We Are Not Heroes

You almost dropped the broom when the gravel of Richie’s voice cut through the silence. He leaned one forearm against the doorframe to the kitchen. 

“H-Hey,” you echoed, wincing at your obvious nervousness. “I didn’t know you were closing with me tonight.”

Richie’s blue eyes roved over your figure, wild with mischief. “Yeah, well,” he scratched at his beard, “I told Fak I’d swap closing shifts with him so he and Carm can watch the Sox game together.”

“That’s very selfless of you.” Your heart hammered in your chest. His words said one thing—this was a favor for Fak. But his smirk told you that this act was far from selfless. 

He nodded. “You wanna help me with something in the walk-in? Could use a pair of young eyes double checking my count.”

“Sure. Yeah.” You bit your lip, placing the broom back in the corner as you trailed after him.

Whatever had been going on with you and Richie happened outside of work. Maybe not too far outside of work; there’d been quite a few makeout sessions in your car whenever Richie insisted on walking you down the block after work. For safety, he’d always insist.

Richie stopped you before you could come inside, closing the door and then opening it again to let you in.

“Thing’s fickle,” he offered sheepishly. “Didn’t want us both getting locked in here and then having to explain…”

“Mhm.” You draped your arms over his shoulders and kissed him, melting into his familiar scent of tobacco and black coffee.

Richie swore against your mouth, his fingers hurriedly untucking your blouse from your pants and sliding beneath it. His calluses danced along your skin, leaving invisible trails of desire in their wake.

“Fuckin’...” Richie mumbled, cutting himself off with another kiss, “couldn’t stop checkin’ you out all day today. Kept thinkin’ about the last time we were alone. When we were in your backseat.”

Your whole body heated at the memory: you straddling his lap, dry-humping like two teenagers, not even stopping when Richie came in his suit pants.

You’d thought about that night, too. Touched yourself to the mental image of Richie whimpering as warmth seeped through the inside of his briefs and dampened your own panties.

Watching him come undone, your full focus on him, was one of the hottest moments of your life.

In the present, you unbuckled Richie’s belt, savoring the cool metal against your warm skin. You nipped at his bottom lip, swallowing the hitch of his breath when you slid your hand down his pants and over his cotton underwear.

His cock immediately stiffened at your touch, his hips thrusting instinctively into your palm. You could stay like this, maybe jerk him off while you kissed–

RIIIIIING! RIIIIIING!  

Richie yanked his phone from his pants pocket, rolling his eyes when he saw the caller ID. “Fuckin’ Carmy,” he grumbled, rejecting the call and tossing the phone onto the nearest shelf.

His tongue slipped into your mouth. You couldn’t help yourself; you moaned at the kiss, and Richie’s triumphant laughter vibrated throughout his body.

You stroked him again, putting an end to his victory and keeping him right in you–

RIIIIIING! RIIIIIING!  

“Don’t answer it,” you pleaded.

“He’ll just keep calling.”

“Then put it on silent.”

Richie shook his head. “Then he’ll come down here.”

He was right, but your stomach still sank when Richie swiped to answer the call.

“What?” He hissed, already regretting his decision to pick up.

And you were not above rubbing salt in that wound.

His eyes widened when you got on your knees in front of him, tugging his pants down to expose the erection straining against his briefs.

What are you doing? He mouthed, but you just kissed his thighs wordlessly.

“Yo, Cuz!” Carmy’s voice thundered through the phone. “Remember when we went to the Sox game with Mikey?”

“And me!” Fak screeched in the background. “I was there, too!”

“And Fak,” Carmy acquiesced. “Anyway, do you remember–”

“Uh-huh. I remember–shit!” Richie drew in a shallow breath when you dragged your lips over his still-clothed cock. “Good time. Fun time.”

Hooking your fingers into the waistband of his briefs, you drew them down his thighs as quietly as you could. You pressed a chaste kiss to his shaft before showing him an iota of mercy, swirling your tongue around the tip.

“Do you remember what Fak put on his hot dog?”

Richie rubbed a trembling hand over his eyes, and you took the opportunity to lick up the base of his cock. “Fuck–what? Cousin, what–are you calling me to ask me about Fak’s hot dog?!”

“Is my hot dog bothering you, RIchie?” Fak crooned. “Do you not want to discuss my wiener?”

You took Richie deeper into your mouth, partially to torture him further and partially to stifle your giggles. 

“Shut the fuck up, Fak!” Carmy’s threat was muffled by Fak cackling. “Cousin, listen. Do you remember Fak putting ketchup on his hot dog?”

Richie bit his inner cheek when you wrapped your hand around the part of his cock that didn’t fit in your mouth. “Uh, yeah. Ketchup. Yeah.” His fingers ground into your shoulder, squeezing it when you lapped up his pre-cum.

“I told you!” Carmy shouted. Richie pulled the phone away from his ear and winced. “I fuckin’ told you, Fak!”

“What? Gimme that–Richie,” Fak spoke directly into the phone now; he must have wrestled it away from Carmy. “I did not put ketchup on my hot dog! I put mustard on it!”

You hollowed out your cheeks, sucking and moving in tandem with each buck of his hips. With your free hand, you cupped his balls, massaging them and coaxing a soft whine from his mouth.

“I know you put ketchup on it, you fuckin’ freak,” Carmy countered, “because when Mikey saw you, he wouldn’t let you order a beer. He made you get a Shirley Temple, because you’re a goddamn child!”

“Maybe I just like Shirley Temples!”

“Oh, you do? You like them enough to order one at the Sox game? Really?”

“Really! They’re fruity and refreshing, and they come with the cherry–”

You gazed up at Richie, meeting his eyes as you moved faster, fingernails biting into his bare thighs. Your nose brushed his thatch of pubic hair, and you breathed in the musty scent like it was a lifeline.

“Holy sh-shit, ahhh, fuck.” Richie groaned, temporarily forgetting the two idiots on the other end of the line. 

A beat, then: “Cousin? You good?”

Richie choked on a reply, squeezing your shoulder again. You could lay off for a second, give him a chance to think…but what fun would that be?

Instead, you took him as deep as you could, gagging on his cock until tears blurred your vision.

“Just, uh, tweaked my back,” he lied as smoothly as he could.

“You need me to come down?” You heard rustling; Carmy was all ready to high-tail it to the restaurant. 

Fak didn’t wait for a response before declaring, “You’re going? Then I’m coming, too,” 

“No!” Richie yelled. “I mean, no thanks. I’m good. No one needs to come. Come here. No one needs to come here.”

“Alright.” Carmy sounded unconvinced. “Make sure to rest it. I think Sugar knows a good chiropractor–”

“Yup, got it! Thanks, bye!” No sooner did Richie end the call, he was spilling onto your tongue with a cry of your name.

You swallowed every last drop of his cum, grinning proudly as he hoisted you to your feet and into a long kiss. His hands framed your face, like he couldn’t get close enough.

“You little devil,” he said once he finally pulled away. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“I can’t believe you still came after talking about Fak’s wiener.”

Richie laughed breathlessly, wiping beneath your eye where your mascara was most definitely smudged. “You wanna know something funny? It wasn’t Fak who put ketchup on his hot dog; it was Pete.”

“Are you serious?” You clapped a hand over your mouth. Carmy was probably still gloating over his win while Fak was insisting it wasn’t him. Poor guy.

Richie nodded. “Yup. Sugar was there.” He held out his phone. “Call her and ask her.”

“I believe you–”

“Call. Her.” Richie smirked, undoing your pants as he sank onto his knees. He kissed the apex of your thighs, chuckling when you shivered. “It’ll be entertaining for both of us.”

“Finally.” It’s taken long enough, the back-and-forth deliberating seemingly lasting forever. 

Your husband patters into the family room, snaking an arm around you as you watch the story unfold. “Apparently there’s gonna be this big celebration downtown tomorrow. Think Pride, like, jacked up to the max.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “Will wants to know if Corroded Coffin wants to play.”

There’s no need to ask him his opinion; you already know the answer. 

“Can I go?” A soft, small voice asks from the doorway. You and Eddie look up to see Hendrix, still in pajama pants and eyes hazy with sleep. It never fails to amaze you how easily teenagers can sleep the day away, even after going through it with Harris.

Eddie grins. “You wanna see your old man in action?” He doesn’t notice his youngest son’s anxious expression, typing back his response to Will. 

Something’s wrong–you can tell by the way Hendrix isn’t teasing Eddie for typing with one pointer finger.

“Hen? Everything okay?”

“Y-Yeah. Just, um,” He looks down at the ground. “It’s not that I don’t wanna see Dad perform, but I also wanna go because I…I like guys. And girls, too, but definitely also guys.”

The sound of the iMessage swooping into cyberspace is the only noise in the room. 

“So…you’re bisexual?” Eddie glances between you and Hendrix. “That’s the right term, right?”

Hendrix laughs despite his nerves. “Yeah, that’s it.” 

“Cool.” Eddie turns to you. “Should we make this a family affair, then? See if Harris wants to come?”

You smile, already digging into your pocket for your own phone. “Sounds good.”

“Wait, you’re–you’re okay with this?” Hendrix raises his eyebrows in disbelief. ”You don’t hate me?”

“Hate you?” Eddie shakes his head, kissing Hendrix’s scalp. “Bud, I didn’t hate you after you finger-painted on my guitar when you were a toddler. I’m certainly not gonna hate you for liking boys.”

You pull Hendrix in for a hug, squeezing tight. “We’re glad you told us. And we’ll always love you.”

The tension leaves his body, tears of relief slipping down his cheeks. The three of you stand there in quiet introspection, your son basking in the warmth of acceptance.

The sun’s rays permeate light through white clouds, heating the back of your neck. Hendrix stands to your left, Harris beside him. Harris, who has apparently known about his brother’s sexuality for months now and kept it a secret until Hendrix gave him the all-clear.

“Not to brag,” Harris said to you and Eddie on the car ride to the celebration, “but I was the first person he came out to.”

You and your sons watch Will take the microphone, your veins thrumming with excitement as he introduces Corroded Coffin. 

But the stage is suddenly occupied by four women. 

The woman sporting a baby pink turtleneck tank top and a black leather miniskirt leans into the mic. When she speaks, your jaw drops. 

“We’re Corroded Coffin, and this song goes out to everyone who’s ever needed to break free.”

That’s Eddie’s voice. 

And as the band begins playing their first song, you realize exactly what’s happening. 

I want to break free  I want to break free  I want to break free from your lies  You're so self satisfied, I don't need you  I've got to break free

“Oh, my God!” Harris cackles, adjusting his earplugs. “They’re doing the Queen video!”

Sure enough, Gareth is wearing a button-down and a skirt, Jeff is donning a pink negligee, and Grant is dressed in a black dress with a matching hat. 

Next to you, Hendrix buries his face in his hands. “This is worse than him hating me, I think,” he mumbles. 

Harris shakes his brother’s shoulders. “C’mon, Hen!” He cheers. “You gotta break free.”

“Kill me. Kill me now.” Hendrix turns to you in a silent plea for help. 

“No can do.” You smile, grabbing his hands and yours to initiate a shuffling dance. 

Reluctantly, Hendrix gives in, swaying his body to the music. He twirls you around, eyes crinkling with laughter as you struggle to turn on the pavement. 

Corroded Coffin continues playing, fully leaning into their drag personas, though it’s clear that the guys are struggling to balance in their heels. At one point, Grant nearly teeters over, and Eddie puts out a hand to balance him. 

I've fallen in love I've fallen in love for the first time  And this time I know it's for real I’ve fallen in love, yeah

“I can’t believe Dad’s doing all of this,” Hendrix muses. 

“We love you, Hen.” You tell him. “Nothing will ever change that.”

You spin him towards Harris, the older brother pulling the younger into an exaggerated waltz. 

From the stage, Eddie throws you a wink as he sings:

God knows

God knows I’ve fallen in love

One day, you think, your sons will find people who make them feel complete. And maybe Hendrix’s person will be a man, maybe a woman. 

The crowd shrieks wildly when Jeff plays his solo, negligee billowing in the wind. 

Hendrix laughs so hard he snorts. Your beautiful, youngest boy, always leading with his heart on his sleeve. 

Whoever Hendrix loves, you hope they love him back with everything they have.