voice was lower now, more careful, as if he had realized he was treading on mined ground.

Izzy shook his head and looked away, fixing it on some random point in the street, the house with the white fence, the parked car, anything that wasn't Duff's face. "Nothing. Forget it."

But Duff wasn't the type to forget. He never was. He took another step, shortening the distance between them even more, and now Izzy could feel the heat emanating from his body, the familiar smell of cheap deodorant and mint gum.

"No, it's not nothing," Duff insisted, and his voice had an urgency that wasn't angry, it was almost desperate. "You said 'a lot of time doing that'. Doing what, Izzy? What are you talking about?"

Izzy shook his head. "Drop it, Duff."

"I'm not dropping it. You're talking strangely, you're acting strangely, and I don't understand what's going on." Duff stepped forward, getting so close that Izzy could smell him, the same as always, the sea and cheap deodorant and gum, that smell that haunted him in dreams. "What do you mean by 'living your life in function of me'?"

"I mean..." Izzy hesitated. The words were on the tip of his tongue, burning like embers. "I mean that you're the most important person in my life. You always have been. But you never realized how much that weighed. You never realized that I was always there, waiting, while you lived your life."

Duff blinked, and his face slowly lost its color, as if someone had opened a faucet and drained all the blood. He looked lost, confused, his blue eyes wide and fixed on Izzy with an intensity bordering on desperation.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, and his voice came out tremulous, a fragile thread of sound that didn't match the confident, loud Duff everyone knew.

Izzy felt panic rise in his throat. He had said too much. Much more than he should have. The words had escaped before he could contain them, and now they were there, floating in the air between them, impossible to retrieve.

"Nothing," he murmured, stepping back. "Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything."

But Duff didn't let him retreat. His hand moved fast, his fingers closing around Izzy's wrist with a firmness that wasn't brutal, it was just determined. It was the hand of someone who wasn't going to let the most important thing in the world slip through his fingers. "Izzy." His voice was still tremulous, but now there was something more in it, an urgency, a plea. "What are you talking about?"

The dark brown eyes met the blue ones, and the world seemed to stop. The street, the houses, the setting sun, everything disappeared. There were only the two of them.

"It doesn't matter," Izzy whispered. "It doesn't matter anymore."

And then he pulled his wrist, freeing himself from Duff's hand, and continued walking alone.

---

The party was announced on Friday.

The invitation circulated through the school hallways like wildfire. It was Jessica Harlow's birthday party, a popular senior girl, the daughter of a businessman who owned a huge house on the outskirts of town. Her parents would be traveling on the weekend, and the house would be empty, which meant swimming pool, loud music, drinks, and a complete absence of adult supervision. The invitations were on paper, handwritten in neat handwriting, and were distributed during lunch break like tickets to the event of the year.

Izzy received his by accident. He was leaning against the wall, smoking, when one of Jessica's friends handed him an envelope and said "show up" with a smile that didn't make it clear whether it was a genuine invitation or mere formality. He shoved the paper into his jacket pocket without much ceremony and didn't think much about it. Parties weren't his thing. Too much noise, too many people, too many fake smiles.

But Andy and Lisa insisted. Marcus sent a message saying it was going to be epic. And in the end, Izzy gave in. "It'll be quick," he told himself. "Just show up and leave."

On Saturday night, he was standing in front of Jessica Harlow's house, and the word "quick" was the first thing that left his mind.

The house was a two-story mansion, with a white facade and illuminated windows that spilled light onto the impeccably manicured garden. There were cars parked all along the street, and the music pulsed from inside the house, an electronic bass that made the floor shake and the windows vibrate. The front door was open, and teenagers were going in and out like ants, carrying red cups and loud laughter. The air smelled of grass, cheap perfume, cigarette smoke, and something vaguely sweet that Izzy preferred not to identify.

He went in. The living room was packed with people dancing, talking, drinking. The lights were low, colorful, and someone had set up a sound system that made the walls shake. Izzy pushed through the crowd, his shoulders brushing against strangers, and went straight to the kitchen, where the drinks were laid out on a long table. He grabbed a glass of soda and leaned against the counter, watching the scene.

Duff was there. Of course he was.

Izzy saw him across the room, surrounded by people, laughing at something someone had said. His blond hair was messy, his blue eyes shone in the low light, and he was wearing a tight black long-sleeved shirt, tight on his arms, and dark jeans. His boots were the same as always. There was a red cup in his hand, and he gestured as he spoke, animated.

Their eyes met for a second, and it was as if the rest of the party ceased to exist.

But Izzy looked away first. He didn't want trouble. He didn't want to repeat the conversation on the sidewalk. He just wanted to stand there, finish his soda, and leave.

It worked for a while. Izzy circulated through the party, found Andy and Lisa by the pool, talked about music, smoked a cigarette leaning against the garden fence. The night was hot, and the sky was full of stars, and for a few moments he almost felt relaxed.

Then someone appeared.

He was a dark-haired boy, with green eyes and curly hair, wearing a Joy Division t-shirt and a confident smile. Izzy vaguely recognized him from somewhere, maybe from previous parties, maybe from the school hallways.

"You're Izzy, right?" the boy asked, and there was a glint of recognition in his green eyes as he approached, dodging a girl who ran by with a red cup in her hand. "The guitarist."

Izzy took the cigarette out of his mouth and let the smoke out slowly, watching the stranger with cautious curiosity. He wasn't used to being recognized. At school, he was just "Duff's friend." In the studio, he was just another musician. But there, at that party, someone knew who he was, and that was new. "Yes," he answered, and the word came out neutral, waiting to see where this would go.

The boy smiled, a smile that was half admiration and half nervousness, and took another step, leaning against the fence next to Izzy.

"I saw you play at that bar last month. Your show was... man, it was fucking awesome. Really. You killed it on guitar. I was right up front, close to the stage, and I thought, 'one day I want to play like that'."

Izzy felt his face heat up and mentally thanked the low light in the garden, which hid his blush. He wasn't used to compliments like that, direct, sincere.

"Thanks," he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. "Do you play too?"

"Yeah, I mean, I try." The boy laughed, a nervous laugh. "I'm Mark. We could play together sometime."

"Maybe," Izzy answered, out of politeness.

Mark moved a little closer, leaning against the same piece of fence. He spoke animatedly about music, about bands he liked, about a show he had gone to last month. Izzy listened, nodded, answered with short phrases. It was a normal conversation, absolutely innocent.

Until Mark leaned in.

It was a fast, unexpected movement. Mark's lips touched the corner of Izzy's mouth, not a full kiss, but an attempt, a clumsy peck that caught Izzy completely off guard. He froze, his whole body tense, and was about to pull away when he heard the voice.

"What the fuck is this?"

Duff was standing a few feet away, his blue eyes flashing with fury, his red cup forgotten somewhere. The people around began to notice that something was happening, heads turning, conversations lowering.

"Duff, wait," Izzy began, taking a step forward. "It was nothing."

"Nothing?" Duff's voice was loud, shrill, and he advanced towards them. "That guy just kissed you!"

"It was a peck," Izzy said, and the words came out hurried, tripping over each other, as if he could undo what had happened if he spoke fast enough. He felt his face hot, his heart racing, and Duff's presence so close that the air between them seemed charged with electricity. "He just... he didn't know. He came out of nowhere. I wasn't even expecting it."

Duff didn't move. He stood there, his fists still clenched, his blue eyes fixed on Izzy with an intensity that made his stomach churn. "Did you give him permission?" he asked, and his voice was more controlled now, but it was a tense, fragile control.

"No!" Izzy exclaimed, and the word came out louder than he intended, loaded with an indignation that was almost desperation. He stepped forward, shortening the distance between them, and grabbed Duff's arm hard.
"I don't even know him that well, Duff. We were just talking about music, that's all. He showed up, talked about the show, I didn't even..."

Mark raised his hands, backing away. "Man, I didn't know you guys were together. Sorry. I don't want any trouble."

"We're not together," Duff snarled, and there was something in his voice, a pain disguised as anger, that made Izzy's heart tighten. "But that doesn't mean just anyone can come up and kiss him."

"Duff." Izzy grabbed his friend's arm, trying to calm him down. "You're making a scene. Let's go outside and talk."

"I don't want to talk. I want to know what's going on." Duff pulled away and faced Izzy, his blue eyes shining in a way Izzy had never seen before. "First you change. Then you pull away. Now you're over there letting anyone kiss you. What happened to us, Izzy? What happened?"

"We're nothing!" Izzy exploded, and the words came out louder than he intended. The music was still playing, but around them people had stopped dancing, forming an involuntary circle of spectators. "You act like I'm yours, but you never wanted me! You never saw me! You spent the whole summer away, living your life, and I had to fend for myself!"

"You think I don't want you?" Duff shouted back, and his voice cracked in the middle, wavering. "Do you really think that? I spent the whole summer thinking about you! Every sunset, every wave, every song I heard, everything reminded me of you! I didn't know what it was, but now I do! And seeing that guy kissing you... I wanted to break everything! I wanted..."

He stopped. His chest rose and fell quickly. His blue eyes were teary. The people around watched in silence, some with their phones raised.

"You wanted what?" Izzy asked, and his voice was lower now, more fragile.

"I wanted it to be me," Duff whispered. "I wanted it to be me kissing you."

The world stopped.

Izzy felt the air leave his lungs. He opened his mouth to answer, but the words didn't come out. Duff took a step back, then another, and then turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Izzy alone in the middle of the garden, his heart in pieces and his eyes burning.

---

The following days were the worst of Izzy's life.

He woke up, went to school, came home, and everything tasted like ash. Food had no taste, music had no sound, the sun had no warmth. It was as if the world had been drained of color, reduced to an old, faded photograph.

At school, Duff sat on the other side of the room. He had switched seats with some classmate, and now Izzy only saw his back, his broad shoulders, his blond hair falling over his nape. During breaks, Duff stayed with other people, and Izzy stayed alone, leaning against the wall, smoking one cigarette after another. The butts piled up on the floor like little corpses.

They didn't talk. They didn't look at each other. It was as if the friendship they had built since childhood had simply evaporated, leaving only a huge, cold void.

At home, Izzy locked himself in his room. His mother came up, knocked on the door, brought food, and he barely answered. She would sit on the edge of the bed and stay there, in silence, and Izzy felt her presence like a balm, but not enough to heal what was broken.

"Did you fight with Duff?" she asked one night, not as a question, but as a statement.

"Yes," Izzy answered, and the word came out low, defeated. He didn't have the strength to lie. Not to her.

"He'll come back," she said, and her voice was calm, sure, as if she were talking about something as certain as the sun rising the next day. "Real friends always come back. You two have been friends for as long as I can remember. That doesn't come apart that easily."

"What if he doesn't come back this time?" he murmured, and his voice came out so fragile he barely recognized it.

His mother was silent for a moment, smoothing the blanket with her hand. "Then maybe it wasn't friendship. Maybe it was something bigger. And bigger things take longer to find their way."

Izzy didn't answer. But his mother's words kept echoing in his mind, like a song that wouldn't leave his head.

In the studio, Andy and Lisa tried to cheer him up, but he played with anger, with force, pulling distorted notes from the guitar. The lyrics he wrote were furious, sad, full of metaphors about summer and loss and blue eyes that shone too far away.

"You need to talk to him," Lisa said one day, while coiling a cable.

"Let him come to me," Izzy answered, and his voice came out harder than he actually felt. It was an armor, that hardness. A way of not admitting that inside he was falling apart, that every day without talking to Duff was a day that hurt a little more. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked away at the dirty wall of the studio, covered in graffiti and old posters.

Lisa stopped coiling the cable and stood looking at him, her brown eyes calm, her expression serene of someone who had seen a lot in life and wasn't easily scared.

"What if he doesn't come?" she asked, and her voice wasn't accusatory, it was just a question. A question that carried the weight of all possibilities.

Izzy was silent. He wanted to say he didn't care, that if Duff didn't come it was because he had never been important enough. But the lie stuck in his throat and didn't come out. Because he cared. He always cared. It was impossible not to care about Duff, it was like asking his heart to stop beating.

"Then I'll know," he said finally, and his voice was lower now, almost a whisper. "Then I'll know it was never important enough to him."

Lisa sighed and went back to coiling the cable, but before turning away, she patted Izzy on the shoulder.

But the question kept hammering in his head for the rest of the night.

---

Two weeks after the party, Izzy was in his room.

It was a cold September night. Autumn had finally arrived, and the wind beat against the window, making the black curtain sway. Izzy was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the lyric notebook forgotten in his lap. The ceiling fan was off now, and the room was silent, except for the sound of the wind outside.

His mother had already gone to bed. The house was silent, plunged into that dense quiet of cold nights. Izzy was almost falling asleep when he heard the noise.

Click.

A small, dry sound, like something hitting the window glass.

Click. Click.

Izzy sat up in bed, frowning. He stayed still, listening. And then it came again: click, click, click, little pebbles hitting the glass.

He got up, went to the window, and pulled back the curtain. Down below, standing in the garden, wearing a loose sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants, was Duff. His blond hair was even messier than usual, and his blue eyes shone in the dim light of the streetlamp. He had his arm raised, ready to throw another pebble.

"Duff?" Izzy whispered, opening the window. The cold air rushed in immediately, making him shiver. "What are you doing here? It's midnight!"

"I need to talk to you," Duff answered, and his voice was low but urgent. "Let me come up."

"Are you crazy? My mother is sleeping!"

"Then be quiet. Let me come up. Please."

Izzy hesitated. Every fiber of his being told him to close the window and go back to bed. But there was something in Duff's eyes, a plea, an urgency, a vulnerability he had never seen before. And Izzy, despite everything, despite the anger and the pain and the two weeks of silence, couldn't say no.

"Back stairs," he murmured. "Come up through the bathroom window. And be quiet, for God's sake."

A few minutes later, Duff was coming through the bathroom window and walking down the hall to Izzy's room. He was barefoot, he had left his slippers somewhere, and his sweatshirt had a hole in the sleeve. His plaid pajama pants were wrinkled, and his blond hair was a complete mess. He looked like a shipwreck survivor.

"You're in your pajamas," Izzy said, closing the bedroom door carefully.

"I am," Duff confirmed, and the word came out simple, not defensive,

Izzy crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to complain about the time, the recklessness, the fact that his mother was sleeping and could wake up at any moment. But the sight of Duff there, vulnerable and messy and so ridiculously beautiful, disarmed any anger he might have felt.
"Did you walk all the way here in your pajamas?" he asked, and the tone came out softer than he planned, leaning more towards affection than scolding.

"I wasn't in the right headspace to change." Duff stopped in the middle of the room, his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants, his blue eyes scanning the environment. "I needed to tell you some things. I couldn't wait any longer."

Izzy crossed his arms, leaning against the door. "Couldn't you have sent a message?"

"No," Duff answered, and his voice came out firm, although still low so as not to wake the house. He shook his head, the messy blond strands swaying with the movement. "It had to be in person. It couldn't be by message. Not this time."

Izzy frowned, his arms still crossed over his chest. He was leaning against the closed bedroom door, feeling the cold wood on his back, and watched Duff with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "Why?" he asked, and the question came out lower than usual, as if he were afraid of the answer.

"Because..." Duff took a deep breath, and Izzy saw his chest rise and fall, his shoulders tense. "Because I spent two weeks thinking. Thinking about everything you said at the party. About everything I did. About everything I didn't do."

"Duff..."

"Let me talk. Please." Duff lifted his blue eyes, and Izzy saw tears in them, tears that hadn't fallen yet, but were there, accumulated, shining. "I'm an idiot. I've always been an idiot. You were right about everything. I never saw you the way you deserved to be seen. I spent years treating you like... like a certainty. Like something that would always be there, no matter what I did. And I was an asshole."

"Duff, you're not an asshole," Izzy murmured, but Duff shook his head.

"Yes, I am. I spent the whole summer at the beach, and every day I thought about you. Every sunset, every song, every wave. Everything reminded me of you. And I didn't understand. I thought it was normal longing, friend longing. But it wasn't. Because friend longing doesn't hurt like that. Friend longing doesn't make you want to break the face of someone who touched the person you love."

The word hung in the air. Love. Izzy felt his heart stop.

"At that party," Duff continued, and his voice was trembling now, "when I saw that guy kissing you, I felt something I had never felt before. Desperation. Anger. A desire to scream that you were mine. But then I realized... you're not mine. You never were. I never asked. I never looked at you the right way. I was so busy being Duff, the guy everyone likes, that I didn't see what was right in front of me."

He stopped. The tears finally escaped, tracing silver paths down his cheeks.

"I've never been with a guy," Duff whispered. "I mean, I've kissed one. Once. But it never went further than that. And it was weird, and I didn't know what I was doing, and I never repeated it. But with you... with you it's different. With you I want to. I want to learn. I want to be what you deserve."

Izzy felt his own eyes sting. He uncrossed his arms, took a step forward. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do. I know every word." Duff wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, a childlike gesture that made Izzy's heart tighten. "I love you, Izzy. I think I've always loved you. Since the first day you lent me a pencil. Since the first time you played guitar for me. Since forever. I was just too dumb to know."

"You are dumb," Izzy murmured, but there was no anger in his voice, just an immense, overflowing tenderness.

"I know," Duff repeated, and his voice came out thick, the words half-drowned in the tears still streaming down his face. He didn't look away. He didn't try to hide. He just stood there, in the middle of Izzy's room, with his holey sweatshirt and his plaid pajama pants, completely exposed.

"It took you years," Izzy continued, and his voice was trembling too now, wavering between old anger and the new tenderness sprouting in his chest. He took a step forward, shortening the distance between them.

"I know," Duff whispered, and the words came out like a breath, fragile and sincere.

"You made me suffer," Izzy said, and his voice finally broke, letting out all the pain he had kept inside for so long. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek, and he didn't wipe it away.

"I know." Duff closed his eyes, and more tears rolled down. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for every time I didn't see. I'm sorry for every time I talked about someone else and you stayed quiet. I'm sorry for every night you spent crying while I was at some party. I'm so sorry."

Izzy took another step. Now they were so close he could see the details of Duff's face, the dark circles, the chapped lips, the blue eyes swollen from crying. He raised his hand and touched his friend's face, feeling the warm skin under his fingers.

"I love you too," he whispered. "I've always loved you. Since the first day. And I tried to forget. I spent the whole summer trying. But it didn't work."

Duff opened his eyes. The blue eyes met the dark brown ones, and the world disappeared.

"Can I kiss you?" Duff asked, and his voice was so fragile, so full of hope and fear, that Izzy felt his heart break and rebuild in the same instant.

"Yes."

And Duff kissed Izzy.

The kiss was different from what Izzy had imagined in all those years of dreams and fantasies. It was better. It was more real. Duff's lips were warm and chapped, and the kiss started hesitant, like a question. But it soon deepened, and Izzy felt Duff's hands go up to his waist, pulling him close. He felt the warm body against his, the muscular arms wrapping around him, Duff's heart beating fast against his chest.

They parted for a moment, their foreheads touching, their breaths mingled.

"You kiss well," Izzy murmured, and a crooked smile appeared on his lips.

"Do I?" Duff asked, and there was a new gleam in his blue eyes, a gleam of incredulous happiness.

"For someone who's never kissed a guy, yes," Izzy murmured, and his voice came out softer than he intended, still hovering between them like a confession. He didn't pull away. He stayed there, their foreheads still touching, their noses almost touching, feeling Duff's breath warm against his lips.

Duff let out a low, almost shy laugh, and his blue eyes shone in the dimness of the room with a happiness he couldn't hide.

"You too," he answered, and his fingers were still on Izzy's waist, holding with a delicate firmness, as if he were something precious that could break at any moment. "You kiss really fucking well."

Izzy felt his face heat up and looked away for a moment, but couldn't contain the crooked smile that appeared on his lips.

"I've never either..." he began, and the sentence hung in the air, incomplete. He took a deep breath and tried again. "I mean, I've kissed. A few times. But it never went further than that. I never..."

"Never went further than that," Duff completed, and there was relief in his voice. "Then we learn together."

"Together," Izzy repeated.

They kissed again. And again. And again. Each kiss was a discovery, a confirmation, a promise. Their lips moved with a softness bordering on reverence, and their hands explored faces, hair, shoulders. At some point, they ended up in bed, lying on their sides, their bodies intertwined, the kisses becoming slower, lazier. It didn't go further than that, just kisses, caresses, fingers tracing paths on each other's arms and faces.

"I was very jealous," Izzy confessed, his voice muffled against Duff's chest. "Of everyone. Of every person who came near you."

"Me too," Duff murmured. "Of your new friends. Of Andy. Of Lisa. Of anyone who saw you more than I did."

"You didn't need to be jealous," Izzy murmured, and his voice came out muffled against Duff's chest, where he was nestled, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his sweatshirt. He traced distracted circles with his fingertip on Duff's arm, a light, almost unconscious caress. "They're just friends. They always have been. There was never anything more than that."

Duff was silent for a moment, his chin resting on top of Izzy's head, his breathing slow and regular. When he spoke, his voice came out lower than usual, a little embarrassed, as if he were admitting something he preferred to keep hidden. "And me?"

Izzy lifted his head, surprised by the question. He pulled back just enough to look into Duff's blue eyes, which were fixed on him with a vulnerability that tightened his heart. There was insecurity there, an insecurity Izzy had never seen before, because Duff was always the confident one, the carefree one, the one who didn't take anything seriously. But there, in bed, in the dimness of the room, he was just a boy asking what his place was in someone's heart.

He raised his hand and touched Duff's face, his fingers sliding over the warm skin, over his jawbone, over his stubble.

"You are... everything," he whispered, and the word came out so full of meaning it seemed to fill the entire room.

Duff smiled, a smile that Izzy felt more than saw, because he was nestled against his chest. "You're everything too. You always have been."

They lay there, embraced, whispering about the summer, about the fight, about the lost years and those still to come. They talked about the band, about school, about the dreams they had. They talked about fear and courage and the absurd feeling of finally being in the right place.

At some point, Duff yawned.

"You're sleepy," Izzy observed, and his voice came out low, almost a whisper, so as not to break the bubble of quiet that had formed around them.

"Yeah," Duff admitted, and the word came out drawled, lazy. He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, a childish gesture that made Izzy smile. "I haven't slept well in two weeks. Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered the fight. The party. Your face when I left. And sleep wouldn't come."

Izzy felt his chest tighten at the confession. He hadn't slept well either. He had also spent sleepless nights, tossing and turning in bed, replaying every word, every look, every mistake. But now Duff was there, warm and real and so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, and nothing else mattered.

"Then sleep," Izzy whispered, and his hand found Duff's under the blanket, their fingers intertwining as if they had always belonged to each other.

Izzy squeezed his fingers around his. "Here," he confirmed, and the word came out simple and definitive, a safe harbor in the midst of the storm.

Duff buried his face in the pillow and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing became slow and regular. Izzy watched him, his blond hair spread on the pillow, his lips slightly parted, his long eyelashes resting on his cheeks. He was so beautiful it hurt. And now he was there, in Izzy's room, sleeping in Izzy's bed, and it was real.

Izzy didn't sleep. He stayed awake all night, listening to Duff's breathing, feeling the warmth of his body, marveling at the reality of it.

---

The morning light came through the gap in the curtain, drawing golden stripes on the wall.

Izzy opened his eyes slowly. For a moment, he didn't remember anything, and then he turned his head and saw Duff sleeping next to him, his mouth open, his blond hair a bird's nest, his sweatshirt wrinkled. And he remembered everything.

His heart raced. He was about to wake Duff, but before he could, the bedroom door opened.

Izzy's mother stopped on the threshold. She looked at the bed, at the two boys tangled up in each other, at the shoes scattered on the floor and the half-open window through which Duff had entered. And then, slowly, she smiled. A small, tender smile, full of understanding. And without saying a word, she closed the door again and left.

Izzy let out the air he hadn't even realized he was holding.

"Duff," he whispered, nudging his friend. "Duff, wake up."

Duff grumbled, turned on his side, buried his face in the pillow.

"Duff, my mother just saw you here. Wake up."

That woke him. Duff sat up suddenly, his blue eyes wide. "What? Your mom? She saw? What did she say?"

"Nothing," Izzy answered, and he himself was still trying to process what had happened. The image of his mother standing on the threshold, the smile on her lips, the door closing slowly, all passed through his mind like a silent film. "She just looked at us, smiled, and closed the door."

Duff sat up in bed, the blanket still wrapped around his legs, his blond hair a bird's nest, his blue eyes wide with surprise and confusion. He blinked a few times, as if trying to decipher an enigma.

"She smiled?" he asked, and his voice came out incredulous, a mix of relief and astonishment.

"She smiled," Izzy confirmed, and now a smile was also forming on his lips, small and still hesitant, but real.

Duff stood still, processing the information. Then a smile spread across his face, lighting everything up. "So... she's not angry?"

"I don't think so," Izzy murmured, and the tension in his shoulders slowly dissolved, like ice melting in the sun. He was still looking at the closed door, the place where his mother had stood seconds ago, and felt an immense gratitude for her, for her discretion, for her silence, for that smile that said everything without needing words.

"I think she always knew," Izzy murmured, more to himself than to Duff.

Duff, still sitting on the bed, frowned. "Knew what?"

"Everything," Izzy answered, and now he turned to face Duff, his dark brown eyes meeting the blue ones.

Duff looked at Izzy, and in his blue eyes there was a new understanding, the understanding that their love wasn't a terrible secret, but something that could be seen, accepted, blessed. He leaned in and gave a soft kiss on Izzy's lips.

"Good morning," he murmured against Izzy's mouth.

"Good morning," Izzy answered, and the smile he gave was so genuine it lit up the whole room.

Duff pulled back a little and looked around, his blue eyes scanning the walls covered in posters, the guitar in the corner, the scattered notebooks, the black curtain swaying in the morning breeze. He had the expression of someone seeing everything for the first time, even though he had already been in that room hundreds of times before.

"I slept here," he stated, and there was a tone of wonder in his voice, as if he himself couldn't believe it.

"You did," Izzy confirmed, amused.

"And we kissed." Duff turned his face to him, and the smile that opened was the most beautiful Izzy had ever seen. "Like... a lot."

"Yes," Izzy answered, and the tone was dry, but his eyes sparkled.

"And you love me." Duff said that with a quiet certainty, not as a question, but as a happy realization. He rested his chin on his hand and looked at Izzy with an expression so full of adoration that Izzy felt his face heat up.

"Unfortunately," Izzy murmured, and the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying the smile he was trying to hide.

"Unfortunately?" Duff feigned indignation, but was laughing.

"Yes," Izzy answered, shrugging with false indifference. "You snore. And you talk in your sleep. And you kick the blankets. It was a terrible night."

"I don't snore!"

"Yes, you do." Izzy crossed his arms, but the smile had already won the battle and was wide on his face. "You sounded like a boat engine."

"What did I say?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbows and leaning over Izzy. "Sleeping. You said I talk in my sleep. What did I say?"

"I'm not telling."

"Izzy!"

They both laughed, and Izzy felt his chest fill with such great happiness that it seemed like it would overflow. He had never been so happy. In eighteen years of life, never.

"You need to go," he said, reluctant. "Before my mother comes up again."

"Are you kicking me out? After the night we had?"

"I'm not kicking you out. I'm protecting you. My mother might be nice, but I don't know if she'll think it's funny that you spent the night here without her knowing."

Duff sighed. "Okay."

He stood up, stretched, and Izzy watched the muscles in his arms move under his sweatshirt. Then he put on his boots, he had left his slippers at home and come barefoot, the idiot, and went to the window.

"You're going out the window," Izzy stated.

"It's the fastest way," Duff justified, already with one leg out the window, his body half-turned towards the garden. The morning light bathed his face, and his blond hair looked even more golden under the sun. He was still wearing the same wrinkled sweatshirt, the same plaid pajama pants, and had a pillow mark on his left cheek. It was the most ridiculous and adorable sight Izzy had ever seen.

"Looks like I'm dating a thief," Izzy commented, leaning against the wall next to the window, his arms crossed and a crooked smile on his lips.

Duff stopped, his hand on the window frame. "Dating?"

Izzy felt his face heat up. "Yeah... I... I mean..." He stuttered, ran his hand over the back of his neck, and mentally cursed the smile that was spreading across Duff's face.

"I liked it," Duff interrupted, and the smile he gave was the most beautiful Izzy had ever seen. "Dating. We're dating."

Izzy let out a nervous laugh, still feeling his face hot. "Do you want to?" he asked, and his voice came out more fragile than he would have liked, showing all the vulnerability he still felt.

"Of course I do. I want everything with you. Everything." Duff took his leg off the windowsill and came back into the room. He crossed the space between them in two steps, held Izzy's face with both hands, and rested his forehead on his. His blue eyes were so close that Izzy could see the darker specks in his iris, the small variations in color he had never noticed before.

"Of course I do," Duff murmured, and his voice was firm, without hesitation. "I want everything with you. Everything. Every kiss, every fight, every song, every morning. I want to wake up here again, and again, and again. I want to tell everyone you're mine. I want everything, Izzy. Everything."

And then he leaned in and gave Izzy another kiss, a quick kiss, but full of promises, and jumped out the window, landing in the garden with a dull thud.

Izzy stood at the window, watching Duff cross the garden, jump the fence, and run to the light blue house three doors away. He was laughing, his blond hair messy, his sweatshirt wrinkled, his boots untied. And Izzy stood there, his heart full, his lips still tingling, thinking about how the summer had been long and hard and lonely, but what remained of it, what really mattered, was there.

It always had been.

End.