66a/n: so hey once again, it's been a while, and once again i have failed terribly with content. i promise some of these things are important to the plot! ;3 here's hoping you don't give up on me!
warning: straight makeout scenes ahead, nothing to be alarmed about, but just so you know. should pop up around the end of the chapter
"She is always in my corner
Right there when I want her
All these other girls are tempting
But I'm empty when you're gone"
~cheerleader:omi
Ch 12: Cheerleader
I forget it's a school night, and apparently so does everyone else. The nighttime chill has reached us by the time we're wrapping up. Everyone shakes hands at the end, and I realize I don't know who I was even playing with. I thought I knew a few voices, but couldn't put a face to them. Even now it's too dark to tell, but I recognize Ursula's grip and the outline of her wild mane of hair.
"Townsend?" she asks me, still holding onto my hand.
"Whoa!" I say, "I didn't know you did.. this."
She laughs, "It's like soccer, right? Only flying."
That's still the stupidest thing I ever heard, but I pull her into a bro-ly hug and a pat on the back.
"So I guess I'll be seeing you next time?" she asks, tentatively.
"Definitely," I tell her, although a moment ago I was considering breaking the news to Brock that this wasn't for me. Also, it's going to cut into any time I might be able to spend with Leslie. But I'm not the same Hollywood here, and I like it. And I like that Ursula's here. And that Brock's here. And that time just passes so easily here.
I stumble over to the picnic table, drenched in a chilly sweat and wondering why I ever bother showering, to find Brock sitting on top of it. He's got a towel and a water bottle that he's chugging from. He tosses me the towel. I'm skeptical of it at first, so I sniff it. When I deem it clean, I wipe my face off and chuck it back.
He spews some water in surprise and deflects it so it falls to the ground.
"Gross!" he says, but it sounds off somehow. There is moonlight spilling out over his face and he looks too pensive for an island of tranquility. Stormy. We can't have that.
"Any reason you're still here?" I pry subtly. "Shouldn't you go home?"
He doesn't look at me and starts to dismantle his glowstick garb. I begin to do the same. Mine is simpler, so I finish first, and he seems to be struggling with the belt part of his chestpiece. I go behind him to help, and when we're finally done, he's just sitting there, looking at the night sky like I wasn't talking to him or anything. Dick.
"We're off for Thanksgiving next week," he says finally. Officially too sad to be my island. Uh-oh.
"Oh?" I say, like I'm not that interested. But I vault myself up onto the table with him and look at the sky. It's nice, I guess. Hurts my eyes to try to focus on the stars, so I look at the moon instead.
"Yeah. Dad and Romi are down in Miami with my mom."
To this I say nothing, because I'm remembering how he said his parents splitting up was his fault. I wait for him to go on, thinking that if I ask, he'll remember I'm here and clam up. It's what I'd do.
"She.." he sighs. "She doesn't want to see me."
I reach out a hesitant hand to clasp his shoulder. I can't fix any of that, but there's something I can do. I'm dreading the consequences of it, but I offer the one thing that I feel might help. I'm not even sure why I feel compelled; I seem to get suckered into this sort of thing a lot.
"You know, Manhattan already invited you to stay for the weekend. You might as well stay over break too." I am the epitome of casual. Oh yeah.
He sniffs and I realize he's crying. And now he's laughing slightly. "You have the whole circus in your house already, Slim."
"I know, I know," I say pulling my hand away to lean back on my elbows, a little embarrassed at having been shot down so readily. I pause for what might be too long before I point out, "No circus is complete without a clown."
"Hah!" he shouts his mirth like it shocked him and then calms to quietly ask, "Was that supposed to win me over?" He finally, finally turns his head to look at me, and the world likely turns in tandem, the moonlight casting a glow about him like a fucking halo. The silhouette of his god-like face looks carved from stone in his effort at remaining stoic. But even in the low light, I see through him.
"Drive me home," my mouth says while I'm distracted.
He blinks and shakes his head; his sweat-soaked hair sticks unmoving like the Renaissance statue that must have inspired his existence. I silently curse this different Hollywood for being poetic.
I keep looking at him though, and say again, with my brain's conviction behind my words this time, "Drive me home. At least stay tonight."
He locks eyes with me again, this time searching, as if he'll find something meaningful under this dim light. As if there's anything to find in the first place.
I tell him, "It's late, and I'm tired. I don't want to walk."
There's a moment where he seems to want to tell me 'no.' Like he sees what I'm up to and he won't fall for it. But in the end, I'm not up to anything and his shoulders slump forward, because he knows it. He just nods and slides off the table like he's plasma. It's as if I somehow learned alchemy and turned marble to jelly.
He wobbles out to the parking lot and I follow behind, quiet and careful like if I make a sound he'll liquefy and disappear into the gutter.
We go through the struggle of entering his car, which takes ten minutes or more, and then we're just sitting inside. The key's in the ignition, but he's made no move to start it.
"I feel weird, here," he breaks the silence so suddenly that I jump at the sound of his voice.
"H-how do you mean?" I ask him, nerves suddenly buzzing around in the enclosed space of his front seat.
"I don't have people here, not like I used to," he continues, softly. "There's you, but it's weird. You're.. weird."
"Me?!" I'm offended. How am I the weird one? "What did I—"
"Nothing. It's just not the same," he's teetering on the edge of miserable here, and I don't know how to react if he starts to cry. "I have a therapist, but I won't tell her this. I shouldn't have told anyone really."
An epiphany is creeping up on me. A story I've heard before; Brooklyn's anxiety and Gary's secrets and my own inner turmoil hovering around and pressing in, and I know what he did, what he must have done.
"You came out?" I offer in a whisper.
He leans his head against the top of the steering wheel and nods against it.
"My mother's very religious," is his verbal answer after another long bout of quiet.
"I see," I say sagely, although I don't quite.
"I should take you home," he sighs sitting up and turning to stone again. I still want to know more. What did she say? What did his dad say? But I know he's closed up now.
"Right," I agree. Suddenly, I'm thinking forward for the first time today, and remembering that the only bed he can sleep in is mine. There are so many reasons that sharing a bed with Brock Foster for the holidays is the worst idea anyone's ever had.
Trees and houses pass me on either side as work myself into a panic over this. I can't do it. Once I get home there will be the reality of Gary Drama to deal with, and then there will be Leslie English Drama, because holy fucking shit she's actually my girlfriend. Brock isn't speaking and my brain is spiraling out of control.
The engine stutters to a halt and for a moment, and I think his car broke down. Then I notice we're outside my house.
Strangely, looking at him now, even with all my impending drama weighing on me, I haven't changed my mind. He just has to stay here, whatever happens. For the first time, I feel someone else's drama outweighing my own and it scares me.
I get out, but he doesn't move. He lets me wait there, tapping my foot for about a minute. I give up waiting and walk around the front of his car to his side. He watches me warily.
I wrench open the driver's side door and grab his ear.
He winces.
"Ow! What the fuck?!"
"I told you already!" I say, dragging him out inch by inch. "You're staying with us, so stop being a baby!"
He finally caves and practically jumps out by himself, slamming the door behind him.
"Fine! Jesus! Just let go," he swats my hand away once I've got him all the way into the driveway.
I only let go so I can cross my arms and look at him like I'm not impressed. He looks back in a more pouty manner than I've experienced coming from someone his size, and rubs his wounded left ear.
Inside the house, the band and fam are crammed into the living room watching some movie with Tom Cruise in it, but we're going to bed. Because he just needs to sleep himself out of this funk. Not that you can sleep off your mother hating what you are, but at least he can forget for a little bit. Brooklyn notices us, and jumps up from where he was laying across Mackenna on the rug.
"Hey!" he says leaning up the bannister behind us, "I didn't get to give you your surprise!"
I turn to him, questioning, and he holds out three or four laminated tickets. Brock snatches them before I can get a good look and says, "These are Sugar Circus passes!"
Brooklyn just grins at us and nods.
"You have to be 18 to get in," Brock points out in a deadpan.
"Unless you're with the band," he informs with a wink.
"These are for a show in January," I tell him, like he doesn't know that already.
"That's the real surprise!" Brooklyn replies, throwing his arms out as though he's finished a demonstration of some sort. "We're staying through Christmas!"
My mom comes up behind him, yawning. "Isn't that wonderful, dear?" she asks me.
"Yes," I say, stunned. "Uhm, Brock too."
She blinks up at me, sleepily, "Hmm?"
"I mean, can Brock stay through Christmas too?" I ask her. Brock pinches my side hard, but I ignore him.
She seems to consider for a second, but that is really as long as it takes before she says, "Of course, dear," and swans past us, planting quick kisses on the tops of our heads before disappearing to her room. "Good night."
"Night, Mom!" Brooklyn calls up and then says to me, "Sleep tight, baby bro."
"You too," I say quietly, glad the hall light is off, so no one sees my face turn red.
Brock seems like he's in a daze, so I have to lead him up the stairs to my room. Lenox is curled up asleep outside, but stands at attention once I approach. Good dog.
The door closes behind us and Brock just stares at the floor.
"She said yes," he mumbles. "Just like that.."
"Well, I wouldn't have invited you if I thought she'd say no." I'm not an idiot, Brock Foster.
"Your mom is so nice.."
I can't argue with him there, so I just say, "Let's go to bed."
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, uncertainly.
"Just get in," I insist.
"It makes you uncomfortable."
"It doesn't."
"Does."
"Brock," I demand firmly, "Get. In."
"No!" he almost shouts in answer. I freeze where I stand, in the process of crossing to drag his dumbass over here. "You feel bad for me, now, I get it. But I really don't want your pity, Hollywood."
Hollywood. This kid.
"I don't pity you, you idiot," I tell him, relaxing now that I know the source of his apprehension. "I sympathize with you."
He scoffs. "What's the difference?"
"The difference is: you're my friend. So let me take care of you, and quit being so fucking stubborn."
Of all things, he tenses up, arms crossing tighter over his chest and inhales sharply. But then the tension ebbs and he turns pliant all over again.
"Fine," he complies, and starts to take his clothes off. I don't turn away, but I try not to focus too much on anything as he sheds all but his black briefs. And if he happens to be packing heat, I'm certainly not interested. He climbs in under the sheet I'm holding up, and I let it fall over him. We're both disgusting from playing Ultimate, but I shuck off my shorts and crawl in beside him anyway. I hear Lenox paw the door, but ignore him for now. He whines, like he knows, but I'm surrounded by the smell of sweat and grass, and why the fuck is that so comforting?
The second I hit the light, his arm encircles me and drags me back, and it doesn't remind me of Gary pulling me close, or make me have to count to ten and calm down. This isn't about me anyways, because right now, he definitely needs this. And it's not cheating. It's platonic, manly cuddling.
I immediately start dozing off, feeling safe and warm.
Sleeping safe and warm translates to very different feelings in dreams, apparently. I wake up harder than I've ever been in my life, with very vivid images of Leslie on her knees in front of me, still fresh in my mind. But also there was Gary in there somewhere off to the side, always telling me it wasn't right, and saying weird Gary things like how I shouldn't do my homework without wearing my cheaters. He's even easier to ignore when I'm awake, though.
What's less easy to ignore is Brock's arm around me right now.
I extricate myself carefully, trying my best not to disturb him, and slide off the bed onto my tiptoes. I sneak across to the door and turn the handle slowly until I hear the soft click of it opening and turn sideways so that I can slip through without pushing it to the point where the hinges squeal.
Brock turns in his sleep, but doesn't wake.
I shut the door silently behind me. Stealth level: 10.
Until I trip over this dumbass dog laying in the middle of the hall and nearly faceplant into the stairwell. I catch myself on my hands, sending a jarring pain up my elbow all the way to my teeth. I grind them, holding perfectly still and listening to see if I woke anyone up.
Looks like I didn't. Lenox doesn't even lift his head, but he does fart a slow stream of air at me as he dreams on. Gross.
I get up as swiftly as I can, trying to avoid the noxious stink, and use long strides to evade the creaky floorboards as I pass Brooklyn's room on the way to the bathroom. But then I stop. Because I hear him talking to Mackenna, and it must be like four in the morning. My curiosity and my dick battle for dominance momentarily, and come to the decision that I will forever have the bluest balls in recorded history. Dog farts kind of kill the mood anyway.
I creep closer and press my ear against the door gingerly.
"—this bullshit. I knew I shouldn't have trusted you to keep this professional!" comes Mackenna's furious murmur through the wood.
"What does that even mean?" my brother asks, equally enraged. "How is this club any different from the last ten we've been to? All nothing, Jude. Nothing."
"The soccer coach," he says acidly. "Davis, or whatever you called him."
"Davies," Brooklyn corrects, almost so quiet that I miss it.
"He's my old partner, Brooklyn," Mackenna sounds more like he's pleading now. "The fact that he's even here just proves that—"
"That we shouldn't have come to see my family?" Brooklyn prods defensively. I can picture his fists against his hips the way mom does it, just from his tone. "You've made it pretty clear you don't want to be here, Jude."
"Well, you certainly shouldn't have invited your underage brother to that gig."
I feel a swell of annoyance at that, mostly because Mackenna just seems to be looking for any reason to hate me. Which is stupid, since he doesn't even know me. I push off from the door and look down at the half-chub that was once demanding my immediate attention. I sigh.
Nothing really worth giving up the glorious jerking session I'm going to miss out on now. Still have to shower, so I make my way over there, no longer trying to be quiet.
I don't linger because I've showered so much in the past 24 hours that I feel like every extra minute might flay off all my skin. I bump into my mom on the way out, and she seems surprised to see me up to say the very least.
"Good morning, sweetheart," she says, brushing a hand across my cheek affectionately as she makes for the stairs. She doesn't look at me, though.
"Hey, mom," I say, rabbit soft. She's in her hospital gear, which means she'll be gone for another week no doubt. "Off to work?" I ask, even though I already know.
"Just until Monday," she tells me, a bit regretfully, concentrating on her feet while she descends. "Then I'll be on call for the holiday, but I'll be home."
"Love you," I tell her over the rail when she reaches the front door. She blows me a kiss and leaves. Just like that.
So now I'm stuck in this house with the band, my siblings, and Brock Foster all weekend.
And it's only Thursday. Fuck.
Maybe it's bad form to ignore pitiful houseguests, but I steer pretty clear of Brock Foster outside of the classes I have with him. Also, I banished myself to my mom's empty bedroom, so no more manly cuddling. To be honest I haven't really eluded him on purpose, but it's difficult to make time for him when I'm too busy actively avoiding Gary and sneaking around with Leslie behind everyone's backs.
It's Friday afternoon and I'm at her house for the first time since her 12th birthday. It's still mostly the same massive, three-story set-up I remember. But it's not as empty since her dad remarried.
She's out on the patio, texting away amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke and I'm inside because I don't dig the fumes. Also her stepbrother (whose existence I was not aware of until today) is here. And staring unabashedly at me across the flat expanse of marble island that separates us. I'm doing my best to not notice or snap at him and his weirdness. I know him from school. Junior or senior, I forget.
"So you're her boyfriend?" he asks me eventually, and his (British?) accent catches me off guard.
"Yeah, I guess," I answer eventually.
I'm wishing I were the kind of person who hides from unwanted social interaction behind my electronics right now. I ponder pulling out my phone and pretending to text people.
He speaks again before I can decide. "You don't know then?"
With a blunt and hard-hitting irony, I'm reminded of Mackenna. I flit my gaze to him briefly to see whether he's judging me or just asking.
"We're going out," I tell him. "I don't know if she's into labels like that."
He nods in refreshingly non-backhanded understanding. "Like how she's not into calling me her brother."
"Stepbrother," I correct him a little rudely. But it seems like we're at that point in our acquaintanceship.
"She says that too. But that's not really what I meant, you know."
I'm about to voice my confusion, because no, I don't know, when the screen door groans in protest and Leslie finally walks in, wafting the smell of Camel 9's about the dining area and kitchen in one. I hold my breath for a moment, more to allow the pungent scent to dissipate from the room than anything else.
"Go away, Fred," Leslie says as soon as she spots him, "You're making Chris uncomfortable."
"I thought he had some weird film star name," he says, but he's scooting his stool back and jumping off.
I find I'm smiling despite myself. "Sort of," I agree, but he's leaving, apparently having lost interest in me and my name.
"Sorry," Leslie sighs, taking his spot across from me, "He's such a freak." Her voice is hoarse and I wonder how many cigs she just smoked during the 15 minutes she was out there.
"He's pretty strange, yeah," I laugh nervously. Her honey brown eyes are painfully pretty and I can't stop looking at her body in her cheer uniform that she has yet to change out of. So perfectly defined, it's eerie. "Where is he from?" I ask idly.
"He's from here. His family is from Wales," she answers, curtly.
"You wanna, like, go to dinner or something?" I ask her to change the subject, since she seems agitated the more we talk about him.
She makes a face and parrots, "Dinner?" like it's something distasteful. Weird.
I falter, "Or, you know, not dinner?"
Leslie sighs. "Can we just go to your place and watch a movie?"
"Why my place?" I wonder, thinking of the band, Mackenna, and Brock Foster.
"Because Fred's mom is going to be home soon."
"Ah," I say, though this doesn't give me one bit more understanding, and then grudgingly, "Sure."
I drive us there in Manhattan's car, and it's slower and more awkward than my drive home with Brock Foster. I hit every red light, and she's silently scrolling through her phone. The radio stations out here are crap and Manny's mixes are worse, so I have zero distraction from the not-talking that's happening right now.
I realize I'm slightly offended that she didn't want to go out on an actual date with me. Is she afraid we might run into Gary? I wait for a light to change two blocks away from home and drum my fingers idly against the steering wheel, trying not to think about it. But every time I glance at her I wonder why she agreed to date me. What are we even doing? We don't hold hands. We don't cuddle or kiss.
Shut up, Hollywood, it's been like two days. Three?
Three.
God, I'm being such a lady about this.
The light finally turns green and I race through it to get through the next one which is already yellow. Leslie starts and looks up at the sudden and swift movement.
"Wanted to make the light," I offer in explanation, parking alongside the curb of my house, since the driveway's taken up by the band's van, and now Brock's truck.
She smiles at me and I feel some of my tension melt when my seatbelt comes off. She likes me. I'm being stupid over nothing, like always.
"What were you thinking so hard about?" she asks once we're on our way inside.
"I wasn't," I tell her, opening the door to find the living room somehow blessedly empty. Where is everyone?
"Sure were quiet," she comments, eyes flashing disbelief.
I feign a little more outrage than I feel, "I was quiet, 'cause you were quiet!"
"Speaking of quiet.." she says, peering around me into my apparently empty house. "Aren't you supposed to be harboring the entire state of Georgia in here? Where is everyone?"
"I guess they went out.."
"And left their cars?"
I shrug. Wouldn't be unheard of. The park's in walking distance, and so are a few restaurants.
"So we're alone here?" she whispers, and I look down to find her closer than she was before.
"S-Seems that way.." comes out as a low hiss, mostly out of surprise, and sort of out of caution, because I'm halfway sure that we are probably not alone in this house. No one is ever alone in this house.
She's grinning sly and leaning up towards me, and why the hell didn't I ever actually check how tall we were in comparison? Fuck you, Gary.
If I was worried about lack of physical affection before, it was unnecessary, I see that now. She has me backed up against the arm of the couch, and snakes her arms up my shoulders to tip me backwards. She dives to follow me down and lands looking down at my face, straddling me and bracing her upper body on her bony elbows. One is digging painfully into my shoulder, but my brain doesn't register that it matters at all.
"What happened to watching a movie?" I try to laugh, but it comes out breathless. Bizarre thing is that I wasn't expecting this, actually.
She reaches above my head and out of site and the TV clicks on. The noise in the background calms my buzzing nerves, and I remember how this goes like someone lifted the curtain and put on a play to show me. That's right. She didn't want the intimacy, because her brother was there. And now that there's no one here, she does. That's normal. I'm just the freak who's been felt up in public lately and forgot feeling up etiquette.
My hands anchor themselves on her slender waist, just above her jutting hipbones and she leans down to press her lips to mine. At first contact, I know something's wrong, but my brain is foggy, and blood is already rushing south, as she grinds down against me. Some sour taste on her tongue, muted by the cigarettes, but it's there. What is that?
But that falls into the background of my mind as her hand caresses the flat of my stomach, fingers hitching up my shirt to scrape her nails softly against my ribs. Her other buried in my hair, and tugging gently. I sit up and pull her closer, smashing our mouths harder together, brushing my hands up her thighs and resting them at the hem of her skirt, waiting. She pushes her hips forward, making my hands hike up her skirt when I keep them in place.
Seems like the go ahead if there ever was one.
Oh, but this is my house we're talking about. And no one is ever alone here. The distinct creak of my own bedroom door fills me with sudden dread. I've never felt more desperate to not be in a situation.
Leslie hears it too, because she pauses, looking as horrified as I feel. The question is: why, though? The only person I'm hiding this from is Gary, and he's definitely not in my room. Only one person would be. I recognize the heavy weight that particular knowledge drops on my chest as guilt, and realize that all my manly cuddling must not have stayed as platonic as I had anticipated, because if it had, I wouldn't feel like such a dirty whore right now. I'm lamenting this steamy makeout already as i poke my head around Leslie's shoulder to see onto the landing.
I already know it's Brock, it has to be. Fuck, how did this happen?
-end chapter-
a/n: anyone else think hollywood should just change his name to blueballs townsend? my poor baby. you'll get it someday, don't worry.