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Trees passed. The road moved under the car. Droplets streamed down the windows like dew drops on the jasmine bushes outside his building.
Race shucked his fingers through his curls. How had it gotten so dark? The night got away from them, these two boys, and he was already being driven home. It was nearly curfew.
The fog on the windshield spread the glow of the street lamps like history’s slowest fireworks, and the golden bursts lit up Spot’s face as they passed by. His moles melded around his small smirk— a smirk that was comfy like his pillowy duvet and his desk lamp and his faded red t-shirt, the one that now fell over Race’s frame.
Race could admit he was kinda cute.
They’d planned to do this forever ago— last Tuesday, actually. It felt like forever ago now, anyway, the way Spot had sidled up to Race’s locker and leaned like he owned it, the whole hallway, the entire school. “Lemme take you to dinner.”
Spot’d asked Race after fifth period, though it wasn’t really a question, not that Race would’ve ever said anything other than what he did: “Yeah— sure, okay.”
It was a short exchange, barely a plan at all. A time and date. The start of a movie. And now he was being driven home. The rain fell harder. His shoes would squeak when he walked into his building. He wondered if Spot would kiss him good night, or even get out of the car at all.
They went to a nice place— an Italian place, with the red curtains and black table cloths, which was quite bold of Spot. He’d picked Race up in his shitty gray Corolla. The thing was older than both of them, and the engine whistled like a bird when they idled on Race’s street. Music scratched through the speakers, and after dinner, after going to Spot’s, on the way to Race’s, the blond could just make out Spot’s low rumbling hum mingling with the blown-out chords.
And as they turned, another block closer to Race getting home, Spot’s hand moved slowly, so slowly, and his skin was burning, a scorching line of heat left in his wake as his shaky palm and fingers intertwined with Race’s.
At dinner, Race’d spoken in his mother’s tongue, and he ordered the Osso Bucco, and Spot had never tried it before, and although Spot had taken Race on the date, it was Race who took Spot through Italy.
And it was so short. And Spot was already driving Race home.
He could see his building up ahead, the familiar bricks and windows, and the big wild jasmine bushes and hanging plants. Spot had plants on his window sill, in his room. They were pearly and leafy, and some of them were half-dead already, but they were still mostly green. Race’d eyed them, upside down, laying across the boy’s squeaky mattress.
Spot had asked if they could go back to his place after dinner. “Ma’s workin’ late.”
“And your dad?” Race’d asked, just as Spot had swiped lightly over his forehead, flicked the curls away from his doe eyes and long lashes. Settled his fingers on the outer edge of Race’s jaw, just under his earlobe. His fingertips were calloused and soft at the same time— how had that been possible?
“Out runnin’ errands since I was four,” Spot replied, and it was only a little harsh, but his fingers were still so soft as they traced a line down to his chin. And Race had nodded, smally, but it still felt too big for the moment, but then Spot had smiled, that sideways cock-eyed grin, and he shrugged. “So… lemme take you home.”
It was a question, but again, he didn’t actually ask, and it wasn’t like Race could say anything other than a feathery, “Okay, yeah— sure.” It was breathless— he was breathless, then at dinner and again, afterward, at Spot’s place, in his pillowy duvet and soft sheets in the light of his yellowing desk lamp.
The to-go box of Osso Bucco stayed in the back seat of the Corolla as they walked up the steps, just barely getting rained on as they keyed into Spot’s building. Spot’s hand was shaky in the car when he tangled his fingers with Race’s, and it was shaky when he looped his fingers over Race’s wrist, pulling him upstairs to his shoebox bedroom.
Spot’s room was always cold, Race would learn eventually, chilly like the bricks outside, like the windshield on the way home, but they warmed it up. Slowly at first, they warmed it up. Spot warmed Race up, his shaky hands climbing his sides, ghosting along his hips, gently, so gently, laying him out on his fluffy duvet and flat pillows.
The booth at dinner was cushioned and soft, the pattern of the fabric garish and golden, and Race’s curls looked the same way, he figured, garish and golden splayed across Spot’s white sheets, his tan shoulders, hanging upside down off the bed.
Spot took his time asking Race out to dinner. They’d been circling each other, like how Spot circled Race’s block, feigning that he couldn’t find parking. Spot tended to do that— take his time. He took his time deciding what to order, listening to Race’s every word, in English and in Italian. He took his time asking Race to come home with him.
And when he brought him home, he took his time dressing his messy bedroom floor with Race’s clothes, took his time planting pecks along his collar bones, spreading him out across his white sheets and springy mattress. He seemed to quite enjoy it, taking his time taking Race apart, piece by piece, and he seemed to quite enjoy it, taking his time putting Race back together, little by little.
He took his time, yet it was over now. They were almost back to Race’s building now.
Parking wasn’t a viable excuse anymore— there were barely any vehicles on Race’s street, his whole street, and it was New York. So Spot pulled his Corolla into a space just in front of those jasmine bushes, the ones that looked like his plant on his windowsill if you looked upside down. And his hand was still in Race’s, on his lap, so warm it could’ve been the plate of Osso Bucco, fresh out of the kitchen at dinner.
So warm like the searing kisses he landed in Race’s curls, on his brow, on his nose, and finally on his lips. Warm like his tongue that plundered, but somehow so slowly, still taking his time. Always taking his time.
And the car engine was whining, and the scratchy speakers drowned it out, like how the fog kind of drowned out the lamplight, defused it to make Spot look like an angel, or a devil, glowing and bright and comforting but dark and mysterious and chaotic.
It was how Spot had made him feel, when they were in his shoebox bedroom, with the sheets and the plants and the kisses. Touching like nobody else did. Glowing and bright like his curls, like his eyes, like the street lamps. Dark and mysterious like the scratchy speakers, like the cold bricks, like the father who never came back.
Spot had made him feel full, in all of the ways it mattered, and he’d made him feel warm, in all senses of the word, and he’d even made him feel love, maybe. He wanted to say it, laying upside down and feeling those hot hands and how Spot took his time. He’d wanted to say it when Spot asked to take him home. He’d wanted to say it when Spot’s eyes met his in the hallway, before he sauntered over and leaned on the lockers.
He’d wanted to say it. But he didn’t want to ruin the moment. And now the moment was about to pass, now that they were parked in front of Race’s building.
Race got out of the car in the pouring rain. His shoes would squeak when he went inside. Spot met him in the downpour, and the moon wasn’t visible, but Race knew it was there. He counted on it, but the glow of the streetlamps was enough. Spot’s tan skin and moles were enough.
“Lemme see you again,” Spot said, and his hand was shaky as it pulled Race in by his wrist, like he was bringing him upstairs once more, gentle and warm and taking his time.
He had a habit of this— asking without really asking— and Race wanted to say it, how much he loved it. How much he loved him. “Okay,” Race said again, “yeah— sure.”
It was kind of the same thing, wasn’t it? He’d wanted to say he loved him since the beginning, since before the beginning, wanted to let it slip and sort of wanted it to ruin the moment, soak in the warmth of Spot’s fingers on his hips, his wrist, his forehead, his jaw. He’d wanted to say it every time. All the time.
But Spot took his time. He was driving Race home. Drove him home. Pulled him in and kissed him once, twice, warm pecks under cold rain, like how he pecked him thousands of times in his soft sheets. It was lovely, getting rained on with him.
So okay, yeah, sure— these were his words he could use. The only words that didn’t get kissed out of him. The only thing he would ever say to Spot’s non-question questions.
It was over. Race was home, and his shoes squeaked as he stepped into his building. And he turned back before he shut the door, the locker door and the apartment door, and watched the jasmine bushes move under the weight of the rain, and watched Spot move under the weight of his gaze, just like how Race moved under the weight of Spot, upside down, over and over, taking his time taking him apart.
The door was cold in his fingers, cold like no other part of their night, and Race closed it like he would at the end of a movie, careful and complete but never, never finished.
It was so short. He didn’t want to leave— the booth or Spot’s bed or the gray Corolla. And later he’d remember the Osso Bucco, where it still sat in the back of the car, and he’d think about his soggy shoes, and he’d think about the window sill, and those lips, and he’d wished he’d said it. He wanted to say it.
Lemme love you.
Yeah, okay— sure.