#rohn

The issue is that they don't, like. Talk. About their feelings. But Lohn manages to get it out of Redd anyway, through a careful combination of waiting until they’re on their own in their usual hideout and acting like it ain’t no big deal, and he’s pretty proud of that, thanks. He’s sure his charming wit played a part in it too.

Redd’s worried about prom. Specifically about embarrassing Barbie, his foot-shorter date, at prom, what with the dancing. And all.

“I’ll step on her feet. ‘r somethin’. Put my hands in the wrong places and that.”

Lohn narrowly doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind, which is yeah, probably, because Redd is kinda clumsy. It’s not his fault – anyone’d be unsure where their limbs were if they were growing an inch each a week. Instead, he says the next thing that comes to mind, which is:

“Practice. You just gotta practice, is all. ‘s like anything. Guitar, rodeo, handwritin’...”

He’s sure he’s right. Dancing’s practically a sport, and everyone’s always talking about the vital nature of practicing that.

Redd’s eyebrows crease and he opens his mouth to respond, but Lohn’s gotten to his feet. He’s watching himself, as often happens, as if from afar. Wondering what the hell he’s thinking, but unable to stop himself.

He holds out his hand, and it – doesn’t feel like he’s offering a dance to Redd, not in Lohn’s head. Feels like he’s offering a whole lot more. His heart thunders in his throat as he waits for Redd to take it.

Redd’s got a dusting of pink over his nose. But he blushes pretty often – it’s probably just his embarrassment still, his pale skin showing that so easily, always.

He takes Lohn’s hand, and Lohn has an entirely unwarranted and over-the-top reaction to the size difference between their palms, how Redd’s fingers overshoot his own by half an inch. It’s not like Lohn’s got small hands (he ain’t small anywhere, thanks), it’s just that Redd’s, well. Very big.

Lohn’s suddenly quite warm in this here stable.

The little portable radio Lohn’s granddaddy had given him a few years ago is playing some scratchy country western song where it’s sitting on a crossbeam, and Lohn reaches over to turn the volume up a bit. He’s sure the horses in their stalls enjoy a little Merle every now and then.

“Now, uh. I ain’t an expert, exactly, in this…” he starts. If this were anyone else he’d insert a brag here about the ladies not having complained before, at all, if you know what he means. But this is Redd. So.

“But as I understand it, it’s pretty simple. Gotta take it a step at a time.”

Redd nods, the little furrow between his eyebrows meaning, Lohn knows, that he’s listening. He’s concentrating. Lohn swallows and puts Redd’s hand on his hip, and congratulates himself, inside, for being so cool about it.

“I’ll be the, uh, Barb, in this scenario.”

That gets him a little twitch of a smile from his twitchy friend, and, gosh, a half-smile shouldn’t mean this much to him. Be cool, Lohn, be cool.

Lohn starts by stepping back slowly.

“Look at my feet. Try to, uh, mirror them. Like if I put my foot back like-”

He slides his heel back over the gravelly dirt floor of the stable and imagines the town hall their prom’s gonna be in, squeaky floorboards and tinny speakers, everyone watching. What would they think if they saw them dancing like this, there?

“You follow. Slow, like.”

Redd nods and tries it. The way he stops dead after moving his foot once makes Lohn crack up a little, and Redd’s worried look turns into a smile, too. He knows Lohn ain’t laughing at him. It’s always with him, with Lohn.

Lohn guides them into the next step, Redd’s heel sliding back this time, Lohn following, unable to take his mind off the warm pressure of his friend’s hand on his waist for a second.

“And that’s it!” Lohn declares. “You just do that over and over again, alternatin’ feet. There’s a twirl sometimes, but no-one knows what they’re doing with those. Like… one, two. One, two, one- yeah, that’s it, mind my feet, one, two, one, two, you’re a natural Redd, I dunno what you were worried about –”

Redd’s foot lands straight down onto Lohn’s and makes him yelp and stagger, clutching tight onto Redd for balance.

When Redd’s foot slides off of his (“Sorry,” Redd mumbles) they’re very off-balance, but Lohn is kind of. Okay here, Redd’s upper arm clutched in his own and the breath of Redd’s concentration washing over him. He laughs, almost winded.

Despite this hiccup, they continue.

They’re still swaying with a decent rhythm together when the song ends, and there’s silence above the cicadas.

Lohn’s – gay. He’s just freaking gay, never mind that he likes girls too, he’s Gay right now and if Redd asked him to run away with him, elope to San Francisco or France or wherever, he’d agree in a heartbeat.

(Not that this feeling on Lohn’s behalf is a very unusual occurrence, but it’s stronger in this moment than it has been for a while, knocking him off his figurative feet. Redd’s breathing a little hard, he’s holding Lohn close and delicate, like he holds his rabbits. It’s a lot to deal with.)

There’s a beat, two beats, and a new song starts on the radio. Redd says “Reckon I got it.”

“Yeah,” Lohn says, throat dry. This, he knows, is when Redd pushes him away, realising that Lohn is too much in all the wrong ways.

“D’you think she’ll want to – to kiss, after?”

Redd’s biting his lip again.

“Uh, well, maybe.” Lohn’s heart is in his throat, and his throat is dry. “I mean, Barb’s kissed guys before, I know that, I’d say it depends –”

“I ain’t never done that, either.”

And, well, Lohn could have guessed that. Would have put money on it, even., But all he can think of right now is that this can’t be happening. He can’t truly be able to open his mouth and say (or croak):

“That’s just practice, too.”

“Yeah?”

Redd’s voice is real quiet, real breathy. His lips look soft as hell, not that Lohn’s staring.

“Uh-huh.”

Lohn feels his hand come up to cup the back of Redd’s head. He should stop this. This can’t happen, this isn’t allowed.

“You start off slow,” he says, just as quiet as Redd, and then he’s leaning up to brush his lips against Redd’s. He feels Redd’s hand tighten on his waist, as if clutching for balance like Lohn had earlier, and his head is buzzing, his lips are electric where they meet Redd’s (Redd’s!!), and he’s more alive than he’s ever been, probably.

He feels rooted to the ground and reaching up like the tallest tree to the sky all at once. He can feel the warm evening air around them, as if it’s pressing them together, cocooning them from everything, making this safe and possible. The cicadas are a part of this too, droning outside, the wood of the building around them an integral piece of this moment. Hell, even the horses, watching them.This ain’t his first kiss, but Lohn’s never felt like this before, and it might actually make him a poet. It’s that good.

He hears himself say ‘Rabbit…’ and his heart warms at the well-worn ‘Lightning’ he gets in return. And then Redd’s pulling him in, and they’re kissing again.

Prom’s in a week. In seven days Lohn will watch Redd do this dance with Barbie, who he likes, who’s fun to hang out with and pretty and gentle with Redd, who deserves it. They might even kiss. Lohn will be there too, stag unless he manages to convince some girl to accompany him, melancholy over what he can’t have.

Or maybe not.