summerborn
Born in the Month of Songs
- Local time
- Today 12:18 PM
- Messages
- 128
- Age
- 23
- Pronouns
- He/Him, They/Them
Have you ever heard the parable of Tantalus?
Once the king of a rich and powerful nation, Tantalus tried to trick the all-knowing gods. In a ploy to test their omniscience, he murdered and served to them his own son at a feast in their honor. The punishment for his insolence was great: eternal torment in the afterlife. Standing in a pool of water beneath the boughs of a tree heavy with succulent fruit, he could neither quench his thirst nor sate his hunger. Every time, the water receded and the fruit withered before his eyes. For all eternity.
There are days when I feel like Tantalus, standing there in a pool of water that I can never drink, straining for the fruit that's forever just out of reach. Except the forbidden fruit, in my case, is a who, not a what.
Angelo Carmillo, my next door neighbor and best friend. I think I can safely call him the bane of my existence. Can't do with him, can't do without him. I was ten when I first met him. Well. I was playing basketball in the pockmarked court of the Skyview Residential Complex, and happened to look up just in time to watch this kid jump off of the balcony of his family's second story apartment wearing a plastic Halloween Batman cape and a determined smile. He lost three baby teeth and broke his arm. We've been best friends ever since.
We fought more than we got along, Angelo and me. Over toys, games, comic books. But we were inseparable. And we had each other's backs. I had dinner at Angelo's, half the week and slept over more often than I could count. We went to the same school together. Took the bus together. Hung out every single day tossing a basketball around in the burning summer sun or playing videogames in Angelo's room with the AC turned on full blast.
Man, I miss those days.
Maybe I always knew. I think I probably did, you know? Angelo was my best friend. But he was also... more than that. Even as a kid, I knew. It's like... you know when it's winter, you can put on a coat to warm yourself up? But when it's summer, and it's hot, and the sun's beating down on the back of your neck, there's nothing you can do to beat that heat. Nothing except run away.
I'm in love with Angelo Carmillo. I've always been in love with him. But I'm a coward. And he's out of my reach.
"Alan! Hey, Alan!"
I half turned from around the cover of my locker just in time to receive the full force of my friend's friendly back slap. I couldn't help but wince. Damien, the hulking asshole, just laughed, and slid his arm across my shoulders, giving me a shake that was probably meant to be gentle. It wasn't.
I was on the taller end, myself, but I had none of Damien's bulk. The guy had to have been 210, and practically all of it was in his shoulders. Football team had been after him for the last three years, but Damien kept turning them away. (Quothe he: "This nation doesn't take brain damage seriously enough! You only got one brain!") He was a computer science nerd, believe it or not. The man was a coding genius.
"You coming to the game tonight? It's the championship!"
I wanted to wince again, but managed to keep a neutral face this time. "I don't know, man. Mr. Kinley has a big test planned for physics tomorrow, and I'm not exactly caught up on studying."
Withdrawing his arm, Damien frowned at me, eyebrows drawing together over the coke bottle lenses of his glasses like two overly aggressive caterpillars. "But it's the championship game," he repeated, speaking slowly, as though I were dumb. "And Angelo's playing point guard."
Marseille High's team was on a winning streak this year. The year before last, the Challengers had made it all the way to the championships, where they'd faced off against Luther High's Black Hawks— and lost. By less than two points. The team had been devastated, but none more so than Angelo, who'd been a junior at the time. This year was his senior year. (Our senior year, technically.) This year, though, winning this championship wasn't just about the glory, or impressing the college basketball scouts in the crowd. It was personal. Because the Black Hawks had also made it back to championships.
"The whole school's showing up," Damien said, looking very serious indeed.
"I know," I said, lamely, choosing a textbook at random and stuffing it into my bag. My concentration was fading fast.
Damien cleared his throat. Loudly. I got the message, and looked up from my bag. 'Okay, Damien. I'm paying attention,' said the body language. He nodded, looking pleased.
"Look, Alan," he said with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows, "Level with me, ok? Senior year. You've got the grades. The whole damn school knows about the Harvard application, so don't bullshit me with Kinley's physics test. Ain't nobody else here even trying to apply to Harvard. If anyone's gonna get in, it's you. So here's the thing. Ever since prom, I know you and Angelo have been all over the place this year, but you're still his best friend. You're important to him. He's gonna want to see you in the crowd."
The meaningful caterpillar eyebrows had made a second appearance. As had the guilt, creeping up along the back of my neck. Dammit. Damien really did know me too well.
"So… you gonna be there, or you gonna be home, studying the answers for a physics test you already know you're gonna ace?"
Seven o'clock, and Luther High's gym was packed practically to the rafters. On one side, the home team, defenders of last year's championship, wearing red and black and single-handedly increasing the decibel level of the room with every person who forced their way through the doors wearing blue and gold. On the other side, what seemed like half of the student population of Marseille High, all wearing blue and gold and clamoring just as loudly. The cheerleading squads of both schools had also made an appearance, as had the mascots (two guys wearing hawk and horse costumes), running up and down their respective sides of the gymnasium to amp the cheering, booing crowds up just that much more.
Me, I was sitting in the middle of the away team's stands wearing a blue hoodie with the words 'Class of '85, Marseille High' printed in gold on the back. It was hot, and I was already sweating, so I had the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. After the game, I'd peel it off, chuck it in the back of my car, and presumably forget about it, but until then? Nah. I was committed.
I'd said I'd show. So I did. I had actually been one of the very first ones to plant their butt in the stands. Damien trickled in with the rest of the crowd, shaking his head at my choice in seating. I'd just shrugged, hyper aware of the butterflies in my stomach, and said something about 'superior seating'. Damien didn't call me out on it, at least, though it was possible he hadn't even heard my excuse. The noise level was getting to be overwhelming when the intercom crackled and an older gentleman wearing red and black walked out into the center of the floor.
He had to wave his hands around and shout a bit to get the Black Hawks' side to quiet down, but eventually managed to get the noise down to a dull roar.
"Quite the crowd tonight," he remarked. "Now I know you're all riled up for tonight's game, so let me say a few things and we'll get on with it."
I'll admit I zoned out a bit. It was the usual pre game bullshit. Rules of conduct, playing fair and all that. Pledge of Allegiance. Cheerleaders. Bathroom locations. I'd gotten engrossed in watching some guy on the Black Hawks' side not-so-surreptitiously pick his nose and wipe it on the underside of the bleachers when Damien smacked my arm.
"They're about to come out, man. Watch the left."
"-please welcome our champions, the Black Hawks!"
Right on queue, the home team exploded into a cacophony of cheers as the Black Hawks streamed out onto the court, black and red jerseys and grungy white socks. Damien and I joined in with the rest of Marseille High's supporters, cupping our hands together to add our voices to the raucous booing from our side.
"And our old friends, from Marseille High School, the Challengers!"
It's always cheesy, how the movies dramatize the entrance of the main character's love interest. How he only ever has eyes for her, how she's illuminated in some stupid corona of golden light. I wish that I could say that I was watching the rest of the team, cheering for the rest of the team, but I wasn't. It's always like that, whenever Angelo's around. Looking directly at him is like looking into the freaking sun. Doesn't matter whether it's homeroom or a damn basketball game. He's just dazzling stupid.
Times like this, I wish I could go back to the blissful ignorance of being a kid, but there's no shutting Pandora's box again. Pandora's box being what happened that night last year: Prom, 1984. Anymore, whenever I look at Angelo, it's the only thing I can think about. But in the present, the Challengers are all running out onto the court, eyes bright and chests swollen with the roaring applause from their supporters in blue and gold that almost drown out the jeering from the Black Hawks. And I only have eyes for Angelo.
Sweat trickled down the small of my back, tracing the groove of my spine. I'd tied my hoodie around my waist, and the sleeves bumped against the tops of my thighs with every step. My car keys jangled as I walked, gravel crunching underneath my sneakers. I was tired. It was nearly eleven o'clock at this point. If I'd actually needed to study for Kinley's physics test, I would've been in trouble. Ordinarily, I would have done a bit of studying just on principle alone, but with the way my eyelids were starting to droop, I thought I would just call it a night. Falling into my bed sounded like heaven right now.
Even my steps sounded lethargic as I climbed the stairs. I felt a bit like a zombie. My throat was hoarse from yelling, and my legs hurt from the crunched-up position they'd been forced into during those hours squashed between two rows of people in the bleachers.
Stopping in front of the apartment (labeled 'Tran' in neat letters on the nameplate), I somehow managed to fumble the apartment key out of my keychain, but it took a couple of attempts to fit it into the keyhole. I stepped inside and toed my shoes off at the threshold, too tired to line them up neatly in the shoe rack with the rest of my family's shoes, shutting the door behind me.
The lights were all off. Looked like everyone was already asleep. I wasn't surprised. Mom had been working OT lately at the hospital. She always came back grumpy, hungry, and smelling like antiseptic. She'd mechanically eat whatever leftovers were in the fridge while hunched over a book at the table and promptly knock out before nine thirty. I peeked through the half-cracked door of the twins' room as I made my way down the hall, catching a sliver of the sight of two lumps in the bunk beds. Looked like dad already put the kids to bed.
My room was across the hall from my parent's, adjacent to the twins' room. I eased open the door and slipped inside, sighing in relief the moment the door shut. Finally.
I didn't even bother turning on the light, relying on my memory of all the things I'd dropped on the floor the past couple of days to make my way to my bed. I still managed to step on something that felt like a toy car (Vivien and Jamey had clearly gotten into my room again), which I kicked out of the way before dropping into bed, still hissing in pain.
I didn't even get the chance to take off my socks. I was out like a light.
"Levan passes to Andrade, but Carmillo intercepts! He's bringing the heat down the court!"
"You might even say he's on fire, John!"
"Ha! You could say that. Sure seems like our boy from Marseille is looking to make an impression after last year's loss."
"I'd say! Carmillo passes the ball to Jones- you all saw that, folks, that's another score for the Marseille Challengers! The Black Hawks are down two to one!"
The harsh 'crack' of something striking my window woke me from a dead sleep. Startling upright, I groped for my glasses on the nightstand only to realize that they were still on my face. I grimaced, glancing at my alarm clock. It read 3:03 AM.
Maybe a bird had flown into the window? A bat?
Another sharp series of taps against the window put an end to that train of thought. I sat fully upright, this time fully awake. What was at the window? Was someone trying to rob us? No- but why would a burglar announce their presence?? Turning the lamp on the bedside table on, I stood, and against my better judgement, approached the window.
In one sharp movement, I jerked the curtains back and nearly gave myself a heart attack. Unable to control my reaction, I flailed backwards, away from the face staring back at me through the glass, and promptly tripped on the toy car I'd kicked across the floor earlier.
Crouched on the ledge just outside of my window, Angelo Carmillo tapped on the glass again, glancing behind him as though he were looking for something out there in the darkness. The back of his dark hair was all rucked up, disheveled with sweat, and he was still wearing his blue and gold jersey. He shot me a look. Like: 'Come on, dude, let me in already!'
Rubbing my right ass cheek, which had taken most of the brunt of my fall, I picked myself up from the floor with a groan and a glance back at the door. Had anyone heard me? But the rest of the apartment was quiet. The butterflies were back, bumping against the lining of my stomach as I made my way to the window, unlocking it and sliding it up. Angelo didn't waste any time crawling through the gap, hitting his knee on the bottom edge. He was slightly damp, though whether rain or sweat I couldn't tell. The windowpane was lightly beaded with condensation. I shut it firmly behind him, more so that I'd have something to do and wouldn't have to look at his face just yet.
"What are you doing here, Angelo?? It's three am," I whisper-yelled. I wrinkled my nose as I turned around. Angelo was standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, just watching me with those green eyes of his. He looked weirdly unsure of himself. My nostrils flared as I caught the faint scent of alcohol again. I knew I hadn't been imagining it. "Have you been drinking?"
He shrugged. "We won the championship," he said, as if that were all the explanation required.
I've always been a pretty mild mannered guy. I'm the nice guy. The listener. The help you with your chemistry homework guy. But this? This shit? I was losing my temper. And I was losing it fast. Anger flared in my belly, hot and bright. I advanced a step. "So you don't talk to me for months, then you show up to my parents' place in the middle of the night smelling like the inside of a bottle, and what? What do you want, Angelo? What did you think was going to happen when you came here?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Made an indeterminate sound, and ran his hand through his hair, looking frustrated. This wasn't like the Angelo I knew, but honestly? I was too pissed off to care.
I stalked back over to the window and shunted it open again. The cool night air blew past the side of my face, a sharp contrast to the murky anger simmering inside of my belly. "You've got ten seconds to spill before I kick you right back out of this window."
Angelo ran his hands through his hair one more time before exploding, far too loudly: "Fuck, Alan, you massive asshole, I came to say that I'm sorry about last year, okay??"
In the movies, the world seems to stand still. There's intense eye contact. Tears. A heartfelt confession. But I was still angry. And now I was thinking about prom.
Prom, February 1984. Last year. Angelo and I had gone together. It was just supposed to be fun. Some dancing, talking shit, and, of course, the after party. The after party was where it had all gone wrong. It had been fun at first, but then I'd had one too many cups of jungle juice, and it sort of went to my head. The sight of Angelo with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up past his forearms, sprawled in a patio chair, relaxed, and smiling, green eyes crinkled at the corners- it had been unbearable. The alcohol had made me stupid. Stupider. I'd tried to kiss him. But the worst part? He'd kissed me back. And then he'd avoided me the next day at school. For the whole summer. For a year. For a year, all I'd been able to think of whenever I looked at him was the softness of his lips, the way he smelled, the warmth of his chest pressed against mine. And he wouldn't even look at me.
"Fuck you, Angelo." I gesticulated at the open window, too angry to even begin to express my serious problems with his 'apology'. My eyes had started to burn. They were probably just dry. Yeah. We'd go with that. "Get out."
His eyebrows shot up, surprise and hurt written all over his face. "Alan—"
"Shut up and get out of my room."
Two quick steps— a wince (He'd managed to step on the toy car as well.) and Angelo was in my personal space, looking intently into my face. Anger and frustration glimmered around the corners of his green eyes, lips drawn into a bloodless line. "I'm not leaving until you hear me out!"
From the room over, there was the sound of a bedframe creaking loudly, accompanied by a muffled groan. Shit. I reached out without thinking, pressing my index finger haphazardly against his lips. His eyes narrowed. I found myself vividly reminded of exactly how soft his lips were, and immediately wanted to recoil. Dumb plan, Alan.
"Shh!"
We stood in silence for a long moment, both of us straining our ears as we listened for the sound of someone getting out of bed. A minute passed. Two. I was prepared to shove Angelo out the window if it came to it. He'd survived falling from the second story before. He could take it again. It was probably for the best that after another couple of squeaky bedframe sounds, the noise quieted down.
But we were still standing there, practically chest to chest, my finger still pressed against his lips, and I found myself unwillingly hyperfixated on how much heat was radiating off of Angelo. He didn't smell so good, to be honest. Smelled like the locker room and cheap beer. But damn, was he warm.
At around the three minute mark, I removed my hand, . He had the audacity to roll his eyes at me, like he wasn't the reason we were in this situation. I glared and crossed my arms over my chest; raised my eyebrows. Well? Angelo frowned, took two steps back and sat gingerly down on the end of my bed.
"Been thinking lately," he said quietly. "Feels like everything's come to a head, this year. Like it's the end or something, I don't know. I've been trying to fill the gaps since last year, but there's still something missing." He looked up at me. "I missed you, Alan."
"You weren't the asshole. I was. I cut you off because I was scared. Because, uh-" He blew a huge sigh, and I could see how nervous he was in the way he was turtling up like he always did when he got uncomfortable, shoulders damn near touching his ears. "I never thought about guys, or you, like that until- when you kissed me, and then, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was like something just clicked in my head."
"I shouldn't have ignored you, Alan. But every time I saw you in the halls or in class or whatever, the only thing I could think about was what it felt like to kiss you. About- what it would feel like if we did it again."
He didn't look away from me. The whites of his eyes were very bright, and there was a dark flush across the back of his neck and the tops of his ears. It felt like I was watching the scene in third person, looking down at us through the ceiling of the apartment. This was nothing like I'd ever imagined, the times that I would daydream in class about Angelo crawling back, telling me he was sorry and begging me to forgive him. I'd always had something to say in those daydreams. In the moment, I felt frozen. I had no words. It felt like the butterflies were trying to batter their way out of my stomach.
I swallowed. The inside of my mouth was suddenly very dry. Fuck. I had no idea what I was doing. I did, however, know what I wanted. I forced myself to step forward. One step. Two steps. Three, and I was standing in front of Angelo, looking up at me with his green eyes. A fourth step placed us toe to toe, inches apart. I watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the nervous-hungry flick of his green eyes between my eyes and my lips.
"Do you want me to?" I asked. "Again?"
He hesitated for a moment before that familiar mulish expression that was all Angelo came back to his eyes, and he nodded decisively, his fingers curling around my wrist. "Yeah."
"Okay," I said softly, and leaned in to press my lips against his. Neither of us were running away this time. I was going to make sure of it.
Author's Notes:
All characters depicted are 18+ at the time this story takes place. I put a lot of my heart into this story, so it was important to me that it have a focus on characters from marginalized backgrounds. Alan is Asian/African-American. Angelo is from a Latino family. The basketball theme was more coincidental than anything, so I apologize to any basketball fans out there for any of my inaccuracies. Thank you for reading!
Once the king of a rich and powerful nation, Tantalus tried to trick the all-knowing gods. In a ploy to test their omniscience, he murdered and served to them his own son at a feast in their honor. The punishment for his insolence was great: eternal torment in the afterlife. Standing in a pool of water beneath the boughs of a tree heavy with succulent fruit, he could neither quench his thirst nor sate his hunger. Every time, the water receded and the fruit withered before his eyes. For all eternity.
There are days when I feel like Tantalus, standing there in a pool of water that I can never drink, straining for the fruit that's forever just out of reach. Except the forbidden fruit, in my case, is a who, not a what.
Angelo Carmillo, my next door neighbor and best friend. I think I can safely call him the bane of my existence. Can't do with him, can't do without him. I was ten when I first met him. Well. I was playing basketball in the pockmarked court of the Skyview Residential Complex, and happened to look up just in time to watch this kid jump off of the balcony of his family's second story apartment wearing a plastic Halloween Batman cape and a determined smile. He lost three baby teeth and broke his arm. We've been best friends ever since.
We fought more than we got along, Angelo and me. Over toys, games, comic books. But we were inseparable. And we had each other's backs. I had dinner at Angelo's, half the week and slept over more often than I could count. We went to the same school together. Took the bus together. Hung out every single day tossing a basketball around in the burning summer sun or playing videogames in Angelo's room with the AC turned on full blast.
Man, I miss those days.
Maybe I always knew. I think I probably did, you know? Angelo was my best friend. But he was also... more than that. Even as a kid, I knew. It's like... you know when it's winter, you can put on a coat to warm yourself up? But when it's summer, and it's hot, and the sun's beating down on the back of your neck, there's nothing you can do to beat that heat. Nothing except run away.
I'm in love with Angelo Carmillo. I've always been in love with him. But I'm a coward. And he's out of my reach.
***
"Alan! Hey, Alan!"
I half turned from around the cover of my locker just in time to receive the full force of my friend's friendly back slap. I couldn't help but wince. Damien, the hulking asshole, just laughed, and slid his arm across my shoulders, giving me a shake that was probably meant to be gentle. It wasn't.
I was on the taller end, myself, but I had none of Damien's bulk. The guy had to have been 210, and practically all of it was in his shoulders. Football team had been after him for the last three years, but Damien kept turning them away. (Quothe he: "This nation doesn't take brain damage seriously enough! You only got one brain!") He was a computer science nerd, believe it or not. The man was a coding genius.
"You coming to the game tonight? It's the championship!"
I wanted to wince again, but managed to keep a neutral face this time. "I don't know, man. Mr. Kinley has a big test planned for physics tomorrow, and I'm not exactly caught up on studying."
Withdrawing his arm, Damien frowned at me, eyebrows drawing together over the coke bottle lenses of his glasses like two overly aggressive caterpillars. "But it's the championship game," he repeated, speaking slowly, as though I were dumb. "And Angelo's playing point guard."
Marseille High's team was on a winning streak this year. The year before last, the Challengers had made it all the way to the championships, where they'd faced off against Luther High's Black Hawks— and lost. By less than two points. The team had been devastated, but none more so than Angelo, who'd been a junior at the time. This year was his senior year. (Our senior year, technically.) This year, though, winning this championship wasn't just about the glory, or impressing the college basketball scouts in the crowd. It was personal. Because the Black Hawks had also made it back to championships.
"The whole school's showing up," Damien said, looking very serious indeed.
"I know," I said, lamely, choosing a textbook at random and stuffing it into my bag. My concentration was fading fast.
Damien cleared his throat. Loudly. I got the message, and looked up from my bag. 'Okay, Damien. I'm paying attention,' said the body language. He nodded, looking pleased.
"Look, Alan," he said with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows, "Level with me, ok? Senior year. You've got the grades. The whole damn school knows about the Harvard application, so don't bullshit me with Kinley's physics test. Ain't nobody else here even trying to apply to Harvard. If anyone's gonna get in, it's you. So here's the thing. Ever since prom, I know you and Angelo have been all over the place this year, but you're still his best friend. You're important to him. He's gonna want to see you in the crowd."
The meaningful caterpillar eyebrows had made a second appearance. As had the guilt, creeping up along the back of my neck. Dammit. Damien really did know me too well.
"So… you gonna be there, or you gonna be home, studying the answers for a physics test you already know you're gonna ace?"
***
Seven o'clock, and Luther High's gym was packed practically to the rafters. On one side, the home team, defenders of last year's championship, wearing red and black and single-handedly increasing the decibel level of the room with every person who forced their way through the doors wearing blue and gold. On the other side, what seemed like half of the student population of Marseille High, all wearing blue and gold and clamoring just as loudly. The cheerleading squads of both schools had also made an appearance, as had the mascots (two guys wearing hawk and horse costumes), running up and down their respective sides of the gymnasium to amp the cheering, booing crowds up just that much more.
Me, I was sitting in the middle of the away team's stands wearing a blue hoodie with the words 'Class of '85, Marseille High' printed in gold on the back. It was hot, and I was already sweating, so I had the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. After the game, I'd peel it off, chuck it in the back of my car, and presumably forget about it, but until then? Nah. I was committed.
I'd said I'd show. So I did. I had actually been one of the very first ones to plant their butt in the stands. Damien trickled in with the rest of the crowd, shaking his head at my choice in seating. I'd just shrugged, hyper aware of the butterflies in my stomach, and said something about 'superior seating'. Damien didn't call me out on it, at least, though it was possible he hadn't even heard my excuse. The noise level was getting to be overwhelming when the intercom crackled and an older gentleman wearing red and black walked out into the center of the floor.
He had to wave his hands around and shout a bit to get the Black Hawks' side to quiet down, but eventually managed to get the noise down to a dull roar.
"Quite the crowd tonight," he remarked. "Now I know you're all riled up for tonight's game, so let me say a few things and we'll get on with it."
I'll admit I zoned out a bit. It was the usual pre game bullshit. Rules of conduct, playing fair and all that. Pledge of Allegiance. Cheerleaders. Bathroom locations. I'd gotten engrossed in watching some guy on the Black Hawks' side not-so-surreptitiously pick his nose and wipe it on the underside of the bleachers when Damien smacked my arm.
"They're about to come out, man. Watch the left."
"-please welcome our champions, the Black Hawks!"
Right on queue, the home team exploded into a cacophony of cheers as the Black Hawks streamed out onto the court, black and red jerseys and grungy white socks. Damien and I joined in with the rest of Marseille High's supporters, cupping our hands together to add our voices to the raucous booing from our side.
"And our old friends, from Marseille High School, the Challengers!"
It's always cheesy, how the movies dramatize the entrance of the main character's love interest. How he only ever has eyes for her, how she's illuminated in some stupid corona of golden light. I wish that I could say that I was watching the rest of the team, cheering for the rest of the team, but I wasn't. It's always like that, whenever Angelo's around. Looking directly at him is like looking into the freaking sun. Doesn't matter whether it's homeroom or a damn basketball game. He's just dazzling stupid.
Times like this, I wish I could go back to the blissful ignorance of being a kid, but there's no shutting Pandora's box again. Pandora's box being what happened that night last year: Prom, 1984. Anymore, whenever I look at Angelo, it's the only thing I can think about. But in the present, the Challengers are all running out onto the court, eyes bright and chests swollen with the roaring applause from their supporters in blue and gold that almost drown out the jeering from the Black Hawks. And I only have eyes for Angelo.
***
Sweat trickled down the small of my back, tracing the groove of my spine. I'd tied my hoodie around my waist, and the sleeves bumped against the tops of my thighs with every step. My car keys jangled as I walked, gravel crunching underneath my sneakers. I was tired. It was nearly eleven o'clock at this point. If I'd actually needed to study for Kinley's physics test, I would've been in trouble. Ordinarily, I would have done a bit of studying just on principle alone, but with the way my eyelids were starting to droop, I thought I would just call it a night. Falling into my bed sounded like heaven right now.
Even my steps sounded lethargic as I climbed the stairs. I felt a bit like a zombie. My throat was hoarse from yelling, and my legs hurt from the crunched-up position they'd been forced into during those hours squashed between two rows of people in the bleachers.
Stopping in front of the apartment (labeled 'Tran' in neat letters on the nameplate), I somehow managed to fumble the apartment key out of my keychain, but it took a couple of attempts to fit it into the keyhole. I stepped inside and toed my shoes off at the threshold, too tired to line them up neatly in the shoe rack with the rest of my family's shoes, shutting the door behind me.
The lights were all off. Looked like everyone was already asleep. I wasn't surprised. Mom had been working OT lately at the hospital. She always came back grumpy, hungry, and smelling like antiseptic. She'd mechanically eat whatever leftovers were in the fridge while hunched over a book at the table and promptly knock out before nine thirty. I peeked through the half-cracked door of the twins' room as I made my way down the hall, catching a sliver of the sight of two lumps in the bunk beds. Looked like dad already put the kids to bed.
My room was across the hall from my parent's, adjacent to the twins' room. I eased open the door and slipped inside, sighing in relief the moment the door shut. Finally.
I didn't even bother turning on the light, relying on my memory of all the things I'd dropped on the floor the past couple of days to make my way to my bed. I still managed to step on something that felt like a toy car (Vivien and Jamey had clearly gotten into my room again), which I kicked out of the way before dropping into bed, still hissing in pain.
I didn't even get the chance to take off my socks. I was out like a light.
***
"Levan passes to Andrade, but Carmillo intercepts! He's bringing the heat down the court!"
"You might even say he's on fire, John!"
"Ha! You could say that. Sure seems like our boy from Marseille is looking to make an impression after last year's loss."
"I'd say! Carmillo passes the ball to Jones- you all saw that, folks, that's another score for the Marseille Challengers! The Black Hawks are down two to one!"
***
The harsh 'crack' of something striking my window woke me from a dead sleep. Startling upright, I groped for my glasses on the nightstand only to realize that they were still on my face. I grimaced, glancing at my alarm clock. It read 3:03 AM.
Maybe a bird had flown into the window? A bat?
Another sharp series of taps against the window put an end to that train of thought. I sat fully upright, this time fully awake. What was at the window? Was someone trying to rob us? No- but why would a burglar announce their presence?? Turning the lamp on the bedside table on, I stood, and against my better judgement, approached the window.
In one sharp movement, I jerked the curtains back and nearly gave myself a heart attack. Unable to control my reaction, I flailed backwards, away from the face staring back at me through the glass, and promptly tripped on the toy car I'd kicked across the floor earlier.
Crouched on the ledge just outside of my window, Angelo Carmillo tapped on the glass again, glancing behind him as though he were looking for something out there in the darkness. The back of his dark hair was all rucked up, disheveled with sweat, and he was still wearing his blue and gold jersey. He shot me a look. Like: 'Come on, dude, let me in already!'
Rubbing my right ass cheek, which had taken most of the brunt of my fall, I picked myself up from the floor with a groan and a glance back at the door. Had anyone heard me? But the rest of the apartment was quiet. The butterflies were back, bumping against the lining of my stomach as I made my way to the window, unlocking it and sliding it up. Angelo didn't waste any time crawling through the gap, hitting his knee on the bottom edge. He was slightly damp, though whether rain or sweat I couldn't tell. The windowpane was lightly beaded with condensation. I shut it firmly behind him, more so that I'd have something to do and wouldn't have to look at his face just yet.
"What are you doing here, Angelo?? It's three am," I whisper-yelled. I wrinkled my nose as I turned around. Angelo was standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, just watching me with those green eyes of his. He looked weirdly unsure of himself. My nostrils flared as I caught the faint scent of alcohol again. I knew I hadn't been imagining it. "Have you been drinking?"
He shrugged. "We won the championship," he said, as if that were all the explanation required.
I've always been a pretty mild mannered guy. I'm the nice guy. The listener. The help you with your chemistry homework guy. But this? This shit? I was losing my temper. And I was losing it fast. Anger flared in my belly, hot and bright. I advanced a step. "So you don't talk to me for months, then you show up to my parents' place in the middle of the night smelling like the inside of a bottle, and what? What do you want, Angelo? What did you think was going to happen when you came here?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Made an indeterminate sound, and ran his hand through his hair, looking frustrated. This wasn't like the Angelo I knew, but honestly? I was too pissed off to care.
I stalked back over to the window and shunted it open again. The cool night air blew past the side of my face, a sharp contrast to the murky anger simmering inside of my belly. "You've got ten seconds to spill before I kick you right back out of this window."
Angelo ran his hands through his hair one more time before exploding, far too loudly: "Fuck, Alan, you massive asshole, I came to say that I'm sorry about last year, okay??"
In the movies, the world seems to stand still. There's intense eye contact. Tears. A heartfelt confession. But I was still angry. And now I was thinking about prom.
Prom, February 1984. Last year. Angelo and I had gone together. It was just supposed to be fun. Some dancing, talking shit, and, of course, the after party. The after party was where it had all gone wrong. It had been fun at first, but then I'd had one too many cups of jungle juice, and it sort of went to my head. The sight of Angelo with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up past his forearms, sprawled in a patio chair, relaxed, and smiling, green eyes crinkled at the corners- it had been unbearable. The alcohol had made me stupid. Stupider. I'd tried to kiss him. But the worst part? He'd kissed me back. And then he'd avoided me the next day at school. For the whole summer. For a year. For a year, all I'd been able to think of whenever I looked at him was the softness of his lips, the way he smelled, the warmth of his chest pressed against mine. And he wouldn't even look at me.
"Fuck you, Angelo." I gesticulated at the open window, too angry to even begin to express my serious problems with his 'apology'. My eyes had started to burn. They were probably just dry. Yeah. We'd go with that. "Get out."
His eyebrows shot up, surprise and hurt written all over his face. "Alan—"
"Shut up and get out of my room."
Two quick steps— a wince (He'd managed to step on the toy car as well.) and Angelo was in my personal space, looking intently into my face. Anger and frustration glimmered around the corners of his green eyes, lips drawn into a bloodless line. "I'm not leaving until you hear me out!"
From the room over, there was the sound of a bedframe creaking loudly, accompanied by a muffled groan. Shit. I reached out without thinking, pressing my index finger haphazardly against his lips. His eyes narrowed. I found myself vividly reminded of exactly how soft his lips were, and immediately wanted to recoil. Dumb plan, Alan.
"Shh!"
We stood in silence for a long moment, both of us straining our ears as we listened for the sound of someone getting out of bed. A minute passed. Two. I was prepared to shove Angelo out the window if it came to it. He'd survived falling from the second story before. He could take it again. It was probably for the best that after another couple of squeaky bedframe sounds, the noise quieted down.
But we were still standing there, practically chest to chest, my finger still pressed against his lips, and I found myself unwillingly hyperfixated on how much heat was radiating off of Angelo. He didn't smell so good, to be honest. Smelled like the locker room and cheap beer. But damn, was he warm.
At around the three minute mark, I removed my hand, . He had the audacity to roll his eyes at me, like he wasn't the reason we were in this situation. I glared and crossed my arms over my chest; raised my eyebrows. Well? Angelo frowned, took two steps back and sat gingerly down on the end of my bed.
"Been thinking lately," he said quietly. "Feels like everything's come to a head, this year. Like it's the end or something, I don't know. I've been trying to fill the gaps since last year, but there's still something missing." He looked up at me. "I missed you, Alan."
"You weren't the asshole. I was. I cut you off because I was scared. Because, uh-" He blew a huge sigh, and I could see how nervous he was in the way he was turtling up like he always did when he got uncomfortable, shoulders damn near touching his ears. "I never thought about guys, or you, like that until- when you kissed me, and then, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was like something just clicked in my head."
"I shouldn't have ignored you, Alan. But every time I saw you in the halls or in class or whatever, the only thing I could think about was what it felt like to kiss you. About- what it would feel like if we did it again."
He didn't look away from me. The whites of his eyes were very bright, and there was a dark flush across the back of his neck and the tops of his ears. It felt like I was watching the scene in third person, looking down at us through the ceiling of the apartment. This was nothing like I'd ever imagined, the times that I would daydream in class about Angelo crawling back, telling me he was sorry and begging me to forgive him. I'd always had something to say in those daydreams. In the moment, I felt frozen. I had no words. It felt like the butterflies were trying to batter their way out of my stomach.
I swallowed. The inside of my mouth was suddenly very dry. Fuck. I had no idea what I was doing. I did, however, know what I wanted. I forced myself to step forward. One step. Two steps. Three, and I was standing in front of Angelo, looking up at me with his green eyes. A fourth step placed us toe to toe, inches apart. I watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the nervous-hungry flick of his green eyes between my eyes and my lips.
"Do you want me to?" I asked. "Again?"
He hesitated for a moment before that familiar mulish expression that was all Angelo came back to his eyes, and he nodded decisively, his fingers curling around my wrist. "Yeah."
"Okay," I said softly, and leaned in to press my lips against his. Neither of us were running away this time. I was going to make sure of it.
Author's Notes:
All characters depicted are 18+ at the time this story takes place. I put a lot of my heart into this story, so it was important to me that it have a focus on characters from marginalized backgrounds. Alan is Asian/African-American. Angelo is from a Latino family. The basketball theme was more coincidental than anything, so I apologize to any basketball fans out there for any of my inaccuracies. Thank you for reading!