i'm the trouble ahead

kelsey looks so much more unnerved by omar’s musing than he does that he’d showed up late … and omar eats that up, wow! add to that how the lock of their ankles makes his guileless little heart jump and an honest-to-god giggle tumble past his lips — fucking goner, down bad, the picture of smitten as he teeters into kelsey’s space and tries to catch his eyes on the come-down of a deserved eye roll. “for you? one million burgers.” with radio station money, right. he’s quick, anyway, to wave over the bartender and put in an order; just the one, because omar’s insane and will push his luck to the brink just to pick off kelsey’s plate when it comes. 

it takes omar a long couple of seconds of dipping into kelsey's space and fishing for that returned eye contact, but he does get it — eventually. mouth chewed down on one side, brows pinched, eyes lured until they meet his. that giggle was so adorable that kelsey wishes he was dead. it actually feels like his chest is tightening, physically, from how much he likes omar, and he just watches him order. he really can't stay mad — it was only a day or two ago that he had his own disappearing act. but, that was different. he was, you know... 'camping.'

... he wonders where i go, i wonder where he goes. what'll take for either of us to do more than wonder?

"boo," he says, sharp, metaphorically throwing tomatoes at omar with his tone and the look he shoots him; which is lighthearted, but pointed enough that it's clear he's harboring a little bit of somethin' as his body turns to face omar in obligation to the jostling — who knows what that something is, exactly. he doesn't, even. he's just on edge, and it's creeping in on him, slowly but surely. "i already do tune in nightly, you know that," he argues, voice whiny and nose scrunched, a tired smile just barely starting to form.

... but, it fades again when omar's story starts. the grin twitches right off his face and falls into a hard line. that shift inside of omar radiates from his body to kelsey's, his emotion transmitted to kelsey like waves from a radio. he doesn't understand why, but his fingers feel electric as their energy shifts between each other; like kelsey's elemental abilities are magnetically pulling strands of energy off of omar, as though he were emitting his own current. not to mention, he can tell he's fucking lying, can taste the guilt, the uncertainty as he talks. he doesn't unlock his leg but he does stop bouncing their ankles, and kelsey's face starts looking too serious; a bit miffed, but a lot concerned. "...the fuck are you talking about?" he mumbles, heading racking through his brain to try and process the story he was just wove, eyes flickering back and forth between omar's two. "wanted to take something— what? who are you talking about? where'd you come from, even? work? or was this just like —outside? what the fuck were they trying to take? ... you argued with them?" he tips closer into omar's space, elbow on the bar, eyes squinted, and completely neglecting the plate brought to them. he doesn't care about that — not right now. "heroic. are you fuckin' crazy? tell me this wasn't a stranger. that sounds like a robbery that you... talked... them out of?"

so there is some other italian guy julian's into. he'd have stated otherwise if he were talking about giovani, right ? jealousy grows in his stomach, and it's not an unfamiliar feeling. he remember how it felt watching julian hang off the arm of some pretty girl between classes, they way they'd look at people who weren't him. it's sobering to still fall victim after all this time. he's lived a whole life since then, and yet, here they are.

"—oh?!" directly after giovani has his little outburst, julian sputters this noise out in a nervous, mildly alarmed laugh — you know, not having expected such... fire behind a response. not having expected anything like that, in fact, to come out of giovani, and then his heart feels like it's blooming with warth in the core of his chest when he's saying it's because he likes his hair this way.

"a bottle blonde ?" he repeats to buy enough time to process what he's said — blondes ? since when has gio ever liked a blonde ? neither of his exes, none of his crushes that he can remember. not even link was blonde. holly ! she was blonde, wasn't she ? but not a crush. and ... he's pretty sure she wasn't a natural blonde. "uh, yeah, artificial's fine i guess ... " is he supposed to maintain this charade now ? what the fuck. if julian tries to wingman him with some random sandy-haired girl, he swears to himself he's leaving this party. screw the birthday. giovani's so grateful when their next round of drinks appears that he's already got his glass lifted to his lips when his companion mentions 'italian dudes'. if he'd been drinking any quicker, maybe he would have choked. he immediately analyzes this statement, and he comes to two possible conclusions. one, julian actually is trying to flirt with him. or two, they downplayed their status before and maybe they're talking to someone currently even if they're not in a relationship. giovani studies his face best he can to try and gage the right answer. "well in that case, jersey sounds like the best place for you ... we're kind of everywhere." wait, maybe julian doesn't even know he's italian and this was a complete misstep. gio's eyes dart towards the clear bubbles in his drink, suddenly and seemingly fascinated by the way they knock into each other and rise to the surface. he asks another question he's not sure he wants to hear the answer to, but he needs to know for his own sanity. "is there a ... specific one ? you're thinking about ? or is that like, a weirdly particular type of yours ... "

"right, right... right..." okay, so — don't... don't dye their hair? okay, yeah, don't; giovani did not seem enthusiastic about the bottle blonde thing, begrudgingly tolerant of it at most, and that's not how julian would describe it because he doesn't even know the word begrudgingly, but he does think, man, i should've just been born blonde. that was my bad. i'll work on that. his head bobs stupidly and his lips remain parted, eyes blank, mouth uncomfortably dry as he watches giovani watch bubbles, eyes glued to the soft curve of his jaw, the desire to have their mouth pressed against it burning in their gut. he feels like he's fourteen years old, hormonal and insane, and — and, he's still staring when gio points out the advantage point for being located where many italians are — we, thank god, we — and... asking now, a question that has him reaching for his drink again.

adam retreats to the safety of the sink, settles the slightest bit when the edge of the counter presses into his hip and sinks his weight against worn granite. their fingers curve around the lip of the counter and their mouth is set in a thin line. inside, noise rolls and roars, dissonant and angry. guilt unearthed, hooking its fingers between their ribs and shaking, demanding to know who’d woken it from its decade-long slumber. they’re torn between i’ve finally said my piece and i shouldn't have said anything. can’t help but drop their stony gaze to link’s exposed, mottled skin. it’s - god, it’s so bad. it’s hard to look at and harder to stomach and link’s still talking but adam’s not listening, not like he should be. they’re in their head, thinking what a disgrace they are, to have allowed themself to unspool when link himself is barley held together, all battered and bruised like this, broken inside. two hurt people don’t make one healed. adam should’ve done better to hold it together. adam opens their mouth to apologize. 

then closes it. what’s done is done, on both ends. now this linoleum-and-tile box is a wreckage site that smells like alcohol and every unmet message from before is a distress flare that went unheeded. what to do now? what to do tomorrow, when they’ve gone back to the new normal? adam watches link tend to his wounds. garish and unwelcome against his pallor. adam’s fingers flex, like he wants to take over. he could treat it better. not great, but better. is that anything? 

“all the more reason to take the bed. your spine must hate you.” this is picked carefully out of the noise in their head. a bad back is the least of their problems, but it’s something conquerable. if link will take the bed, adam will have helped make his life a little less … god, is fucking miserable a crass thing to think? they wince, but insist again, “just take it, link. the couch is awful and your night’s been bad enough.” this close to handing over the shirt off their own back, just to be able to say they did something for link besides stinging him with antiseptic and burning him with their words. 

adam’s gaze treks up from link’s naked torso to the naked look on his face. where the rest of their own expression is ruminative and small, their eyes are wide, wild with reawakened worry. there’s an ice-cold shot to the heart with what link says, how dark it’d gone. guilt grabs at their ribcage again, and sympathy shakes it until their heart breaks off it's rusty hinge and sinks to the bottom. he hears what link doesn’t say. adam’s quiet too. 

some time ago, when they were still young and life itself had seemed conquerable, adam had resigned themself to three principles of life: 

the first is that anger is wasted on sad people. he cannot angry someone into becoming a better version of themselves, and their sadness does enough beating them down without his help. 

the second is that emotion gets in the way of productivity, proactivity, and to waste it on things that could not be changed is pointless. so he’s repressed and buried and swallowed down all that does not serve him, ended up like this. they’re better for it, right? 

the third is that adam loves link. wholly, sweetly, unbearably. as a friend. as something more. now, as he watches link’s face and recognizes they've abandoned the first principle, adam breathes out the second to nurture the third. 

gross. link feels gross; physically, mentally, psychically, all of the -ally's — he feels to be coated in slime, sweat, booze, and anchored in deep rooted, ugly feelings. "okay," he concedes on the matter of bed versus couch, as much as he still feels like adam is still sacrificing far too much — and he's sounded more petulant before, that's for sure. sounded more petulant tonight even, at different points, right, but this okay is said fairly sincerely neutrally, if only because he doesn't want to tell adam no twice. they're offering their bed. they'll offer him everything and he can only deny them so much, already has denied so much, it's impossible to keep doing. detrimental. he won't sleep in it, not after everything tonight, but he has to admit to himself: it will feel better to lay than it does to hold himself up any longer. he's just not looking forward to ruminating alone, to laying in sheets that smell like adam but don't hold them, pressed against him. used to share beds, when they'd sleep at his place. well, he'd sleep. they'd usually be awake still if he stirred in the middle of the night.

he still feels gross, over the quiet. that's around when it starts really seeping in, when he pictures green goop all over him, like in howl's moving castle. after the third or fourth nonsense thought that befalls him, he makes a second concession to himself, silently, that maybe he should try to sleep a little bit in there; argues with himself immediately that he can't, because as soon as he leaves tomorrow, he may lose him again. as much as adam probably doesn't trust in his plan, the link of right now doesn't really, either. he thinks he means it. he wants to mean it. wanting it is not enough — this is an infallible truth. you have to stay strong.

adam's voice pulls him from the depths of where he goes, again. he stills. he chokes enough on a breath that his throat feels tight around, eyes wide on the floor. you're my best friend. it shouldn't be news to him, but it feels like it is. maybe that's because he's spent so long degrading their relationship; convincing himself that he wouldn't be that big a loss, and it feels like his eyes just keep widening as they go on. the best person he knows, who he's hurt so deeply, thinks — thinks something that link can't even begin to comprehend about himself, but believes because adam wouldn't say it if they didn't mean it. they don't know it, he doesn't know it in the moment either, but those words will stick with him for just as long as the ones he shrunk under. they're going to be why he survives. "...doesn't make it right," he whispers when adam acknowledges his hurt; an acknowledgment, an ode to what they'd said before. he feels the shudder. he knows adam's nearing a limit. he might be, too.

he hasn't looked up through all of this, and he only does when adam says those three words — words that he repeats back with no hesitation, and every bit of passion: "i miss you too." brown eyes bounce up and lock at the exact time that adam looks, and he doesn't look away. he can't make any promises tonight. he can't say, nothing will happen to me. he can't say, you'll see me again. he doesn't know that. and it's true that adam is so important to him, too, but — showing them that he can be more than this will be a lot more powerful than an empty-sounding promise made in the dim light of their bathroom.

he stands. it's with aching muscles and a pained expression, trembling fingers pushing off of the edge of the tub until unsteady feet find purchase on the tile, and he looks at adam again. his good hand dips into his pocket, eyes still locked with theirs, and he rustles around in it for a good eight seconds. when he retracts his hand, he extends it across the room to adam, palm up, full of sand that falls between his fingers and... beautiful brown rocks. they're glossy finished, shiny, and — "they reminded me of you. your eyes. same color," he tells them, tone flat, matter of fact, looking down at them, rolling them around in his palm. the house they picked him up from was on the beach, it was. he doesn't mention, but he'd spent the first hour of the party rooting around in the shoreline. of course, he did. he keeps his eyes on the rocks, trembling in his hand. "you're my best friend too. probably.. probably not done hurting, but i'm done being mean. done taking that for granted. i told you where i'm goin' after this, 'cause — 'cause i want you... want to talk to you when i'm back. important to me. that's important to me." he sniffs, more snot on his face. disgusting.

scorescoreSCORE. creatives? that's them, baby. julian moves their lips to sputter something out, anything, but before their tongue can even lift off the floor of their mouth... he's snapping his jaws shut in what can only be described as deep disappointment. "huh... really?" he tries not to sound so dejected, or judgmental ( fails. blondes? why. ) — tries to imagine himself blonde, and... okay, he could probably pull it off, but he can already hear his dad and nick ( brother, the cain to his abel ) hooting and hollering about how gay that'd look. maybe he'll do it. wait, is this to get the guy, or to piss off his family? what the fuck is he thinking about? hope restores for a brief second when giovani backtracks, julian's eyes wide and locked in on him, completely oblivious to whatever effect that might have on the other; really, they have no idea what's going on in his head, none at all. "...would a bottle blonde do it for ya? or, like... does it gotta be, like... ole-nature...ll?" he asks, not totally believing giovani didn't mean that, and... apparently unknowing of the correct pronunciation of au naturel. but really, why say it otherwise, right? he would dye his hair, probably. has he always been this desperate? — yes, yes he has, actually. once sold his car to buy a new one because some girl said she wanted to ride in what he's driving now — she, of course, did not give them the time of day. they take a much longer sip, eyes shifting, mind racing over where to go next with this interrogation. oh, the drink's gone. oh — he's scrubbing his wrist over his lips, dropping his hand down and tapping on the bar, and something is coming out of his mouth; abrupt, a little too loud. "i'm kind of into italian dudes. personally. lately. recently. currently, even." ...something needs to be done about him. what? he doesn't know. he gulps, audibly. he still doesn't even know if he's barking up the wrong tree? he doesn't know of any other way to ask it, either, so... again, abrupt, tactless: "—hey. okay. follow up: do you like men, or are you — did you say partner to be like generally inclusive, or like, you do... like them?"