Chapter 14

 

 

“STONER SCRABBLE,” Casey said, sitting cross-legged in front of Gus’s coffee table. There was a small pipe on the table, next to an old, beat-up He-Man lunchbox and a Scrabble box that Casey had grabbed from Lottie’s house before they went back to Gus’s. “A tradition passed down for hundreds of years.”

“Scrabble started out as game called Criss-Crosswords by an American architect named Alfred Butts in 1938,” Gus said, trying desperately to not get sucked into something called Stoner Scrabble, for fuck’s sake.

“Right,” Casey said. “So, hundreds of years. Time immemorial. One day, man made fire and then stuff happened and there was Stoner Scrabble.”

“I don’t think you quite understand the concept of time,” Gus said. “Either that or the Yakima public school systems seriously failed on all levels. I weep for you and the other children.”

“Hey!” Casey said. “You don’t knock the Yakima Yaks!”

“Because that’s not a terrible school mascot at all,” Gus said.

“You love alliteration,” Casey said. “Don’t front, man. I see the look on your face when you do it. It’s begrudging euphoria.”

“You tell anyone and I’ll deny it,” Gus said. “They won’t believe you because all I have to do is frown and people believe I don’t like anything.”

“It is a gift, man,” Casey agreed. “It’s a good thing I know that beneath that grumpy exterior beats the heart of a Share Bear.”

Gus groaned. “God, how I wish you would forget that.”

“Never,” Casey said. “I will never forget it.”

“That feels like a threat,” Gus grumbled.

“It is,” Casey said. “Now that you know the history of Stoner Scrabble—”

“That was it?” Gus said, arching an eyebrow. “You really didn’t teach me anything.”

“—now that you know, it’s time to play. The rules are very simple. You have to be stoned. And then we play Scrabble.”

Gus’s lips twitched. “What.”

“The name is pretty self-explanatory,” Casey said. “I will admit it’s probably not the most unique, but it gets the point across.”

“I am still trying to figure out if there is a point at all.”

“Eyebrows of Judgment,” Casey said, wiggling his fingers at Gus’s face. “We meet again.”

“Don’t talk to my eyebrows,” Gus said and wondered what his life had become that such an utterance wasn’t all that out of the ordinary. “And there is a fatal flaw in your plan. I’m not stoned.”

“Which is why, by the power of Grayskull, you can be,” Casey said. “Gus, ask me what’s in the He-Man lunch box. Say it. Say, ‘Casey, tell me what secrets you have in He-Man.’”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “I’m not saying that.”

“Say it,” Casey whispered, leaning over the table and closer to Gus. “Come on. Say it. You know you want to.”

“Is this what peer pressure feels like?” Gus wondered aloud. “Am I about to learn A Very Valuable Lesson on how to say no?”

“I would never pressure anyone to do anything they didn’t want to do,” Casey said seriously. “That’s whack, man. Say it.”

“I feel like you just missed the point of your own words.”

“Nah,” Casey said. “Because you want to say it.”

Gus sighed. “Hey, Casey?”

“Yes, Gustavo.”

“Tell me what secrets you have in He-Man.”

“I am so glad you asked,” Casey said. “Behold! Feast your eyes upon the glory of the coming of the Lord. If the Lord was made of pot.”

He opened the lunch box, turning it toward Gus. Gus was immediately struck with the sweet scent of good weed, something that he hadn’t smelled since Pastor Tommy had died. It reminded him of his childhood, of thick smoke curling around Pastor Tommy’s head, of the weight of his dad’s hand on his shoulder and—

(Gus was seventeen the first time he smoked with his dad. Pastor Tommy had wanted to wait until he was eighteen, but Gus pointed out that pot was illegal regardless then, and it didn’t really matter if he was seventeen or eighteen or eighty-three. Pastor Tommy had smiled that sweet, sweet smile of his, running his fingers through his son’s hair.

“Yeah, Gussy,” he’d said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Gus wanted Pastor Tommy’s water bong first, but his dad said they’d have to work up to that. “Besides,” he’d said. “My first taste was off a joint, so maybe that should be yours too. It could be tradition, maybe. Passed down from me to you, and if you ever have kids and they want to try it in a safe environment, free from pressure or judgment, maybe you can show them how too. Drugs can be bad, Gus. All that synthetic and manufactured crap that creates addiction and destroys your life and body. You stay away from shit, you hear me? Left-wingers will whisper in your ear that marijuana is a gateway drug, but it’s not. It’s all about choice. You can choose to hurt yourself. You can choose to put a gun to your head or a needle in your arm. Pot isn’t going to make you do either of those things. As long as you are safe and keep it within the privacy of your own home, marijuana will never hurt you.”

And he’d sat next to Gus on the very couch Gus was leaning against now. The coffee table was different then, an old pine thing that Pastor Tommy had said was a family heirloom, but Gus believed was probably just something his grandfather had once owned. Pastor Tommy had taught Gus to parse through the seeds, separating them from the buds. He taught him how to roll a joint, the papers tearing at first, then holding together the second time he tried.

That first joint was an ugly thing, somehow fatter on the ends than it was in the middle. But Pastor Tommy had grinned at him, saying it was good. “It doesn’t have to be beautiful to do the job. Hell, just look at me. I ain’t anyone’s definition of beauty, but I get shit done.”

The first puff had burned, as had the second and the third. Gus had coughed harshly, eyes watering as Pastor Tommy rubbed his back. “You’re doing okay,” his father had said. “It’ll go down smoother in a bit.”

And it had.

At first, Gus hadn’t felt anything and he wondered if he’d done it wrong. If something was wrong with him. If Pastor Tommy would be disappointed in him and wouldn’t be proud of him anymore.

But then his thoughts had slowed down, and his heartbeat evened out, and he took a breath and all of a sudden, he wasn’t the guy who worried about his dad being alone. He wasn’t the guy worried that he didn’t have many friends at school. He wasn’t the guy not planning on going to college because that meant leaving Abby and Pastor Tommy. He wasn’t the guy, the weird and abnormal and strange guy that people whispered about because he scowled a lot and he glared a lot and he wasn’t really anything like Pastor Tommy at all. He wasn’t any of that.

He just was.

“All right?” Pastor Tommy had asked.

“Yeah,” Gus said. “Yeah. Dad, yeah.”)

And now, here Gus was, in the living room that was now his, in the house that was now his, with the couch that had once belonged to Pastor Tommy, with the coffee table that they’d gotten when the other had started to splinter (“My old man would be pissed,” Pastor Tommy had said with a shrug. “That was a family heirloom. At least I think it was.”). Here was Gus, in this house, in this place, inhaling the smells that reminded him of growing up, of becoming a man, of losing something so fucking precious in such a nonsensical way that it burned like that first hit off a joint he’d taken when he was seventeen years old.

But this wasn’t about Pastor Tommy, at least not completely. This was about Gus and Casey. This was about Casey wanting to share part of his life with him. A stupid part, sure, but a part nonetheless. Gus didn’t have to say yes. Casey wouldn’t think of him less if he did. Gus hadn’t smoked since Pastor Tommy had died because the ache in his chest carried too much weight to it. It was always something they’d done together. Maybe he hadn’t smoked as much as his father had, maybe one or two times a month, but it’d always been fucking special, okay? It’d always been special because it was theirs.

Gus wondered if normal people carried their grief like he did. He wondered if normal people carried it for the rest of their lives like he thought he would. It didn’t hurt as much as it once had, but sometimes the scar broke apart and it was all he could do to breathe through it.

He looked down into the lunchbox. There was a Tupperware container of cookies. A container of thick, green buds. A glass pipe, swirls of green and blue and red mixed in. A square silver lighter with the initials CJR carved into the side. A small orange packet of rolling papers.

Gus touched the lighter first, picking it up carefully from the lunchbox. It felt heavy in his palm. He ran a finger over the lettering.

“A friend of mine gave that to me,” Casey said quietly. “My initials. Casey John Richards. He hated that I kept using those cheap Bic lighters and was always losing them. Said if I had something nice, I’d keep it. He was right, I guess.”

“I haven’t done this since Pastor Tommy died,” Gus admitted, rolling the lighter between his fingers.

“And you don’t have to do it now,” Casey said lightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Gus. I would never make you.”

“I know.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you smoke with Pastor Tommy?”

Gus shrugged. “He was my dad. I never had much in the way of friends or family. But I had him. We had each other and it’s just something we did.”

“I wish I could have met him,” Casey said.

“Oh god,” Gus groaned. “He would have adored you. The conversations you two would have had would have driven me up the walls. Everything would have been dude this and man that and oh my god.”

Casey grinned. “So, essentially like things are with you and me.”

“Oh my god,” Gus said and then winced. “Well, maybe. But I would hope you wouldn’t have taken my dad on a date to a festival where you were allergic to almost everything they were serving.”

“Not the quiche,” Casey said promptly.

“Not the quiche,” Gus agreed. “What about you? When did you start smoking? When you first got stigmata?”

Casey laughed. “Nah, man. I went through a lot of shit trying to figure out who I was. For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me. My parents made me go to a therapist and we were told I was disordered. Anxiety. Social. Whatever you want. They wanted me on pills. To alleviate my anxiousness. I didn’t want them. I was sixteen and terrified because I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t want to be a pill popper too. I was at a party and this guy I knew had a bong. He asked if I wanted to hit it. I said sure and forty minutes later, my mind was as clear as it’d ever been. That was really it for me, I guess. Never really needed anything else. I’m a marijuana success story, man. I was disordered and now I’m ordered.”

Gus watched him. All he saw was earnest sincerity, not that he expected anything less from Casey. He wondered what his life would have been like if Casey had never moved to Abby. He didn’t even want to think about it. “I’ll have a cookie or two,” he decided. “I’m not ready to smoke yet. And I might not ever be.”

Casey nodded. “Do you mind if I do?”

Gus hesitated before shaking his head. “No. It’s fine.” He thought about showing Casey the old clay pipe of Pastor Tommy’s, but he didn’t think he could do that yet. Maybe someday. And maybe someday sooner rather than later. Which was a terrifying thought in and of itself.

He could do this. He trusted Casey. And he knew that if Pastor Tommy could see him, he’d be laughing his ass off.

So, while Casey began to pack a bowl, Gus opened the Tupperware container, pulled out a cookie, and ate half of it in one bite.

 

 

GUS FORGOT that when he got stoned, he tended to laugh like a hyena.

He’d also forgotten that when he got stoned, he tended to laugh a lot.

It wasn’t his fault. Certain things were just funnier to him when stoned. And when he found something funny, he couldn’t help but laugh.

When sober, he could moderate the type of laugh he had, if he even laughed at all. If he did laugh, it was always a low, guttural thing that was more of a rumble than anything else. If something was really funny, he might even crack a smile while he rumbled. Casey’s jokes were evidence of that.

But when he was stoned?

Sweet Jesus, he yipped.

“What in the name of all that’s holy was that noise?” Casey asked him, bloodshot eyes widening.

Gus clapped his hand over his mouth, trying not to let the ai ai ai abomination that was his stoned laughter come out again.

“Did you just laugh?” Casey asked. “Like full-on, no bullshit laugh?”

Gus scowled at him.

“Why are you smiling?” Casey demanded. “I’ve never seen you smile that big before.”

Okay, so he fucking sucked at scowling when he was stoned. He didn’t know why he thought he was ready to reveal his secret that he was a happy stoner. It was a secret he should have taken to the grave.

But those damn cookies were good. The right amount of sweetness, with just enough of the underlying tang of pot that just edged along bitter. Before he’d stopped himself, he’d eaten two of them and discovered two things.

First, Origami Star Fucker was good fucking weed.

Second, he was fucking stoned.

“I’m stoned,” he told Casey. “Your cookies had pot in them.”

“Yeah, man,” Casey said, caching out his pipe and setting it back down in the He-Man lunch box. “I should hope so. I bought them at the pot store.”

“The pot store,” Gus said, trying to stifle a giggle, for fuck’s sake. “Where they sell pot.”

“Yeah, great job, huh? Growing shit and helping people. Making sick people feel better. Cures all the maladies, even those in the mind.”

“Mind maladies make me mad,” Gus said.

“Dude,” Casey breathed. “Your alliteration game is sick. Have you ever thought of writing a book?”

Gus glared at him (read: he smiled dopily). “Nah. M’not much of a writer. I tried to write a screenplay once, because I thought if Michael Bay could make movies, then so could I.”

“You wrote a movie?” Casey asked, sounding like that was the most impressive thing in the world. “I wanted to write my book into a movie, but they hired some dude who just didn’t understand my postapocalyptic vampire/werewolf dystopian prose.”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “Your movie was awful.” He blanched. “I mean, it wasn’t very good. Oh fuck. I mean, I am sure someone enjoyed it. Like teenage girls.”

“S’cool,” Casey said. “They ruined my vision. I’ve made peace with it. Meditation helps. And weed. Now, tell me about your screenplay.”

“No,” Gus said. “You wouldn’t get it. It was… I don’t even know. It was deep and ahead of its time. It was some Terrence Malick shit.”

“Whoa,” Casey said. “I don’t know who that is.”

“This… this guy. He makes movies that make no sense, but they’re so deep that it doesn’t even matter if they make no sense.”

“Just tell me the name of it,” Casey said, reaching over and touching Gus’s arm. “Just the name. I bet it was an awesome name.”

Gus looked down at Casey’s fingers on his arm, thoughts a little fuzzy, and thought maybe of having another cookie. “It was called….”

“Yeah,” Casey breathed.

“It was called….”

“Yeah!”

Gus opened his mouth to lie and make up some awesome-sounding movie title. Instead, he accidentally spoke the truth. “Monkey Island Adventures.”

“Whoa!” Casey exclaimed. Then, brow furrowing, he said, “I don’t get it.”

“It was about this monkey,” Gus admitted. “Who had adventures. On an island.”

“Yeah,” Casey said. “That’s some Terrence Malick shit right there.”

“You don’t even know who that is!”

“But you said it was like that!”

“It wasn’t anything like that,” Gus said. “I was eleven and somehow wrote a sixty-page treatment for a feature film about a monkey and his human friend named Mr. McSchnickel who lived on St. Mervin’s Island off the coast of Florida—Florida, for fuck’s sake, who even wants to go there—and the script was about them foiling an art heist from the St. Mervin’s History Museum. Mortimer was the monkey’s name. And he knew sign language. He was like… like, smart, okay? Like, so fucking smart.”

“Why isn’t this a movie?” Casey said, throwing his hands up. “Why did you not finish this, man? We could be watching this right now. I could be watching a movie about a monkey named Mortimer stopping art thieves. Dude. Gus. Gus.”

“What!”

“You have to finish the movie. The world needs to see your talent, okay? You have to finish the movie so everyone knows just how far your genius goes. I know, but everyone else needs to know too.”

“I don’t even know where it’s at,” Gus said, rubbing his eyes. “I gave up on it because monkey-based movies were on the decline and I couldn’t even imagine the budget because there was this whole bridge chase thing with penguins… I don’t even know. But I do know it would have had a twist ending, had I finished it.”

“What?” Casey said, sounding astonished. “What could be more of a twist than a monkey crime fighter?”

“I know,” Gus said. “Trust me, I know. But the twist would have been that the Mortimer would have gotten shot saving the day—”

“No!” Casey cried. “Don’t do it, Gus! Don’t you dare.”

“—no, no, it’s okay, he would have lived! He would have lived and at the very end, the twist, man. The twist. Mortimer would have been interviewed by CNN and they were going to ask him how he could forgive the art thieves for shooting him. And you know what he signed back?”

“I am literally waiting for you to tell me!”

Gus brought up his arms and out of nowhere, did a series of complicated motions with his hands and fingers. Then he looked at Casey expectantly.

“What the fuck was that?” Casey demanded.

“Sign language,” Gus said. “I learned what Mortimer would have said in hopes that I could be cast as the motion capture actor to play the monkey.”

“You speak sign language?” Casey asked.

Gus shook his head. “No. I only know the lines Mortimer had in my screenplay.”

“You learned every line your monkey character would have had in your movie,” Casey said.

“Yeah,” Gus said.

“Dude,” Casey said. “You’re, like… dude.”

Gus nodded solemnly. “I know.”

“What did it mean?”

“What did what mean?”

“The last line, man. The twist.”

“Oh. Oh. Well, Wolf Blitzer would have been interviewing Mortimer, right? And he would ask about his forgiveness. And Mortimer would sign back: Because forgiveness is human.”

“But… but… he’s a fucking monkey!”

Gus nodded. “I know.”

“And he says forgiveness is human!”

“Exactly,” Gus said.

“That means… that means. Oh my god. Gus. That means he was more human than us all. The whole fucking time.”

“Boom,” Gus said, giving jazz hands for some reason he didn’t quite understand. “Twist ending.”

“That’s… that’s some Terrence Malick fucking shit.”

“You still don’t know who that is,” Gus reminded him.

“Okay, maybe not,” Casey agreed. “But. So. Okay. You’re like… the M. Night Shyamalan of monkey adventure films set on an island!”

Gus shrugged, trying to play it off. “Could have been,” he said. “Maybe one day I’ll dig it up and see.”

“I’m a writer,” Casey said. “I wrote things. Books. Weird, weird books. I could help you finish.”

“We’d have to make it in Canada,” Gus warned him.

“Why?” Casey asked.

“Because it seems like a Canadian movie.”

“Oh,” Casey said. “I don’t get it. Do they have tropical islands in Canada?”

“Oh shit,” Gus groaned. “No. They don’t.”

“It’s just a bump in the road,” Casey said, and that’s when Gus became aware that they had somehow started holding hands, fingers intertwined, palms pressed together. Casey’s thumb was rubbing over his own.

He was instantly sweaty and completely out of his depth.

And really fucking stoned.

“So!” Gus squeaked. He tried to remember what he’d learned on the Internet. “Were you planning on attending the office Christmas party?”

Casey’s brow furrowed. “The what now?”

“Stoner Scrabble!” Gus cried. “We have to play Stoner Scrabble!”

“Dude,” Casey said. “Best. Idea. Ever.”

 

 

FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Gus frowned at the letters he’d drawn.

Somehow, he’d gotten all vowels.

Casey went first: THESIS.

“Wow,” he said. “I’m off to a good start.”

“Wow,” Gus mocked. “Shut up.”

Casey grinned.

Fucking vowels. Gus used the H to make the word HI.

“Don’t say a word,” Gus said, drawing another letter. It was an E. Goddamn fucking vowels.

“It’s okay,” Casey said. “And that was two words. Funnily enough, two is also the same number of letters you used in your turn.”

Gus narrowed his eyes. “Are you shit talking me? At Scrabble?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Casey said, using the second S in thesis to spell SALIVATE. “Oh my. Double word score? How interesting. And look! I used all my letters.”

“Are you some kind of Scrabble master?” Gus asked. “Do you practice daily and just failed to tell me?”

“Gus,” Casey said. “Don’t be silly. Just because my words have syllables doesn’t mean anything. I still think you’re special, man.”

“Whatever,” Gus said, using the T to spell TEA. “Three letters.”

“Which is roughly how many points you have,” Casey muttered under his breath.

“What?” Gus demanded.

“What?” Casey asked, unfairly batting his eyes at Gus.

Casey spelled VICTORY.

Gus spelled YEA.

“I don’t really think that’s even a word, Gus. At least mine is detailing what’s going on here.”

“How can you shit talk at Scrabble? How are you even a person?”

Casey spelled SUNDRIES.

Gus spelled RED.

“Do you know what that is, Gus? Do you know what sundries are?”

“Yes I know what sundries are!”

“Wow. Your face is red. Like your word.”

Casey spelled DIVINITY.

Gus spelled BOY.

“Huh. Divinity Boy. That sounds like a Christian boy band where they get sexy for Jesus. Hey, girl. Come touch my body of Christ. Then go buy our merchandise.”

“You are going to hell so fast.”

Casey spelled TREASURE.

Gus spelled RACE.

Casey had been digging through the letters, but Gus didn’t even care. He was totally going to kick Casey’s ass. He was stoned, his ferret was curled up on the couch near his neck, he was playing fucking Scrabble, and he was fucking happy, okay? He was fucking happy and he was going to win, or he was going to lose, but fuck it all. It didn’t matter right now. It didn’t—

Casey laid out letters using the C in RACE.

Gus didn’t quite understand the word. It was too long. Far too long for Scrabble.

His mind didn’t quite get it. It was still a little foggy.

Casey looked nervous.

He was even blushing a little.

Gus looked back down at the word.

There was a C and A and N, then I, K, I, S,S—

Gus got it then.

Not one word.

But four.

CAN.

I.

KISS.

YOU.

(At this point in his life, Gustavo Tiberius had lived almost thirty years. His birthday was coming in October (“You’re a Libra,” Pastor Tommy had told him. “It’s means you’re loyal and brave and will do anything to help the people you love be happy. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a more apt description of a person in my life. That’s you, Gussy. That’s you.”). In his almost thirty years on earth, Gus had kissed five people.

His first had been a boy named Micah when they were six years old. They’d been playing in the rain and stomping in puddles and Micah had leaned over, grabbing his face and kissing him soundly on the lips. Gus, shocked into almost a quiet awe, had just stared at him. Micah had moved away a few months later and Gus had never seen him again.

Three were those he’d slept with, sloppy kisses that were a means to an end.

His last had been the brief brush of his lips against his father’s, the body already cooling, the machines switched off, a nurse rubbing soothing circles on his back. He’d been blinded by tears, meaning to kiss his father’s cheek or his forehead, but instead grazing his lips, and something had settled over his chest then, a weight at the knowledge that his father was gone, gone, gone, and the moment he left the hospital—hell, even this room—he’d be alone and would probably remain that way. He’d kissed his father and twenty-seven minutes later was out on the street in front of the hospital, unsure of how he’d get home.)

Gus said, “Um.”

“It’s okay,” Casey said. “If you don’t want to.” And he meant it. Gus could see that. Somehow, that meant almost as much as the request itself.

Gus said, “Wow,” because once again, words like endearing and adorable were running through his head and he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop them.

Casey grinned that lazy grin, eyes hooded and sleepy.

He looked happy.

Gus was also happy.

It felt like he’d been struck by lightning.

So Gus (once again being Gus) tried to ruin the moment. “I thought you didn’t like kissing. Or sex. Or something. And that’s okay! Really. I just thought you didn’t want… me. Like that.”

Casey cocked his head, and just when had they started sitting so close? They were practically sitting side by side. Gus could feel the heat of Casey’s skin against his and it was there, that low-level burn of arousal, but it wasn’t overpowering. It wasn’t intrusive. It wasn’t more.

It was nice. And sweet.

Casey said, “Want and need and desire can be different things, Gus. I don’t need sex. I don’t desire it. I don’t even particularly want to most of the time. But just because I typically don’t do something doesn’t mean I won’t. And kissing is separate from all that. Kissing doesn’t need to be about sex or lust. Kissing can be about friendship and trust. I trust you, man. I care about you. I just hope I don’t need to sleep with you for you to believe me.”

“Can I hug you first?” Gus choked out, unsure why he suddenly had a lump in his throat.

Casey’s smile widened. “Yeah, man. I’d really like that. You’re starting to give me some of the best hugs of my life. I’ll never say no to a hug from you.”

Gus thought the first time he would initiate a hug with Casey, he’d falter a little bit. There’d be hesitation, some awkwardness, and maybe an elbow or two in the ribs. He’d sputter out an apology and then Casey would quietly fix it until they were lined up right.

It didn’t happen that way, though.

Sure, they were side by side so the angle was not the best. He had to twist his back a little and it wasn’t exactly comfortable. But they moved like they’d done it countless times before and Casey’s arms went under his, and his went around Casey’s shoulders. They were almost chest to chest and Gus found his fingers in Casey’s hair, long locks falling loose from the leather strap.

And Casey held him so fucking tight, and Gus couldn’t believe that he had this, that here, right now, this moment was his. Sure, they were stoned. Sure, it was off of something called Origami Star Fucker that Gus had eaten in a cookie. Sure they’d just played a really lopsided game of Scrabble and sure Gus had just spilled his deepest, darkest secret about his Monkey Island Adventures screenplay, something he’d sworn himself to never reveal to anyone.

Jesus Christ, it was good. All of it was good.

They stayed like that, for a time. Harry S. Truman was watching them with interest until it went on far too long to be a normal hug. He curled back up and closed his eyes.

Gus could feel Casey’s breath on his neck.

Gus sighed. It was nice.

Casey pulled away first, but he didn’t go far.

He said, “I’m going to kiss you.”

Gus swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“Just… no tongue or anything.” Casey looked away briefly. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Yes. That’s fine. That’s more than fine. It’s awesome.”

“And I don’t like a lot of… movement. Not right now. Just nice kisses. With lips.”

“Yes. No movement. None. I’m a statue. That you’re going to kiss.”

Casey laughed. “Maybe a little movement.”

“Okay, but I don’t—”

Casey kissed him.

It was firm, and it was dry, and there was the briefest moment where Gus had the natural reaction to deepen the kiss, but he held it back. It was easier than he thought it would be, to push that innate desire down. It wasn’t about that, and Gus was finding that maybe he didn’t need it to be. Because out of all the kisses he’d received in his life, the four that counted, this was the one that meant the most. This was the one that made him feel the best. The safest. The happiest.

And there was a little movement. Casey’s lips parted slightly, but instead of the scrape of a tongue, Gus felt a small sigh of air and somehow it was more. Casey cradled Gus’s face in his, his grip soft, thumbs brushing against Gus’s cheeks. Their noses bumped gently. Casey’s grip tightened slightly. His beard was soft against Gus’s chin and lips. Gus could almost taste the green tea Snapple Casey had drunk at the Strawberry Festival.

Gus couldn’t say for certain how long it went on. Maybe seconds. Maybe up to a minute. But it was enough time that the lump in his throat melted away. He felt fuzzy-headed, whether from the kiss or the pot, he couldn’t quite say. It was pleasant, that low-thrum rolling through him like an undercurrent of electricity.

Casey broke away first, and Gus made a low noise in the back of his throat that he would probably be embarrassed about when he was completely sober. He didn’t open his eyes right away, part of him convinced that Casey would have a look of disdain on his face because Gus had done something wrong. That even though Gus was trying, he still wasn’t completely normal yet.

Then lips were on him again, this time on his cheek, first the left and then the right. Then his nose. Each eyelid, the heat of the kiss almost making him squirm. The last was on his forehead and he opened his eyes then, as Casey pulled away, hands trailing down Gus’s face and his arms until he linked their fingers together.

Casey was watching him. When he saw he had Gus’s attention, he said, “Good, that was real good, Gustavo.”

Gus said, “Yeah, yeah it was,” and neither of them chose to acknowledge the roughness in their voices.

 

 

LATER, THEY lay on their backs on the floor side by side holding hands, shoulders touching. Every time Casey turned to look over at Gus, his hair would tickle Gus’s ear.

Gus brought Casey’s hand and arm over his face, getting a close-up look at the sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. The centerpiece was a peacock on his forearm, the tail feathers lowered and stretched down along toward his wrist. The detail was remarkable, and Gus traced the feathers with a finger.

There were flowers curled into the feathers attached to vines that twisted along his skin. The flowers were blue and purple and red, blooming across his skin.

Gus turned his arm over and on the underside of his wrist, curled into the vines, lay a violet triangle, the bottom of the interior shaded black, until it faded up, leaving natural skin.

“What’s that?” he murmured.

“Ace pride,” Casey said, eyes on Gus. “I got it when I figured out who I was. It was my first. All the others came after.”

“Why, though?” Gus asked as he dropped their arms between them.

“Because I’m proud of who I am,” Casey said, a quirk to his lips. “Even if others might not understand. I had finally found a way to be comfortable in my own skin and I could breathe again.”

“I like it when you breathe,” Gus said seriously. “I like it when you do a lot of things.”

Casey grinned at him. “Ditto, Gustavo.”

Gus didn’t know if he had the right to ask, but couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. “Who didn’t understand?” He winced. “I mean, not that it’s any of my—”

“My parents.”

“Oh.” That was something Gus didn’t understand. Not completely. Sure, he never knew his mom, but he’d had Pastor Tommy. “Do you talk to them?”

Casey shrugged. “Sometimes. Just to check in every once in a while. But it’s not something I like to do. And I don’t think they care all that much.”

“But… they’re your parents.”

Casey laughed quietly. “That doesn’t mean they do it right.” He pointed at another tattoo, this time on the soft skin of his right forearm near his elbow. It was of a small bird flying out of a broken cage. “I got this when I realized it would probably be better for me if I didn’t go home again. A little on the nose, but it felt right. And once I made that decision, that weight was gone, you know? It helped that I had Lottie to talk to when I needed it. She was the black sheep of her family growing up, so she understood. She didn’t have a lot to do with my parents anyway. They don’t think much of her. That’s okay, though. Because I think she’s awesome. She’s my family.”

Gus tried to find the words to say he understood. That he was sorry. That he was glad Casey had found a new home on his own. That he hoped maybe he could be a part of Casey’s home too. But that didn’t seem like what a normal person would say on a first date. So instead, he repeated “I like it when you breathe.”

And then there was a knock on the door.

“Huh,” Gus said. “People seem to do that a lot now.”

“Knock on your door? You got people coming over all the time now, Grumpy Gus?”

“Yes,” Gus said. “There’s you. And now there’s whoever is knocking on my door. It’s like it never stops.”

“You should probably get it.”

“Nah,” Gus said. “They’ll go away. And plus, I’m stoned, so I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see whoever it is.”

Casey’s eyes went wide. “What if it’s pizza?”

And holy shit, that sounded amazing. “Did you order pizza?”

“No,” Casey said. “But what if?”

“So… it’s hypothetical pizza?”

“Dude. That’s my favorite kind. Hypothetically, it could also be pepperoni.”

“We should get the door,” Gus said, because now all he could think about was pizza.

“Okay,” Casey said. “You get the door. I’ll get my wallet. We’re on a date and I’m going to pay for it because you deserve it.”

“You can’t Instagram this,” Gus said. “You are banned from Instagram right now.”

“Why not?” Casey said. “That’s what food is for. To be Instagrammed and then consumed.”

Gus pushed himself up off the floor, reluctantly letting go of Casey’s hand. “You’re such a hipster,” Gus said. It was supposed to be insulting, but it came out sounding so disgustingly fond that Gus was sure he was about to start shooting rainbows out his ass. “And I wasn’t talking about the food. I was talking about taking pictures of me while stoned and then posting them on the Internet. You could ruin my political aspirations.”

“You want to be a politician?” Casey asked, sounding horrified.

“Maybe,” Gus said as he stumbled toward the door. “You don’t know. I could be mayor of Abby. Or something. I’d legalize marijuana. And I’d let asexuals get married to whoever they want. And I’d start a pizza delivery service that specifically serves people that are stoned. Guess what I’d call it?”

“This is going to be so awesome,” Casey breathed.

“Right?” Gus said. “It would be called Stone Fire Stoner Pizza Place for People Who Are Stoned.” He frowned as he reached for the doorknob. “Okay. I’m still working on the name, but you can’t Instagram me because then I won’t be able to make pizza.”

And with that, he opened the door to find—

“Oh shit!” he squeaked, slamming the door and leaning against it.

“Dude,” Casey said. “Is it pizza?”

Gus shook his head. “No. Worse.”

Casey frowned. “Worse than pizza? So. Like. Tacos? Do they even deliver tacos? God, I want some tacos.”

“Worse,” Gus hissed.

“Worse than tacos?” Casey asked. Then, the blood drained from his face. “Is it cauliflower? Gus. Gus. I have cauliflower PTSD! What if I start having flashbacks to when my parents tried to make me eat it? I’ll need to get stoned to calm me down. Oh. Wait. I’m already stoned. Okay. Never mind. I got this. Bring it on.”

“It’s not cauliflower!” Gus snapped. “It’s polyamorous lesbians and/or sisters and your aunt!”

“Oh,” Casey said, looking immensely relieved. Then, “Do they have pizza?”

“No, they don’t have pizza!”

“Why are you freaking out?”

“Because I’m stoned!”

“They’ve never seen you stoned?”

“No!”

“Why does it matter?”

Gus couldn’t really explain why he was freaking out, so he said the only thing he could think of. “Because I’m the landlord.”

Casey got up and walked toward Gus. He stopped in front of him and reached up to touch his cheek. “S’cool, man,” he said. “No worries. Just act normal and they won’t even be able to tell.”

Gus could do that. Gus could do that very well. After all, he was on his way to being the most normal person on the planet.

“Normal,” Gus said. “Got it. I don’t have my fanny pack, but I don’t have an erection, so it’s all good in the hood.”

“What,” Casey said.

And since Gus hadn’t meant to say that out loud, he pushed Casey away slightly before opening the door.

“Heeeey,” he said normally. “Ladies. Welcome to Casa de Gustavo.”

The four women on his porch stared at him.

“They really don’t have any pizza,” Casey whispered behind him. “The disappointment I feel is the same I felt while watching the series finale of Lost.”

“Monumental?” Gus asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Exactly.”

“So,” Gus said, looking back at the women gathered before him. He crossed his arms over his chest and adopted what he assumed was an awesomely relaxed pose. “S’up. Pop a squat. If you wish.”

“Did you just use slang?” Bertha asked.

“What is even happening right now?” Bernice whispered. “I don’t understand the world anymore.”

“I don’t know that you normally do,” Betty said, patting Bernice on the shoulder.

“Someone overheard you saying you were allergic to strawberries,” Lottie said to her nephew. “We came to check that you were okay. What are the chances of them having an entire festival dedicated to the one food you’re allergic to? And why didn’t I know this about you?”

“Aw,” Casey said, coming to stand next to Gus in the doorway. “Auntie Lottie. You’re the best. I live to fight another day.”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “He’s so alive, that he gives life… to other things. Or whatever.”

There was some more staring, but Gus was so normal, it didn’t even bother him.

Bertha said, “How is everything else going?”

Bernice said, “Yes. How is it going?”

Betty said, “Is it going good?”

Lottie said, “Gus, you look like you have beard burn on your chin.”

Casey said, “Well, this just got slightly awkward.”

Gus said, “Nah, man. It’s cool. I just tripped and fell on my face. Okay, that was a lie. He kissed me. And it was nice. But before that, we got stoned. I’m stoned right now. I’m so stoned. And then we played Scrabble and I couldn’t make up good words because of the fucking vowels, and then he spelled out words that were probably the most romantic thing ever and he kissed me and it was nice and I really forgot how much more I talk when I’m stoned and have the inability to lie about anything whatsoever. So. Let’s all pretend that I haven’t said a single word and now I can’t stop thinking about pizza, for fuck’s sake. Would it have killed you to bring a pizza when you came over and knocked on my door, oh my god.”

Casey coughed.

Gus said, “So that happened. What do I need to do to make sure that any of you never bring this up again?”

 

 

APPARENTLY ABSOLUTELY nothing, because they brought it up almost daily.