novaneet's sideblog

The rec room buzzed with the steady, nauseating hum of old fluorescent lights. It smelled like cheap cleaning supplies and institutional apathy: too cold, too bright, too quiet for anything honest to come out of it. A half-circle of metal folding chairs creaked under slouching teens and adults in threadbare hoodies and rehab-issued sneakers. One kid coughed into his sleeve; another tapped a chewed pen nervously against his knee, his foot twitching with something like dread or withdrawal or both.

Andre sat in the back row, posture tight, one leg jittering beneath the battered table in front of him. Tension coiled in his spine like a snake ready to strike — tight, alert, electric. His camcorder sat in his lap, still warm from use, though he wasn’t sure why Cal brought it tonight. Part of him still believed there’d be something worth documenting. Part of him always did.

He watched as Cal pushed his way to the front of the room — unhurried, casual, like it was all some big joke only he was in on. Cal’s combat boots thudded softly against the linoleum, his gait loose, almost lazy, like a boy playing soldier on a stage too small for him. He stopped in front of the rickety mic stand, fingers clutching the red notepad like it was scripture, gospel, a grenade with the pin already out.

"The gun may be the perfect weapon," he begun, voice low and eerily even. His gaze stayed locked down on the paper, but Andre could tell from the way his shoulders pulled back that he was bracing for something — a reaction, maybe, or a release. “Standing between a rock and a hard place...”

Andre’s stomach sank.

“‘But a gun is nothing without a bullet,’ I replied,” Cal continued, lifting his chin now. “I am my bullet.”

The words struck something in Andre, not because they were profound, but because they were personal. Too personal. Cal didn’t write poetry. He wrote confessionals wrapped in barbed wire and then dared people to call it art.

Andre blinked, jaw tightening. His grip around the camcorder stiffened, fingers curling like it could somehow anchor him, keep him from flying into panic; his mind raced thousands of miles a second trying to find the end goal here.

“I live my life along the perfect parabolic arch of m—purpose, meaning…” Cal paused, letting the room hold its breath with him, before adding, “And then there was that time you stepped on a land mine and I never forgave you...”

A longer pause. Then, Cal looked up, almost dreamlike: “And you could feel the entire rise and fall of the Third Reich at your feet.”

The room went still.

Not the kind of stillness that comes from awe — the kind people use to process whether or not something is a joke. The kind that comes from not knowing whether to laugh, or leave.

"It’s a wasted life," Calvin finished, smiling faintly like he was proud of himself. "Thank you."

The audience clapped—reluctantly. One kid murmured, "The fuck was that?"

Andre didn’t clap. He didn’t even blink. He just stared — at Cal, at the notepad, at the smug little smirk that curled across Cal’s lips like he’d just nailed a punchline to a joke no one else got. He sat stiff, jaw clenched, heart thudding, brain moving a thousand miles a second trying to find the end-goal here.

Andre waited until Cal stepped off the stage, still smirking like a boy who’d set something on fire and walked away from the smoke. And then, quietly but sharply:

“What the fuck was that?”

His voice cut like glass — low, lethal, barely above a whisper, but it still seemed to puncture the stale air around them.

“It was a poem,” Cal shrugged, casual as a cigarette flicked out a car window. He tore the paper from the notebook and, with theatrical indifference, stuffed it in his mouth, chewing like that was supposed to prove it didn’t matter.

Andre’s voice rose, losing patience. “Yeah, I know what it was, but what the fuck were you thinking?” The camcorder bounced once in his hand, like a judge's gavel delivering sentence. “What the fuck."

“It’s just a poem, man,” Cal muttered, brushing past him like they were having some harmless disagreement about lunch plans and not spiraling into a scene.

They barely had time to breathe before the next act took the mic — two nervous boys with earnest eyes and a lot to prove.

“In the morning—” one began.

“It’s really deep,” Cal muttered, leaning toward Andre, voice dripping sarcasm like venom.

“And flowers—”

“Bloom,” Cal mocked, now slouched in his seat like he was trying to sink through it.

Andre felt his throat go dry. “Stop,” he whispered. Not pleading, but close.

But Cal wasn’t stopping.

“Wait, is this a comedy act?” Cal called out, louder now, the edge in his voice gleaming like a blade.

One of the boys onstage shot him a glare. “Come on, man. There’s like five other people in here. You guys make up fifty percent of the audience. Can you just—”

“Just point to me when I’m supposed to laugh,” Cal said, grinning wide and sharp, eyes dancing with that look Andre had come to know too well — chaos blooming behind his irises like a storm cloud rolling in.

Andre stood up as straight as a bullet and so fast his chair scraped the floor. “Right. We’re getting out of here.” His voice was clipped, official. “Sorry about this, guys. We’re leaving. Right now. Let’s go.”

They shoved through the double doors into the humid press of night. The hum of cheap lighting followed them out. The cicadas were screaming, the pavement still wet from an earlier drizzle, and the air buzzed with the kind of tension that didn’t just dissipate.

Andre didn’t hesitate. He threw the camera at Cal’s chest — not hard, but with purpose. It bounced off his ribs before Cal caught it with lazy fingers.

“You take the camera,” Andre snapped. “I don’t even wanna hold it anymore.”

Cal barely flinched. “No, you take it. It’s your camera, man.”

“Dude—Jesus” Andre’s hands flew to his head, dragging down his face. He was vibrating now — too much adrenaline, too much worry, too many nights spent cleaning up Cal’s messes without ever getting an apology. He opened his mouth again, ready to unleash more—

“Watch your back,” a voice called.

Andre turned, instinct thrumming, just in time to see the bigger of the poetry kids storming toward them, fists balled tight.

Andre didn’t think. He didn’t have to. His brain automatically registered the threat against Calvin as a threat against Andre himself. The second he sensed Cal was in danger, it became his. “Bring it,” he shot back, shoulders squaring.

The kid bared his teeth. “Fuck you.”

His gaze slid over Andre’s shoulder, narrowing on Cal — and Andre felt something cold and ancient uncoil in his chest.

Then it happened: messy, fast, and loud. One of the poetry kids surged forward with no warning, his fist cocked back like a slingshot. Andre barely had time to register the motion before the punch connected square with Cal’s cheek. His head snapped to the side with a sharp crack, and for a second it looked like he might go down. But Cal didn’t drop—he stumbled, reeled, let out a ragged breath, and then, unbelievably, smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer, something looser, too bright, wild around the edges, again, like a joke only he was in on. It was the kind of grin that made Andre’s stomach turn. Then Cal shoved the guy, hard, with both hands. The kid staggered back a step, caught off guard, but barely lost footing before coming at him again.

Cal didn’t back down. He swung sloppily, a wide hook that missed, then lunged in close and jammed his elbow against the guy’s collarbone. For a second, Andre thought maybe, just maybe, Cal might hold his own. But then the second kid jumped in, and the dynamic shifted fast. A punch landed in Cal’s gut, folding him at the waist. He gasped, tried to catch his breath, and got slammed in the back with another hit that sent him sprawling. His shoulder hit the pavement first, the rest of his body twisting after it. Concrete scraped skin. The breath left his lungs with a choked sound, but even as he pushed himself up on trembling hands, Cal barked out another broken laugh: high and weird and all wrong.

Andre stood frozen for a moment, breath caught. He’d seen Cal talk back to teachers, pick fights in gym class, play too rough with kids he didn’t like. But this—this wasn’t the same. Cal didn’t care if he got hit. In fact, he looked like he wanted it. Like every punch that landed was some kind of confirmation that he was real, still here, still capable of being touched.

Calvin tried to get up, to charge again, to get his hands on someone, anyone, but they were faster now, bolder. One of them grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him against the brick wall hard enough to rattle the siding. Cal’s head hit the bricks with a dull thud, and blood from his busted lip smeared onto the collar of his shirt. He shoved back with everything he had, slamming his forearm against the guy’s throat and nearly managing to twist free, but another fist came from the side, catching him square in the ribs. He made a noise—somewhere between a grunt and a gasp—and dropped to one knee, still trying to fight, still trying to scramble back up like he hadn’t already lost.

A boot landed in his side. Then another.

The third kid hadn’t joined in until now, but with Cal down, he seemed to take it as an invitation. He kicked him, not hard enough to break anything, maybe, but enough to steal the last of his balance. Cal hit the pavement again, curling half in on himself, breathing fast and ragged, blood streaked across his teeth and pooling in the crease of his mouth. His hands clawed at the ground like he was still trying to push himself up, still trying to grab hold of something solid. His hair was a mess—tangled and slicking back from the beginnings of rain - when one of the boys grabbed a fistful and yanked his head back, wrapping the locs around his fist. Cal didn’t even yell. He just winced, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting like he might vomit or scream or laugh again.

That's when Andre moved. The fury hit him in one wave—fast and hot and absolute. He shoved the nearest body out of the way and threw a punch that cracked against someone’s jaw, sending them stumbling. One of the boys reeled backward, landing hard on the asphalt with a grunt and a scatter of loose gravel, and maybe a tooth or two. Another came forward, but Andre didn't stop to see who it was.

“Enough!” Andre barked. Not just to the boys. To Cal.

Andre dropped down, his hand caught the back of Cal’s shirt and he yanked, hard enough to nearly lift the blonde off the ground. He pulled him backward, chest heaving, skin flushed and smeared with Cal's blood and rain and something else that shimmered under his skin like static.

Cal tripped, coughed, and spat red onto the sidewalk.

His body sagged against Andre’s, sweaty and shaky. His shoulder was already purpling from being slammed against he didn't even know what. His lip was split wide. Blood smeared his teeth when he spoke again.

“Sure felt that one!” he barked out to the others.

Cal couldn't get his legs to work right—he was stumbling, limp, too dazed to find footing, but still trying to turn back despite Andre's grip, still half-laughing through split lips and pink teeth.

“Enough,” Andre snapped, the word low and sharp as broken glass. “That’s enough, we’re done.”

Cal’s breath came in shallow gasps, the kind that come before sobbing. His arm was draped over Andre’s shoulder now, blood seeping from a cut on his temple, one eye already swelling half shut. He was trembling—shock, maybe, or adrenaline—his whole body too light in Andre’s grip, like the fight had been keeping him upright and now it was gone. Behind them, one of the poets yelled something—“Freaks!” or "Psychos!" “Get out of here!” "Fuck you!" —but it barely registered. Their energy had fizzled out fast, replaced by confusion and a kind of hollowed-out disgust at the Army of Two.

Andre didn’t turn back. He just tightened his grip, forced Cal to keep walking, even as his knees buckled slightly with every other step.

He shoved him against the side of the car, fumbling with the handle. “Get in. Get the fuck in.”

Cal leaned heavily against the door, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other smearing blood across the window as he braced himself. He was still smiling, faint and dazed, like he hadn’t quite come down from wherever he’d gone during the fight.

“You gonna hit me too?” he asked, slurring just slightly.

Andre yanked the door open and guided him inside, not gently.

“Just shut up and sit down.”

Cal did. Head lolled back, lips cracked open, the metallic tang of blood thick in the car now. Andre stood there for a moment, outside, shaking, fists still clenched, trying to breathe.

He looked down at Cal.

Really looked.

At the bruises blooming purple across his jaw. The gash above his brow. The blood drying tacky under one nostril. And all Andre could think was: He didn't care. He hadn’t fought to win. He fought because he needed it. Like pain was the only thing loud enough to drown out whatever was screaming inside his chest for a promise Andre had already given him to end it all.

And Andre had no idea how to fix that.

Cal wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned like a maniac. “Dude,” he said, like it was all a joke. Like they hadn’t just been seconds away from something worse, something that could have ruined everything they had been planning for. "Did you see that?”

Andre didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. The blonde sat half way in, half way out — Andre stared down at him like an angry parent. “Take the camera,” he said again, voice ragged, chest heaving. “I gotta drive.”

Cal refused, hands limp in his lap, blood dotting the back of his knuckles. “Dude,” he said again, panting between lingering laughs. “That was awesome.”

Andre stared down at him, something in his gut twisting painfully. He threw the camera in Calvin’s lap, earning a small wince from the blonde. “How many times do I have to explain this shit to you before you fucking understand?”

Cal leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes like he didn’t hear him. “I’m sorry, lieutenant,” he murmured, a half-smirk on his busted mouth.

Andre shoved Calvin further into the passenger seat of the car, pushing in his legs that were hanging out, and slammed the door shut. He made his way to the driver's seat, reminding himself that he can't drive with shaking hands and red vision.

Andre unlocked his own door and dropped into the driver’s seat, teeth grit, hands tight on the wheel. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, rage bubbling just under his skin. Cal settled into the passenger seat beside him, fingers playing with the camera’s buttons, a lazy gleam in his eye like none of it mattered.

Andre gripped the wheel. He wanted to scream. He wanted to leave Cal right there and drive into the night. He wanted to take Cal back to his room and have him fall asleep on his floor. But he didn’t do either. Because he knew Cal wasn’t just being an asshole. He was falling apart.

And no one else was gonna be there to pick up the pieces.

Andre didn’t look at him when he spoke next. “Quit rolling the seat forward when you get out of the fucking car.”

Cal scoffed, exaggerated and theatrical. “Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, sir.”

Andre slammed his palm against the steering wheel. This was not the time. “And stop talking like you’re in the fucking military.”

The silence between them pressed thick and hot. Cal didn't respond right away. His fingers drummed lightly on his knee. Andre turned back to the wheel, staring out at the dark lot beyond the windshield. His voice came out low, clipped, full of the kind of frustration that had nowhere to go.

“What happens if they go home and tell their parents, ‘Hey, guess what happened. Some kid in an Army shirt—’ and then they’re like, ‘Oh, do they go to your school?’ ‘Why yes they do.’ ‘Well, I’m gonna call the principal and get on the phone with him right away.’ They call the principal, you get called down to the office, you get sent to counseling or something… your parents tighten down on you, they call my parents, my parents tighten down on me…” He exhaled through his nose, deciding to release his anger on his raggedy steering wheel.

"Fuuuck!" He dragged out, steering wheel shaking from the continuous abuse. Andre threw his hands up — Cal bit his cheek to hide a smile, thinking about how funny it would be if Andre accidentally honked. 

The blonde watched him quietly, blood still drying across the corner of his mouth. His leg bounced once. Maybe twice.

Andre took a long, deep breath. He stared out ahead in front of him. He hated fighting with — yelling at — Calvin. What good did that fucking do him? To fight with the one person who shared your frustrations about everything else? Flickers of memories passed through his mind — a young blur of brown and blonde playing cops and robbers, except the two were always both robbers running from their imaginary cops.

Back in sixth grade, before things got loud and real and complicated between them, they'd spent whole weekends pretending the middle school was a secret prison. Not just "ugh, school sucks" prison — like actual black-site, government mind-control shit. Cal had all the lore memorized. The lunch trays were bugged. The bathroom mirrors watched you. The hall passes tracked you and the guidance counselor wasn’t real.

Andre brought the camcorder.

They called it “Operation Exit Plan.” Cal wrote the script in a stolen spiral notebook — dramatic block letters, diagrams, passwords that Andre instructed him to write down. Andre filmed with grim intensity, narrating in a fake deep voice while Cal crawled through bushes and whispered code into an unplugged walkie-talkie. They used ketchup for blood. Their fake escape route involved the roof, the janitor’s closet, and a bike they’d left half-submerged in the drainage ditch out back.

There were no heroes in the story. No teachers-turned-allies. Just the two of them, back-to-back, daring the world to catch them. They were the escapees. The ones who’d seen through it all.

Andre still remembered the last shot — Cal sprinting down the alley behind the school, shirt flapping like a cape, yelling “They’re onto us!” before ducking behind a dumpster and flashing a dimpled grin that was too real for pretend.

They never finished the movie.

He remembered when Cal began to come over regularly — the blonde with his crooked, dimpled smile that was automatically accepted by the Kriegmans. They used to hole up for hours after school, side by side on the couch, always picking the villains when they played. Never the hero. Never the cop. Always the ones running.

Andre remembered to exhale. 

“Now what?” Andre asked with resignation. Realistically, Andre understood there was nothing he could do about their situation now but wait — the least he could do was make up with the most important person to him. This surely wasn’t the first time he had dealt with this side of Calvin; and at the end of the day, he knew it was neither of their faults. “Where do you wanna go? What do you wanna do?" he asked, expecting for the blonde to say "eat" or "Mortal Kombat" or his most favorite: "blow something up."

Instead, Cal looked out the window, as if expecting the answer to be out there, waiting. Then he said it, flatly: “We’re done.”

Andre blinked, face flushed so harshly he was sure his heart would collapse from the lack of blood. “So… so, we’re done here or we’re done… we’re done, we’re done?”

Cal didn’t answer right away — he, too, was lost in his own thoughts, but where Andre’s worries were rooted in reality, Cal’s drifted somewhere in the clouds.

Not the soft, dreamy kind of clouds either — the choking kind, fogged with half-thought plans and spiraling what-ifs. He’d been replaying the fight in his mind like it was a movie, but one where the violence didn’t mean anything. No climax, no resolution. Just motion, color, noise. A blur of fists and shouting that hadn’t cleared the static in his head the way he hoped it would.

He could still feel the ache in his knuckles — not sharp, not painful. Just… there. A reminder. A tether.

Part of him was still laughing about it. Not because it was funny, but because it kept him from thinking about what came next. Consequences were Andre’s job. Cal lived in the moment, where nothing was ever quite real.

But then he heard the strain in Andre’s voice — thin, fraying. That grounded him more than anything else could have. Cal didn’t always understand Andre, but he felt him, deeply and instinctively. And even if he’d never say it, he didn’t like being the reason Andre sounded like that.

Besides… if he was being honest, he was really starting to get bored.

He pulled himself upright, running his hand through his hair to brush the stray stands out of his eyes. “Here,” he muttered. “Okay, start the—start the—start the car. Pull up to the exit.”

Andre narrowed his eyes, but pressed his key into the ignition nonetheless. “Cal…”

“Okay, ready?” Cal cut him off, urgency creeping into his voice, too light to be serious but too sharp to be ignored. The engine roared to life and the blonde turned toward Andre, eyes too bright, the kind of bright that didn’t reach anywhere sane. His smile was faint and tight, strung up like fishing wire. “I want you to… close your eyes.”

Andre blinked. “Okay,” he said slowly, already regretting it.

“And drive. Go.”

“You’re just gonna tell me where to go?”

“Yeah. Do it. Go. Close your eyes.” Cal was grinning now, that same wild grin he’d worn when he got socked in the face ten minutes ago. “Uh, turn. Right, right, right, right… come on, keep them closed. Right, right… okay, straight… straight… straight.”

Andre huffed, part laugh, part disbelief. “W-what?”

“Are they really closed?” Cal asked, almost teasing. “Come on, close them. Pretty please.”

“Which way?”

“Uh, left.” Cal’s voice tipped giddy — not happy, not even amused. Just spinning, like something inside him had finally snapped into a place that didn’t hurt as much. “Okay, now turn sharp left. Ready—straight. Okay.”

Andre cracked one eye open, then both, glancing sideways at him. Cal was still facing forward, hair in his eyes, fingers twitching in his lap like he hadn’t noticed the dried blood on them.

“You done playing navigator?” Andre finally smiled, voice low.

Cal didn’t answer. He was leaning back against the seat now, the hum of adrenaline finally fading into something heavier. His knuckles were scabbed, his mouth bruised, but he looked—almost—peaceful. Like if he kept Andre’s eyes off the real road long enough, he could disappear into the blur.

Andre closed his eyes once more and drove in silence for a few blocks. The high from the fight was ebbing out of Cal like poison, leaving that cold, hollow clarity in its place.

The car rattled over a pothole and Andre let out a sharp laugh that was more exhale than anything else.

“This is so fucking crazy.”

Cal turned his head to stare at him, eyes half-lidded, watching the blur of trees under the soft orange streetlights. His busted lip had started to dry, crusting at the edge of his smile.

“You like it,” he said, voice soft but smug.

Andre didn’t answer right away. He slowed the car, headlights catching the edge of a narrow dirt pull-off. The tires crackled as he turned onto it, the road darkening around them, trees swallowing them whole. A second passed. Then another.

“You know,” Andre finally said, hands loose on the steering wheel, “you scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

Cal blinked slowly, like it took too much energy to understand the words.

“That’s fair,” he said after a beat. “I scare the shit out of myself.”

Andre reached down and turned the keys. The engine clicked off, leaving them in the hush of the woods.

“I didn’t mean to fuck anything up,” Cal said, quieter now. “I just… couldn’t stop. I'm tired of waiting; I just want everybody to see already."

They sat in the parked car in silence, the only sound the ticking of the engine cooling and the distant rustle of leaves outside. Cal wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a thin line of red across his cheek. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I know," Andre exhaled.

There was another long silence. Then, Cal shifted sideways in the seat, tucking his knees up a little, facing Andre with that lopsided look he got when he was somewhere halfway between joking and begging for help.

“Do you remember when we used to just ride around and talk about blowing up soda bottles?” he asked.

Andre snorted. “You mean before you started reading Mein Kampf out loud in the middle of school assemblies?”

“Poetry nights,” Cal corrected, raising a hand like he was toasting the air. “Classy.”

Andre shook his head, biting his lip to hold back a grin despite himself. Then, softer: “You’re gonna get us killed.”

“We’re already dead,” Cal said, then laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever said. "Remember that."

Andre stared at him. He looked pale in the moonlight, bruised under the eyes. Still shaking from adrenaline. His hair glowed like a halo and his eyes were dull like the depths of sea.

“Lie down,” Andre said suddenly, jerking his chin toward the backseat. “You look like shit.”

Cal didn’t argue. He climbed into the back like a feral cat too tired to hiss, curling into the seat, groaning low. Andre followed, sliding in next to him, the car frame groaning under the shift.

“Turn the dome light off,” Cal murmured.

Andre did. Darkness folded over them.

For a minute, neither of them moved. Then Cal shifted again, inching closer, until his shoulder pressed against Andre’s chest. Andre hesitated, then let his arm slide around Cal’s waist, holding him like he was afraid he might vanish. Cal relaxed slowly, his breath leveling out against Andre’s shirt.

“You know I wasn’t gonna tell them anything,” Cal said into the fabric of Andre’s collar, voice muffled. “I just wanted someone to hear me. Hear us. Just once. Even if it's just a warning. They deserve to know. They’re all going to know.”

“They’re too stupid right now to understand,” Andre reassured him. He let his hand rest over Cal’s ribs, feeling the rise and fall. Cal’s thumb brushed his collarbone once, then stilled.

“My ribs are killing me.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s okay. You know that dude actually punched me in the back of the head?” Cal said, rolling completely over onto his side now, face to face with the other. “Who does that? What am I, a fucking cartoon character?”

The backseat was too small for both of them, legs bent at awkward angles, shoulders pressed together in the kind of proximity that felt accidental at first—until neither of them shifted any longer. Andre lay on his side, one arm folded under his head, his temple resting on the curve of his shoulder. Cal mirrored him, a few inches away, though the space felt thinner with every breath. Outside, the rain smeared the windows into watercolor, the dark glass glossed with streaks of red and white from passing headlights.

Andre rolled his eyes, slow and deliberate, the barest curl of a smirk forming on his lips. “You heckled their poem. And they say I’m the dick.”

Cal scoffed, his voice hushed but indignant. “It sucked.”

“You knew it would piss people off.”

“So?” Cal’s shrug rustled the worn fabric beneath him. “Let ‘em be pissed.”

Andre exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. “So now we’re on people’s radar.”

Cal didn’t flinch. “Let them watch.”

Andre stared at him a second longer, trying to read the expression that flickered behind his eyes—part challenge, part plea. But the moment passed, and another silence slipped in between them. The kind that settled heavy, but not unwelcome. The kind that said: we’ve done this before.

A car whooshed by on the road. Rain tapped softly on the roof, slow and irregular, like a kid drumming fingers on glass. The kind of night that felt hollow around the edges.

Cal broke the quiet. “I’m not crazy, you know.”

Andre blinked. “I never said you were.”

“Yeah, but you look at me like—like I’m going off the rails or something. I dunno...”

Andre was quiet. Then, flatly: “We’re both off the rails.”

Cal grinned, just a little, teeth catching on the corner of his lower lip. “Yeah, but I make it look good.”

Andre tried not to smile, but the attempt failed. The corners of his mouth twitched up before he could stop them. He turned his face halfway into his arm, embarrassed, and Cal watched him like he was memorizing the shape of that laugh. The way Andre’s nose wrinkled around his heart shaped smile, the rare flicker of warmth cracking through the usual static.

“You ever think,” Cal said slowly, “if we were normal—like, if we had a dog and normal parents and, I don’t know, hobbies—we’d be boring as shit?”

“Our parents are normal,” Andre muttered. “I have a cat. And we do have hobbies.”

Cal’s smirk widened. “Yeah. Guns and cinema vérité.”

Andre actually laughed—quiet, startled, like it had snuck out without permission. Cal’s eyes stayed on him. His own smile softened, a little gentler now, no teeth, just this barely-there curve and a dent of dimples that made Andre’s chest tighten.

For a moment, they didn’t say anything. Just looked at each other, faces lit only by the ghostly glow of the streetlight outside, filtered pale through the wet windows. Andre’s breath slowed. Cal’s fingers twitched against the seat.

Then Cal asked, too suddenly: “You ever kiss someone?”

The air seemed to shift—cool from the rain outside, but humid in the car. The sweat on Cal’s brow caught the light, hair sticking to his forehead, his eyelashes wet and glinting. There was no blush on his cheeks, no flirtatious lean—just a question, honest and strange and naked.

Andre didn’t flinch. “No.”

“Me neither.”

“Bullshit. Not falling for that one, pretty boy.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward. Just thick. Andre pushed his jealousy down. Weighted with everything they weren’t saying, and everything they weren’t ready to admit.

Cal leaned in, barely—not enough to close the distance, but enough to suggest he could. His voice was barely a breath. “Do you want to?”

Andre’s gaze held his for a long second. Too long. He could see the hope, or maybe the hunger, or maybe just the loneliness, flickering in Cal’s expression like a match burning too close to skin.

Then he looked away. Down. Somewhere safe. “It wouldn’t fix anything.”

Cal nodded, slow. He didn’t look hurt—just tired. “Didn’t say it would.”

He let his head fall back against the seat cushion with a soft thump, eyes flicking upward toward nothing in particular.

“I’m not messed up,” he murmured.

“Me neither,” Andre replied automatically.

Maybe they both knew they were lying. Maybe they both knew they had contradicted themselves 10 times in the 10 minutes that they had been there. But neither called it out. Maybe because if you didn’t say the truth out loud, it didn’t have to be true. Maybe because neither of them knew what it would sound like if they did. Maybe.

Cal shifted again, letting his fingers graze Andre’s arm—barely a touch, barely there. A test.

Andre didn’t pull away.

“You’re warm,” Cal said, voice dipping again, soft and genuine. He let out a small shudder.

Andre snorted, but pulled a spare hoodie from the ground and draped it over Cal. “You smell like wet cigarettes.”

“Love you too, man.”

Andre didn’t respond, but the silence he left wasn’t cold.

They stayed like that. Cramped and folded into the backseat of a car that smelled like old upholstery and rain, breath syncing gradually in the dim. The camera was tossed somewhere unknown to the both of them. This was the kind of closeness they subconsciously knew not to record. The kind of closeness that ached with everything unsaid. No kisses. No confessions. Just this—shared body heat and trembling proximity and the barest brush of fingers, a few inches of air holding them back from something neither of them could name.

And that was enough.

Or maybe that’s what they had to believe.

Because love, or whatever lived between them, had never felt clean or easy or safe. It just felt like this.

You shouldn’t have asked to come over this weekend.

That’s your first thought when Cal opens the door with sleep still clinging to his skin. His eyes are hazy, band tee wrinkled, mouth curled in a lazy smirk that doesn’t quite meet his dimples or his eyes.

But he let you in his house without a word. Just a lopsided smile and a lazy, “Hey.”

You follow him into his living room, stairs, bedroom, stepping over a pile of crumpled clothes and notebooks. His room smells like detergent, incense, and something sharper — gasoline? The bed’s unmade. His guitar case is still open from yesterday.

You spend a moment or two critiquing the state of his room. He spends a moment or two ignoring you.

Now, somehow, you find yourself lying on his bed, his head in your lap as he lays on his side. He's rambling on about a niche webcomic he recently came across. His fingers are tracing absent patterns on your thigh, eyes half-closed, body limp like a cat in a sunbeam.

“Rough night?” you ask as you take in the sight of his eyebags, running your fingers through his hair gently.

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “I slept. It's just always rough.”

“You could've called me, yknow.”

He cracks one eye open, lips twitching up. “Was out with Andre.”

The words hit sharper than they should. You still your hand, heart skipping. He watches your reaction, lets it hang there, just long enough to hurt.

“'Course you were” you murmur.

And just like that, he closes his eyes again. Conversation over. You don’t get a response. You just sit there with your thoughts clenching around your ribs.

Then — like he senses the quiet has turned dangerous — Cal sighs. “C’mere,” he mumbles, rolling onto his back and tugging at your wrist.

You let him guide you down beside him. Let him tuck his cold, cold hands under your sweatshirt like he always does. He grins against your neck when you yelp, kissing your artery softly.

“Still hate that?” he whispers, hands trailing up towards your chest.

“You’re the worst," you mumble, but you're already letting him curl into you.

He chuckles softly, and for a second, it's easy to forget the hollow underneath it all. He buries his face in your shoulder, mumbles things that barely make sense. Your fingers rake through his hair. His hands roam lazily over your body, not quite desperate, just… searching. Maybe for comfort. Maybe for distraction.

When he kisses you, it’s slow. A little messy. He smiles when you sigh into it, like he’s proud of how easy it is to pull you back in.

“You’re quiet today,” you whisper, touching his jaw. You bite the bottom of his lip and he smiles.

Calvin pulls back just slightly, free hand trailing up your thigh. “Think you like it when I’m quiet.”

“Mmm, no… I like it when you’re real.”

He freezes for half a second. Then he grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t start that right now.”

“I’m not starting anything—”

“Yes. Yes you are.” He rolls onto his back, arm over his eyes again. “Just — don’t ruin it, okay?”

Your chest tightens. You stare at him, at the boy who gives just enough to keep you hopeful and never enough to let you in.

"Okay," you whisper back, lips searching down to reach his once more.

An hour or so passed and you came to realize his pillows smelled like worn cotton and shampoo and something vaguely sweet—probably yours. Hopefully. You lay there half-curled under his sheets, still a little foggy from the lazy makeout session and whatever kind of affection he'd decided to grant you that afternoon. For a few minutes, it had almost felt real. Like he meant it.

And then his phone buzzes.

You both hear it.

Cal jolts like it bit him, snatches it off the nightstand. You sit up as he reads the message, screen casting cold light across his face.

He doesn’t tell you who it’s from. He doesn’t have to.

You already know.

“Is that Andre?” you ask.

No answer.

You watch it change him.

His posture shifts, eyes clearing like fog evaporating. The sluggishness drains from his limbs as he types back fast. Efficient. Excited.

“Everything okay?” you ask. Your voice tries for casual, but his body’s already pulling away from yours.

“I gotta go.”

Your mouth opens before you can stop it. “Wait—seriously? Now?”

“Yeah. Had this planned since last week.” Cal is already sliding off the bed, searching for his hoodie. "He's gonna be here in 5."

“And you still let me come ov—?”

“Look, it’s not a big deal. Besides, you're the one that asked.”

You watch him from the bed, sheets tangled around your legs, heart thudding like a dropped phone.

“Are we… still hanging out tomorrow?”

He stops halfway through pulling on his jacket, eyes flicking to yours. His smile is that same vague one he always gives when he doesn’t want to answer.

“Sure. Text me.”

You know exactly what that means.

You don’t say anything else. Just sit there, arms wrapped around your knees, while he paces around, grabbing keys, phone, wallet.

Then the knock comes.

One soft rap at the door.

Andre.

Cal opens it without hesitation.

And just like that, it’s a different Cal standing there. Head high. Shoulders back. Voice clearer.

“Took you long enough, man” Calvin says with a crooked grin, dimples diving deeper than usual. It's only when he's looking at Andre that you can tell his eyes are blue.

Andre shrugs, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets. "Traffic is…," His eyes flick past Cal — and land on you, just briefly. "Traffic's a bitch."

You feel like a ghost in Cal’s bed.

Cal steps into the hallway, then pauses. Turns to you with a tone that’s almost— almost —gentle.

“You can stay,” he says. “If you want.”

There’s something weirdly tender about the way he says it.

And then, like a reflex:

“Just don’t go through my shit.”

You almost laugh. Almost cry.

He lingers one more moment in the doorway. For a second, something crosses his face—guilt? Conflict? Or maybe just the weight of pretending to care.

“My parents will be gone for a few,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him, and the room is too quiet. Too still.

You shouldn’t have asked to come over this weekend.

That’s your first thought when Cal opens the door with sleep still clinging to his skin. His eyes are hazy, band tee wrinkled, mouth curled in a lazy smirk that doesn’t quite meet his dimples or his eyes.

But he let you in his house without a word. Just a lopsided smile and a lazy, “Hey.”

You follow him into his living room, stairs, bedroom, stepping over a pile of crumpled clothes and notebooks. His room smells like detergent, incense, and something sharper — gasoline? The bed’s unmade. His guitar case is still open from yesterday.

You spend a moment or two critiquing the state of his room. He spends a moment or two ignoring you.

Now, somehow, you find yourself lying on his bed, his head in your lap as he lays on his side. He's rambling on about a niche webcomic he recently came across. His fingers are tracing absent patterns on your thigh, eyes half-closed, body limp like a cat in a sunbeam.

“Rough night?” you ask as you take in the sight of his eyebags, running your fingers through his hair gently.

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “I slept. It's just always rough.”

“You could've called me, yknow.”

He cracks one eye open, lips twitching up. “Was out with Andre.”

The words hit sharper than they should. You still your hand, heart skipping. He watches your reaction, lets it hang there, just long enough to hurt.

“'Course you were” you murmur.

And just like that, he closes his eyes again. Conversation over. You don’t get a response. You just sit there with your thoughts clenching around your ribs.

Then — like he senses the quiet has turned dangerous — Cal sighs. “C’mere,” he mumbles, rolling onto his back and tugging at your wrist.

You let him guide you down beside him. Let him tuck his cold, cold hands under your sweatshirt like he always does. He grins against your neck when you yelp, kissing your artery softly.

“Still hate that?” he whispers, hands trailing up towards your chest.

“You’re the worst," you mumble, but you're already letting him curl into you.

He chuckles softly, and for a second, it's easy to forget the hollow underneath it all. He buries his face in your shoulder, mumbles things that barely make sense. Your fingers rake through his hair. His hands roam lazily over your body, not quite desperate, just… searching. Maybe for comfort. Maybe for distraction.

When he kisses you, it’s slow. A little messy. He smiles when you sigh into it, like he’s proud of how easy it is to pull you back in.

“You’re quiet today,” you whisper, touching his jaw. You bite the bottom of his lip and he smiles.

Calvin pulls back just slightly, free hand trailing up your thigh. “Think you like it when I’m quiet.”

“Mmm, no… I like it when you’re real.”

He freezes for half a second. Then he grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t start that right now.”

“I’m not starting anything—”

“Yes. Yes you are.” He rolls onto his back, arm over his eyes again. “Just — don’t ruin it, okay?”

Your chest tightens. You stare at him, at the boy who gives just enough to keep you hopeful and never enough to let you in.

"Okay," you whisper back, lips searching down to reach his once more.

An hour or so passed and you came to realize his pillows smelled like worn cotton and shampoo and something vaguely sweet—probably yours. Hopefully. You lay there half-curled under his sheets, still a little foggy from the lazy makeout session and whatever kind of affection he'd decided to grant you that afternoon. For a few minutes, it had almost felt real. Like he meant it.

And then his phone buzzes.

You both hear it.

Cal jolts like it bit him, snatches it off the nightstand. You sit up as he reads the message, screen casting cold light across his face.

He doesn’t tell you who it’s from. He doesn’t have to.

You already know.

“Is that Andre?” you ask.

No answer.

You watch it change him.

His posture shifts, eyes clearing like fog evaporating. The sluggishness drains from his limbs as he types back fast. Efficient. Excited.

“Everything okay?” you ask. Your voice tries for casual, but his body’s already pulling away from yours.

“I gotta go.”

Your mouth opens before you can stop it. “Wait—seriously? Now?”

“Yeah. Had this planned since last week.” Cal is already sliding off the bed, searching for his hoodie. "He's gonna be here in 5."

“And you still let me come ov—?”

“Look, it’s not a big deal. Besides, you're the one that asked.”

You watch him from the bed, sheets tangled around your legs, heart thudding like a dropped phone.

“Are we… still hanging out tomorrow?”

He stops halfway through pulling on his jacket, eyes flicking to yours. His smile is that same vague one he always gives when he doesn’t want to answer.

“Sure. Text me.”

You know exactly what that means.

You don’t say anything else. Just sit there, arms wrapped around your knees, while he paces around, grabbing keys, phone, wallet.

Then the knock comes.

One soft rap at the door.

Andre.

Cal opens it without hesitation.

And just like that, it’s a different Cal standing there. Head high. Shoulders back. Voice clearer.

“Took you long enough, man” Calvin says with a crooked grin, dimples diving deeper than usual. It's only when he's looking at Andre that you can tell his eyes are blue.

Andre shrugs, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets. "Traffic is…," His eyes flick past Cal — and land on you, just briefly. "Traffic's a bitch."

You feel like a ghost in Cal’s bed.

Cal steps into the hallway, then pauses. Turns to you with a tone that’s almost— almost —gentle.

“You can stay,” he says. “If you want.”

There’s something weirdly tender about the way he says it.

And then, like a reflex:

“Just don’t go through my shit.”

You almost laugh. Almost cry.

He lingers one more moment in the doorway. For a second, something crosses his face—guilt? Conflict? Or maybe just the weight of pretending to care.

“My parents will be gone for a few,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him, and the room is too quiet. Too still.