20. laughing into the kiss // [ rating: G ]
There is a strip of Hubba Bubba between Charles’s fingers that Alex knows isn’t his because Charles would take one look at Sweet & Sassy Cherry and say, how can a cherry be sassy?
Alex is about to nudge him under the table, make an unambiguous wiggle of his eyebrows that might perceive as a mating dance to ask where he got it. Only: “Wrap,” announces Jin right into his ears, pats Alex once on the shoulder. Cue the scrape of metal chairs on hard floor, Nirei’s nose wrinkling, a shout as Fred remembers the headphones on his head when the wire recoils him back to the monitor.
When Alex looks back, the Hubba Bubba is gone; Charles is chewing. Stops when Nyck bumps into his shoulder, starts talking to him and Alex can lip read: sector three, turning apex, almond chainsaw.
They’re all in the same car back to the hotel, two rooms stacked one atop the other. Alex does what he did yesterday and the day before: talks, laughs. Gives Nyck a noogie on the hard tusk of his skull. Steals Nirei’s phone to watch PIXAR Shorts with Charles’s chin hovering over his shoulder, cherry happiness in his ear.
They split in the elevator, Nyck and Nirei leaving Alex and Charles. In the few seconds it takes for the LEDs to change from six to seven, Alex has aquired a small, thumb–sized bruise on his elbow. Charles, ever oblivious, continues to pop a pale pink bubble around the bright of his tongue.
“I am thinking,” he says ponderingly as Alex unlocks their door with a tap of the keycard, slips it into his back pocket, “we should go to Old Zealand after I win.”
“All bark no bite,” replies Alex with a grin. “Also, Old Zealand? Mate, are you tripping?”
Charles, paused in front of him suitcase, glances over his shoulder for a moment. Meets Alex’s eyes with his mouth slightly shiny between his teeth before turning back around. “People always talk about New Zealand,” he says flippantly, pulling off his hoodie, polo in the odd way he does: head halfway out first, then pulling it the rest of the way from the bottom, horrendously endearing. “But no one ever says Old Zealand, and I think we should go.”
Alex, shrugging on his own sweats as the moles on Charles’s back are swallowed by a Tee, laughs. “Just to check, you want to go to Old Zealand because you’ve never heard a peep about it in your life?”
“Yes. I think it would be fun. There could be these, um.” His brow furrows, hand twists after dropping his clothes into a pile just to the side of his suitcase — where they are meant to be. Filip will have a fun time glaring them down tomorrow. “How do you say, old, like, rocks.”
Familiar with the situation, Alex giggles as he flops to his bed. “Fossils?”
Charles snaps his fingers. Brightens with it, eyes on Alex as he sits on the edge of the mattress by his knee, completely disregards the other bed in the room. To be fair, Alex isn’t exactly giving it much attention either. “Yes, fossils! We could find a dinosaur. You know people get famous because of dinosaur bones.”
Alex, grinning, offers, “What about ghosts? Haunted houses? Malicious spirits? There must be a reason folks don’t chat the place up, right?”
“There will not be ghosts,” waves off Charles, then hesitates, “will there?” and his bubble deflates timidly with it.
“There could be,” continues Alex, leg moving until his bone could dig into the flesh of Charles’s thigh where his black shorts have ridden up. “Big scary ghosts that really want to try French for dinner. Zoo animal ghosts.”
Charles sours, “I am not French,” but Alex is already grinning, shaking his head: predictable, easy. “I am Monegasque,” presses on Charles, but he is starting to smile now too, mouth slipping into it like the syrup sliding down Alex’s throat, “and there are not zoo animal ghosts in Old York, Alex.”
“There are!” says Alex. He is not sure when it begins, but suddenly his hands are half out and Charles is between them, pinching his giggles like thumbs round a candle wick. He tastes like: pink sugar, coarse sand, cotton candy.
Charles pulls away first, eyes wide. Mouth opens and out falls his wad of gum, right onto Alex’s chin, sticky with saliva, cold and wet down his neck. “Ew, ew,” says Alex, batting it off, half a shriek in his throat that comes out like a cackle. Charles scrambles for it, shoving it back into his mouth like a reflex. His fingers glisten with spit after, loud in the silence.
Alex starts to laugh. His eyes close with it, fizzy cola under his ribs. Charles is the black in the red of his blood, heat under his hands, and soon, he starts to shake too until they’re both silly with it. His arms must hurt, couldn’t not. But when Alex blinks open again he’s still there, head hung against Alex’s neck, limbs out and bent, slightly awkward around his body.
Alex taps him on the hip. “Come on,” he says, goads, “When I win the championship—” Charles snorts against his nose, “you can come to Old Zealand with me. Just in case they like super sexy British–Thai food and I need a guardian.”
“Keep dreaming, Albon,” says Charles, and he laughs again, hardly stopped. Alex leans up into him, is tugged maybe. He tastes like: pink sugar, coarse sand, cotton candy. He tastes like: joy.
