#queenofokay

He pulls on a tee shirt from his duffle bag, trying to mess with his hair in the mirror for a second before giving up.  He’s never been able to make his thick, floppy bangs do anything right.  The duffle bag he leaves open at the foot of the bed and his toothbrush in the cup by the sink, slipping his laptop into his backpack and turning for the door.  Hand on the doorknob, he pauses, indecision churning in his gut.

It sucks being fifteen-and-a-half, because he’s more than old enough to stay home on his own for hours after school or during the day, but as soon as it’s overnight his parents insist on him staying with someone else.  Just because he can’t legally drive doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to drive, and he could totally go for help in an emergency if he had to.  Actually, his parents probably would have been fine with him staying at home over the long weekend while they took Hannah to the Mayo Clinic for treatments if Mr. and Mrs. Criss had been at home across the street.  But they already had plans to go out of town, Mr. Criss on a business trip and Mrs. Criss following for the getaway, so it was just Darren.  Darren and Chris, sleeping in the Criss’s big house for three nights, and all because of six measly months and two overprotective parents.

There’s clanking in the kitchen and a string of curse words, and Chris reshoulders his backpack with a sigh.  It would probably be rude for him to stay in the guest room and let Darren burn the house down.

“Everything okay?” he calls out awkwardly, announcing his presence.

Darren’s head of riotous curls pops up from the other side of the kitchen island.  “Chris!  You’re up!  Yeah it’s cool man, I was just trying to bake some cinnamon rolls but they kinda went…”

Chris steps around the island and gets dough stuck to the bottom of his shoe.  “...Everywhere,” Chris finishes, pulling off a paper towel to scrub his sole.

“Yeah,” Darren agrees, laughing as he bends down to pick up the rest of the lost rolls.  Chris swallows heavily, willing his face not to turn red at Darren sticking his ass in the air right in front of him.  He’s been trying to nurse this crush along (when vehement denial and frantic suppression had both failed) in the hopes that Darren would go off to college before he ever had to deal with it.  They used to pretend to be ninja turtles together, for fuck’s sake, there was no way Darren would respond with anything but a laugh and an awkward little pat on the back.  A hair ruffle too probably, but Chris seems to finally be hitting the growth spurt that everyone else hit in sixth grade and now he’s just that little bit taller than Darren, and it would probably be weird.

It’s all pretty weird, honestly.  Chris tosses the last of the dough in the trash and straightens up, tugs on his backpack strap.  “So I was just gonna go hang out at my house for the day, check on the dogs and stuff.  I’ll be back before dark.”

“Oh, okay,” Darren says, and his voice sounds normal but his eyebrows have a definite slump of sadness.

“What?” Chris asks, weirdness overcome by curiosity.

“I was just thinking of having a Lord of the Rings marathon today, maybe going to get something for lunch, maybe ordering in for dinner.  And I was hoping-- well, thinking, I… you could totally join me, if you want.  You can write while the movies are on, that’s fine.”  Darren tilts his head at the backpack slung over his shoulders and Chris just knows he turns bright red.  He can feel it.  He’s never told Darren about his writing, not since they were little kids and he was reciting stories he made up for his action figures.

“How did you know I was gonna write?” Chris asks, looking down at the counter and willing his blush to go away.

Darren scoffs, like Chris is silly for even asking such a thing.  “You’re on the school newspaper staff.  You were up all night typing, I could hear it from across the hall.  It was either writing or sending hatemail to politicians-- which would be badass, by the way.”

Chris laughs and relaxes, sliding the backpack off.  “Okay, cool.  As long as you don’t put Tobasco in the popcorn.”

“It’s the perfect combination!” Darren whines, turning off the oven and getting out the airpopper instead.

Chris rolls his eyes, but smiles.  “M&Ms are fine though.”

“Thank god.  I almost thought I was going to have to eat it plain.”

*

Darren goes to put in the first DVD, and Chris nervously perches on the edge of the Criss’s huge, comfortable couch that takes up most of the den.  He sets his Diet Coke (which he ran across the street to get from home) on the coffee table and puts his laptop next to it.

Halfway through Fellowship, Chris is relaxed in the crook of the L-shaped couch, tossing popcorn in his mouth and laughing at Darren’s jokes.

By the time The Two Towers is rolling credits, Chris is joining in, making his own points and arguing with Darren’s.

They don’t even pay attention to Return of the King, Chris throwing the remnants of their fourth bowl of popcorn at Darren, who catches maybe one out of four in his mouth, but whose laugh is so addicting Chris keeps trying anyway.  They’re surrounded by empty pizza boxes and soda cans, and Chris hasn’t touched his laptop once.

The menu has looped at least a dozen times before either of them notice, Darren cutting his long-winded analysis of Aang and Katara’s relationship off to go turn off the DVD player.  He flops back onto the couch, just one cushion away instead of three like they started the morning, and Chris’s heart flips over in his chest at Darren’s easy smile.

*

On Sunday they marathon episodes of Avatar, watch Nick GaS (which Chris tries to pretend to be above while Darren unabashedly cheers for the purple parrots), and end up discussing Harry Potter for most of the afternoon.  There’s still two more books, and Darren has a lot of ideas and opinions about Voldemort’s return that have Chris wanting to reread the series for the fourth time this year.

The sky is streaked orange before Darren pokes Chris’s socked foot where he finally decided to take the time to write.

“Hey, did you want to go out and get something for dinner?” Darren asks.  “There’s only so many things we can order in, and I’m sure there’s some place that won’t judge me for not showering today.”

Chris laughs nervously, hoping it covers the tremor in his voice from his pounding heart.  “Sure.”

*

They end up at a diner that Chris knows a lot of the kids at their school frequent, but it’s pretty empty now on Labor Day weekend.  He imagines Darren and his extensive group of well-liked, well-known friends probably come here often, probably have a booth they always claim.

The sad thought grounds him a little bit as the waitress shows them to a booth-- one of the small, two-person ones on the quieter far side from the kitchen.  It’s hard to look anywhere else when Darren is right there in front of him, wearing a ridiculous tee shirt and with a pair of bright sunglasses buried in his hair like a fashion accessory.  It’s been a few years since Chris has been this close, has seen Darren up close to confirm that he’s just as magnetic as he is from afar.  Chris tugs at his Target henley and shuffles his off-brand slip-ons and tries to smile.  Darren will always be Darren, and Chris will always be Chris, and that’s just how life is.

Darren talks animatedly all through burgers and fries, and Chris gives his best effort to laugh and ask questions at all the right places.  When the waitress sets down their milkshakes-- Chris’s cookie dough, Darren’s mint chocolate chip-- Darren points his dripping spoon right at Chris.  “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Chris says, rolling his eyes for effect, but knowing his voice is giving him away.

“You do that thing,” Darren says, gesturing with his spoon and getting melted milkshake everywhere.  “You stop talking and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.”

Chris shakes his head, digging in his milkshake viciously for the chunks of cookie dough.  Leave it to Darren to not talk to him for three years and then waltz back into his life acting like he never left.

They sit in silence until Darren is sucking air through his straw loud enough to have everyone in the diner glancing their way.

“Ugh, why are you even hanging out with me?” Chris bursts out, shoving away his glass.  “You could have told me to get lost, call you if I needed you, which I wouldn’t have, and then spent the whole weekend boning your stupid girlfriend or whatever.”  Chris ignores the furious flush creeping up his cheeks.  “Then we could have just kept on ignoring each other until you went off to college and forgot about me altogether.”

Darren slowly shoves his glass to the side, folding his hands together on the table.  “I’m hanging out with you because I want to.  I would have been hanging out with you for the past three years if you hadn’t told me to leave you alone.”

Chris’s mouth hangs open.  “I told you to leave me alone once.  As in to leave me alone for that moment.  How could you think--”

“You locked yourself in your room,” Darren says, cutting him off.  “You ran out of my house, back to yours, locked me out and told me to leave you alone.  I waited for you to come over or call me or something, but you never did.  So I got the message loud and clear.”

Chris shakes his head.  “I was freaked out, Darren.  I was barely surviving middle school, fighting pimples and wishing my voice would change, and you were the smooth-moves high schooler that I found half-naked on your bed with a girl.  Excuse me for freaking out a little bit.”

Darren is frowning, an expression Chris barely recognizes for having seen it so rarely.  “You know I’m bi.  You were the first person I told.”

“And you were the first person I told I’m gay,” Chris says, quiet but firm, the words still difficult to say.

Darren nods.  “You even knew I liked Rebecca, you were also the first person I told.”

“I know,” Chris says, knowing what has to come next, burning behind his lips.  He takes a deep breath.  “I wasn’t freaked out because of who she was it was just-- I didn’t… I didn’t want you kissing Rebecca.”

“Or having sex with her,” Darren says slowly, filling in the gaps.

Chris shakes his head.  “And it was entirely, um, selfish reasons.”  He looks up at Darren, who still looks a little on the confused side.  “Don’t make me say it.”

Darren pulls his glass back in and takes a noisy sip, Chris running his fingers through the condensation that’s dripped into puddles on the table.

A few seconds later, “Oh my god.”

“Please don’t say it,” Chris says, half-laughing and half-dreading.

“Oh my god,” Darren says again, the scrape of the glass making Chris look up warily.  “You liked me.”

Chris cringes, sliding out of the booth.  “Please stop.”

Darren gloats all the way through paying for their food, getting in the car, and driving back to their street.  Chris turns up the radio, distracting Darren temporarily with pop music, but commercials have Darren right back to marveling at Chris’s stunted emotional capacity.

“Darren!” Chris yells finally, sprawled across the guest bed with his hands covering his eyes.

“But this is the very room in which it happened, Chris!  Not the bed, or at least not the mattress anyways, but this is the room.  In which you were jealous.”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Chris chants, peeking out from his hands when the bed jostles.  Darren’s kneeling on the edge.  It’s just too good.  Chris pulls the pillow from behind him and smacks Darren across the face with it in one smooth movement.

“What the fuck!” Darren cries, huge smile on his face.  Chris hits him again and Darren snatches the pillow, leaving Chris to grab another.

“Oh it’s so on,” Chris says, smiling as he moves in, wielding his weapon.

Ten minutes later, they’re both laying across the guest bed now, breathing hard.  Chris hits Darren’s chest once more before tossing the pillow aside, trying to calm his pounding heart and not bothering in the least to wipe the smile off his face.  “I win.”

“No way!” Darren protests.  “You definitely verbally surrendered.  It doesn’t matter who hits last.”

Chris waves his hand.  “Details.  Confessions made under duress.  Don’t count.”

“What about now?” Darren asks.  When Chris looks over, he’s rolled onto his side, eyes too intense to observe so closely.  “Are you under duress now?”

“No,” Chris near-whispers.

Darren shifts closer, smile just playing around the corners of his lips.  “Were you jealous?”

The breath stutters in Chris’s chest.  “Extremely,” he says honestly.  “Still am.”

Darren’s grin is blinding.  “Still?”

Chris groans, wants to hide his face in a pillow but they’ve knocked them all off.  “Just leave me in my shame.”

“No way,” Darren says, suddenly so, so close and holding Chris’s wrists tight.  Chris opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Darren says, a split second before he does.

It takes Chris a second to respond, but when he does he tangles his fingers in Darren’s hair and cups his jaw and pulls him in like the very real chance that he’ll never get to do this again.

They pull back with a slick sound, and Chris’s lips are tingling in the most pleasant way.  “Oh,” Chris says, not sure what the rest of his thought was.

“I thought I was gonna move away to college without getting to tell you how much I like you,” Darren says, looking beautifully undone and Chris feels full to bursting.

“Idiot,” Chris says fondly, pulling him back in.

*

Chris blames the fact that he waited three years for this that neither of them hear the key turning in the lock or the scrape of suitcase wheels until it’s much too late.

“Darren sweetie?”

“Oh, fuck,” Darren hisses, sliding off Chris, running fingers through his hair and tossing bedcovers aside to try and find his shirt.

Chris is still frozen in shock when the guest room door opens, Mrs. Criss sticking her head inside.

“Well,” she says, and her eyes get so wide that Chris wonders if he can literally bury his head in the sand.  “You boys had fun this weekend.”

It’s not a question.  Chris tugs the blanket up over his face.

“Mom, god!” Darren yells, and Chris can hear Mrs. Criss’s cackle through the door that she mercifully shuts.

Chris doesn’t let go of the comforter until Darren tugs it out of his grip.

“That was mortifying,” Chris says, but he’s smiling.  Darren is smiling, too.