Work Text:
Detention. Wonderful. This time he sort of deserved it (only sort of, though). But really, if he's going to get detention, he wishes it were for smearing Dwayne across the lockers instead of just tussling with him a little bit. Raditch could have at least let him take a few teeth out.
Sadly, the world doesn't work the way he wants it to, so instead of jumping out a window and making a break for it, Joey Jeremiah makes his way into detention. It's pretty empty. And yet. There's somebody sitting at his desk. He must not have noticed the zits 4eva carved into the wood (or else he thought it was somebody railing against acne).
On a second glance, the guy is nauseatingly familiar. He'd know that patchy beard and those stupid suspenders anywhere.
Still, he bides his time until the teacher heads out for her smoke break. No use in getting extra detention time for Claude Tanner. Once she's out the door, though, he pounces. He makes a beeline across the classroom and stands over him.
Claude has his head down against the top of the desk— classic mid-class nap posture. He doesn't look up.
Joey clears his throat.
Claude doesn’t move. Asshole.
Joey's about to give himself a coughing fit when the guy finally glances up. His glasses left little red marks on his nose.
"Hey,” Joey says. “You're 'Clawed,' aren't you?"
"Claude." Rhymes with toad. Fitting.
"Yeah, whatever. You're in my seat."
"I don't see your name on it."
"Right here." He runs his finger over the carving.
"Your name is 'Zits'?"
Great, he's not just a girlfriend thief, he's a comedian. A horrible one. "Get out of my seat."
Claude gives him a pinched look and stands up. "I don't even know who you are."
"How many guys' girlfriends do you steal?" Joey spits. He sits down at the desk and kicks his feet up.
Claude squints at him as he slithers his way over to the desk one over. "You're Caitlin's ex."
"I have a name."
"'Zits?'"
Joey laughs sarcastically. "Joey Jeremiah. Of 'Zits' fame." Really, it's The Zits— the the is important— but that would go over this guy's head.
"Never heard of you."
Ouch. The guy said it so casually, too. "Caitlin never said anything about us?"
Claude laughs once. He sounds like a horse.
Joey stares down at the graffiti. Did she really never care about the band? That can’t be right. She went to half their practices; she had their single on tape from the very beginning. But then again, she did say her stereo ate the tape and ruined it, and never took the replacements he offered her. And she never really seemed interested in hearing about their video plans, no matter how cool or elaborate or not sexist they got. She didn’t even want to sit on the hood of Clutch’s car, fully clothed and wearing an anti-pollution t-shirt. She never wanted to do anything for the band, really.
Claude snorts. “Caitlin only cares about Caitlin.”
“What’d you do, take her to some stupid French movie?” Actually, she’d love that garbage, but he’s not going to admit that to this loser.
“Shut up.” Claude stares out the window. His voice breaks a little. “Leave me alone.”
If this guy starts crying, he’s walking out. “Oh, come on,” Joey replies. “Nobody actually likes French movies. It’s not personal.”
Claude keeps staring out the window. “She didn’t like anything I liked.”
Good. Who would? he thinks. But the voice inside his head sounds a little less pissed off at Claude’s entire being. Damn, even his own brain is taking Claude’s side. The guy just sounds so pathetic. It’s like kicking a puppy. A puppy with cancer. So he lets Claude talk.
“Tell you what. Stop me if this sounds familiar.” Claude leans back, a smug expression appearing on his face. “You meet Caitlin, and at first she seems like the perfect girl. She’s beautiful; she’s witty; she likes everything you like. You’d do anything just to make her look at you.”
Despite himself, Joey finds himself nodding along.
“And then, one day, you do something she doesn’t like. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you weren’t thinking. And it just… stops. It’s like none of it was ever real. She never liked foreign films or protests or… you.” Claude sniffs once, dramatically. “It’s like we’re all just gum on the bottom of life’s shoe.”
Well, Joey thinks, at least it wasn’t just me.
But still, this guy looks dangerously close to bawling. He needs a distraction. “I like that. ‘Gum on the bottom of life’s shoe.’”
“You like being gum?”
“I like the line,” he replies. “I’m kind of a songwriter, so, you know. I like that kind of stuff.”
Claude looks skeptical. “You? What do you write?”
“Rock, duh.” Of course, he can’t resist the urge to brag— and, hey, maybe bragging a bit will help this guy chill out. “I’ve got a demo kicking around somewhere if you want to check us out.”
He expects Claude to go, oh, no thanks, I only listen to new-wave techno-metal from Romania. Something like that. He seems the type. But no. “Sure, I’ll check it out.”
Joey’s so shocked he forgets how words work for a moment. “You mean it?” he squeaks.
“Sure. I’d be interested in seeing your artistic vision.” Is that sarcasm? Joey can’t tell.
Joey nods and picks through the crud in his backpack (it’s like a fossil dig in here), finally unearthing a battered demo tape. “Hit me up. Tell me what you think.”
And then he actually does. What’s up with that?
Joey’s at his locker when suddenly, like a shark, Claude materializes next to him. (Okay, maybe not like a shark. A shark that can teleport.)
“Here’s your tape back,” he says. “I listened to it last night.”
Joey puffs up. “Oh, yeah, what’d you think?”
“It’s really… existential.” Claude looks weirdly pensive. “What does everybody want? And really— I don’t know if you thought about it this way, but to me, it read as a scathing indictment of our capitalist system— ‘they’ll take your money and never give up,’ that sort of thing. It came across like a classic sixties protest song— almost proto-punk.”
Joey nods as if he understood what any of that meant. “So you liked it?”
“Yeah, I liked it! It really cheered me up.” Claude grins at him. He’s not as freaky-looking when he smiles. Actually, on the whole, he’s not bad- looking, just weird- looking. Begrudgingly, he can almost see why Caitlin would go for him. If he squints. “Do you have anything else?”
More? Nobody’s ever asked him for more of the Zits before. “Uh, no. We only have the one song.” He slams his locker shut.
“Well, hey,” Claude yells after him, “you want some help?”
Joey stops in his tracks.
“Help writing stuff. I mean, I write poetry, but poetry’s just the music of the soul.”
He doesn’t want to look at Claude. A few compliments and a bit of mutual bellyaching don’t make up for stealing Caitlin away. Even if maybe stealing her was for the best. “I don’t think so, man.”
“I’m writing a breakup poem. A poem about loss and heartbreak.” Claude shrugs. “I figured, if we’ve both been burned… we could probably write great lyrics about the fire. You know what I mean?”
Snake and Wheels are going to be mad, but honestly, they could use some fresh… talent? Some fresh input, he mentally amends, talented or otherwise. “Sure, I guess,” he replies. “We’re practicing in the band room after school.”
“I’ll be there!”
Joey doesn’t walk Claude to the band room. He can read— he’ll find it. And Joey’s still not sure what he’ll do or say when the other Zits find out about this scheme.
So of course when he pushes through the double-doors of the band room, Claude’s already there, and the Zits are avoiding him like he’s a blob of nuclear waste. Claude’s lingering by the door, scribbling frantically in a notebook, while Wheels and Snake are all the way at the other end of the room, shooting daggers at Joey as soon as he comes in.
“Hey, Zits!” Claude says as he comes in.
Joey laughs sarcastically. “Hey, ‘Clawed.’”
Claude grins and shoves the notebook in his face. It’s filled with blocks of loopy cursive. “I got a burst of inspiration last night— should we talk about it now?”
“Uh…” Joey glances across the band room. Snake is making a come here gesture, glaring at him angrily enough to melt his face. “Hang on a second, dude.”
He makes a beeline across the room. If looks could kill, the school would’ve been nuked to hell by now. “Hey, guys.” He offers the two of them a nervous smile.
Wheels points across the room at the culprit. “What’s he doing here?”
“Isn’t that the guy who stole Caitlin?” Snake adds. “Is he stalking you or something?”
“Well, uh, funny thing is…” He glances behind him. Claude is back to scribbling. “He’s actually a fan of the Zits?” That’s overselling it, he knows, but it needs a bit of overselling.
“We don’t have any fans,” Wheels protests.
“Well, now we do. I sold him on a demo yesterday in detention.” Now here comes the explosion. “And he’s sort of interested in, uh… helping with the album?”
“He what.”
“He wants to write a breakup song! Caitlin dumped him too.”
Snake throws his hands up. “Of course! And we’re the only band in the world so we need this weirdo to come here and collaborate with us! Jeez, Joey, he looks like he wants to stab me just for looking at him wrong.”
“You said you wouldn’t make decisions like this without us anymore,” Wheels adds.
“Guys, just give it a chance. Some fresh blood could really mix things up in here!” He lowers his voice. “The guy was basically crying all over me. I couldn’t say no. And we need another song."
Snake, softie that he is, looks like he’s warming up to the idea. He glances down at Wheels, who’s still trying to stare a hole in the side of Claude’s head. “You promise he’s not gonna flip out at us?” he asks Joey.
He can’t promise anything like that, really, but he still says, “Yeah, sure. He’ll be cool.”
Wheels sighs. “Yo!” he yells across the room.
Claude shuffles over and sticks his hand out. “Claude Tanner.”
“Yeah, whatever. What’s this about you writing stuff for us?”
Claude flips his notebook open. “Well, normally, I’m a poet by trade, but I was really interested in your creative energy, so I was thinking we could maybe set some of this to music.”
Wheels doesn’t really look reassured. Not that Wheels ever looks that chipper, but he stares at Claude, stone-faced and pissy-looking. “All right. Shoot.”
Claude pulls up a band chair and stands on it. “Now I didn’t come up with any music, so it won’t sound as good as it will later, but here we go.” He clears his throat and starts to recite:
“You stomped on my heart / like a cigarette / and you were my big regret. You hurt my heart / you stabbed my soul / you threw me in a deep dark hole. I sit alone / I cry and cry / you hung me out and let me dry.”
Finally, mercifully, Claude puts the Zits out of their misery. “I started a second verse, but I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with ‘succubus.’”
Joey can feel Wheels glaring at him.
“Well,” Joey says, “I liked it.” And it’s not even a lie this time. Sure, it needs a little rewording and maybe some power chords behind it (if Snake’s willing), but there’s something there. He’s embarrassed to admit he’s felt similarly about Caitlin— the experience of getting dumped, or at least getting dumped by her, must be the same no matter what.
“How are we supposed to put it to music?” Yep, Wheels is looking pissy. “It’s got no rhythm.”
Snake’s a bit more reluctant to shit-talk it. “Maybe it needs a little editing.”
“Editing?” Claude shrieks. He hops off the chair. “Would you ask Shakespeare to edit one of his sonnets?”
“I mean… probably people did that, yeah.” Snake shrugs. “Look, Claude, I’m not saying it’s bad…”
“I am!” Wheels cuts in. “You can’t expect us to play to this.”
Claude scowls at all of them. “That figures! I should’ve known you were a bunch of sellouts!” To Joey, he says, “Don’t you want to make music that really… I don’t know, that really speaks to the human condition? Music that has something to say?”
But he doesn’t wait for an answer. “See you around, Joey,” he says, and stomps out. The door slams behind him.
Caitlin’s not happy. Of course— she’s never really happy. He watches her in Walfish’s class occasionally (not in a creepy way, but just out of habit) and she’s usually chewing on the end of her pencil or asking a question.
But on the way out of class, Claude’s hanging around, looking like someone just punched him in the face. “Hi, Caitlin,” he whimpers. She struts right past him. Of course. He should have known she’d act like that with other guys. It’s a bit of an ego boost, honestly. At least until he sees Claude, sulking.
He passes him. “Hi, Claude.”
Claude smiles a little, even though he’s all crumpled. “Hey, Joey.”
“Sorry about, uh, yesterday.” He slings his backpack over one shoulder. “It wasn’t anything personal.”
Claude sniffs. “Not everyone understands the nuances of poetry.”
He sure as hell doesn’t, but he gets feeling like a squashed cigarette, particularly around Caitlin. “Listen, I was thinking…” He sighs. “If you still want, we can write a song. Just us two.”
“You mean it?”
“Sure, why not?” Truth be told, he can’t get the poem out of his head. Or, really, he can’t get the mental picture of the poem out of his head, with Claude standing on a chair and belting out his thoughts for all the world to hear (whether they wanted to or not). He wishes he could do that without worrying about selling it to people first. Like he’s got to get other people to buy into his own feelings first.
“You don’t think your friends will be mad?”
“Nah. They’ll come around when they hear it.” He can probably write something worth listening to if he noodles around on the keytar long enough— add in a drum machine and they’re golden. “Plus, I’m the producer here. I mix everything.”
“You do?” Claude smirks. Annoyingly, he’s got a pretty nice smirk. “That’s not surprising.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Claude shrugs. “You seem more committed to experimentation. Artistic experimentation, I mean— trying new things.”
“Look, Claude, buddy,” Joey says, sighing, “we can collaborate and stuff, but you’ve gotta lighten up on the Zits, okay? Those guys are my friends.”
He scoffs. “How can they be your friends if they don’t respect your art?”
“They like my, uh, art. It’s yours they don’t get. And it’s just ‘cause they don’t know you. Don’t take it so hard.” As he turns down the hall, he adds, “You know, Snake plays classical guitar. He can probably talk music and ‘high art’ with you if you want.”
For once, Claude doesn’t have a smart-ass retort to that. Whenever anybody calls him on his weirdness, he gets that sad-puppy look again. Joey can’t decide if it’s cute or obnoxious. Claude’s staring down the hallway, off into space (Joey can relate— is that how he looks all through English class?).
At the other end of the hall, Caitlin’s just barely visible, walking in the other direction. Her skirt is swishy. Ever since she and Claude broke up, she’s been dressing more like herself and less like an East German nightclub attendee. Maybe she’d been borrowing Claude’s clothes. It stings a little seeing her like how she used to be, all pink and flowery. It’s like somebody’s poking his heart with a pencil.
“Does she always brush you off like that?” he asks, mostly to Claude.
Claude sighs heavily.
A new thought pops into his head. “You’re not, uh… You’re not trying to win her back with poems or something, right?”
“Me?” Claude blinks. “No, I wouldn’t try it. I don’t think Caitlin really appreciates the arts.”
Joey remembers how she scoffed at the pivotal “bikini mud wrestling” scene of Teen Academy IV and has to agree.
“Besides,” Claude continues, “I don’t want to spend my life wrapped around her finger.”
The one-minute bell rings.
“Well, I’d better get to class,” Claude says. Dimly Joey remembers that the guy’s an upperclassman— he’s got a few hallways to trek through. “When do you want to meet?”
He would rather eat dirt than explain to the guys why he’s not just hanging out with Claude again, but walking home from school with him. Not that Claude would be a bad guy to walk home with, any more than any other loser from school, but he’s got a reputation to protect. So they’ve got to work something else out. He rips a page out of his algebra notebook (hopefully he didn’t need any of those equations) and holds it up against a locker.
His hand twitches a bit. He stares at the lines.
Claude leans in, almost resting his head on Joey’s shoulder. This guy needs to learn the meaning of personal space. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m, uh…” He clears his throat. “Giving you my address. It just takes a bit.” He winces and braces for the inevitable Joey, I can barely read that! At least with Caitlin, that was always kind of inevitable. Or Raditch.
But Claude just pushes up his sleeve and holds a pen in his other hand. “Oh, just tell me. I’ll write it down.”
Joey coughs— what, no lecture? No skeptical look?— and recites it. Claude scribbles up the length of his arm and grins. “Check it out, my first tattoo!”
“Nice!” Honestly, Claude looks like the type of guy to have spiderwebs or crucifixes or vampire bites tattooed up and down his body, but then again, Joey’s not really interested in thinking too much about the specifics of Claude’s body. “All right, meet me at my place at five!”
Claude slings his backpack over one shoulder and heads down the hallway. “See you then, Zits!”
Jamming with Claude isn’t too bad, really. Without Snake and Wheels there breathing down their necks or begging for expanded parts, it’s easier to bounce ideas around. Nobody’s there to tell them that’s a dumb idea, Joey. We’re not having a three-minute keytar solo. With Claude, he can have as much of a solo as he wants. Claude calls their sound avant-garde, whatever that means.
It becomes a weekly thing. Tuesdays after school, when Claude doesn’t have work (“I don’t like participating in the capitalist system, but sometimes I want new clothes”), they descend into Joey’s basement and go through various possible songs. Mom brings them Capri-Suns. It’s a pretty sweet gig.
Claude’s starting to get the hang of the whole “writing lyrics” thing. Sure, his lyrics are pretty unpleasantly graphic. Joey had to veto some weird line like my heart was hit by a train, which didn’t really go with the light piano accompaniment he’s been working on . And Claude doesn’t really understand that songs need a melody yet, so performing this thing is gonna be a bitch. An avant-garde bitch.
And they don’t really see much of each other at school. That’s not bad, on the whole, even though he does find Claude and this still-untitled song taking up a stupid amount of space in his brain where algebra should be going. He’s not as much of a crybaby as Joey’d expected, but he does get sniffly when he brainstorms. Less over time, though, as he gets further and further from Caitlin dumping him. Time heals all wounds, or something like that.
But the guy does write a lot of weird mushy stuff. He’s got two extremes, apparently: either "super in love" or "super out of love, and pissed about it." Either one could make for good music, so Joey doesn’t worry about it too much. He likes to hear Claude talk about his writing, honestly. More than he expected to. He still doesn’t understand most of what Claude’s talking about, but it’s nice just listening to him talk about something he likes. Caitlin never gave him that courtesy, and he doubts she gave it to Claude, either, unless she wanted to hear about mushy poetry or whatever. But Claude’s kinda fun when he’s having fun, even if his idea of fun is weird.
And it’s cool hearing Claude go off about his deep dark feelings or whatever. Snake or Wheels wouldn’t be caught dead writing about anything like that, which is too bad. It’s cool getting to write music with a minor chord, for once. And talking about it seems to help him lighten up. He even cracks a few jokes— though most of them go over Joey’s head.
So really, he’s not surprised when Claude starts catching him after class or in study hall. He’s more surprised that he doesn’t mind. It’s nice having somebody around to just shoot the breeze with. And sure, he’s got the Zits for that, usually, except when they’re fighting with each other (God knows why) or when they’re busy. Claude’s never too busy. He’s got barely anybody else to hang out with.
It’s almost like having Caitlin around again. Except Claude doesn’t yell.
Speaking of Caitlin, she doesn’t seem too happy with the arrangement. She comes up to him in the hallway once after Claude heads off to class. She looks pretty sour (but then again, maybe that’s just how her face looks). “Joey, what are you doing, hanging out with that weasel?”
He’s heard the story of their breakup in agonizing detail about a billion times by now, and he finds it kind of hard to blame Claude. Even if he can be kind of weaselly. Sure, he shouldn’t have run, but he would’ve been pretty royally screwed if he’d been caught. And Caitlin got off a bit scot-free anyway. “We’re collaborating,” Joey says.
Her face scrunches up. “What, are you gonna go tag a building too?”
“We’re writing a song.” He’s a nice guy, so he doesn’t tell her it’s about her. Then again, don’t most girls want a boyfriend who’ll write songs about them? Just not breakup songs.
Caitlin gawks at him, all googly-eyed. “Are you serious?”
“Pretty serious.” He smiles at her, sincerely, and adds, “If you want to hear our stuff, we’re cutting a demo tape right now— I can bring you a copy.” He knows she won’t want it, but it feels good asking.
She laughs sharply, like a bird. “No, thanks.” And she leaves, like she’s left time and time again. It stings, like a paper cut— well, not like a paper cut, because those hurt like a bitch— but like a nick from shaving. He knows it’ll stop stinging in a second.
Joey Jeremiah is definitely losing his mind. He knows this because he agrees to not only hang out with Claude, and not only go to a movie with Claude, but go to a French movie with Claude.
Granted, it started mostly as an offhand comment, and Joey sort of invited himself along. But that’s how he ends up going to most things.
“We have to reschedule tonight,” Claude says quietly during study hall. “I’m going to a screening.”
“Oh, cool,” Joey replies, though it’s not really good news because Wheels has something going on with his social worker or whatever, so it’s not like he and his guys can really hang out. Maybe Snake would be down to get some fries, but he’s sort of lost touch with what’s going on with the grade-ten tests. And Snake’s always studying. “Who’s going with?”
“Actually, I was going alone. I invited Joanne but she didn’t like the last one.”
He knows Joanne vaguely— she’s in his special ed class, isn’t she?— and he’s seen them together a little, but they’ve never really spoken. “How come?”
“She said the nudity was ‘degrading to women.’” Claude scoffs. “I tried to get her to see the artistic significance of it, but she didn’t get it.”
Joey didn’t really hear much of anything after nudity. “You tried to take your girlfriend to a porno?”
“Shh!” Claude glances around. “She’s not my girlfriend. And it’s not a porno. It’s art.”
“Nobody told me French guys put naked chicks in their movies.”
“It’s making a statement.”
“Sure,” Joey replies, “and that statement is, ‘I like looking at naked chicks.’ I mean, I don’t blame ‘em.”
“Look,” Claude sighs. “You can come too, if you want. It starts at six— it’ll prove it to you.”
He’s tapping his pencil now, trying to think. Finally, he comes up with a decent solution. “How about this? We make it a double feature. I come to your French movie, and you come to a real flick.”
Claude shakes his hand. “Deal. If I can borrow the car, I’ll pick you up at five-thirty— otherwise, I’ll call.”
The double feature ends up being Contempt (an appropriate title, given how it makes Joey feel) and Ernest Goes to Jail. Contempt is such a scam— it’s not sexy at all, except that they get to see Brigitte Bardot’s ass for about two seconds, but the rest of the movie is so boring that it’s not even worth it. But Claude enjoys it. He gushes about it, and it’s fun watching Claude gush about things he likes.
As they sit in the theater, shoveling in popcorn and not really thinking about much, Joey realizes this is sort of like a date. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.
They cut the mixtape on a Saturday night. It’s raining, so it’s good that everything’s already been recorded. There’s a lot of thunder outside.
Mom’s not exactly psyched about Claude being over all the time. Apparently, she offered him a turkey sandwich once and he went off about animal cruelty or some shit. He’s not invited back for dinner, but she begrudgingly lets him hang in the basement. Which suits them just fine, because downstairs there’s a busted-up black-and-white TV, a stash of Cheetos, and a reel-to-reel, which is everything a band needs to be great. Or a duo.
Joey’s finally got the music perfected. There’s a lot of arpeggios going on, which is where you make the few chords you know sound like a bunch more notes. Claude’s late, though.
Around five-thirty, Mom shrieks like she found a mouse in the garbage disposal. “Joey!”
He runs up the stairs, and thankfully there’s no mouse carnage, although Claude does look like a drowned rat. He’s trying to wipe the raindrops off his glasses on his equally-soaking frilly shirt. (Do they make windshield wipers for glasses? Someone should make those.)
“Sorry, Mrs. J.” Claude leaves his sopping combat boots on the mat and undoes his little topknot thing. His hair sticks onto his face, and for a second, Joey pictures him shaking his head like a wet dog, getting rainwater everywhere. “My dad said I can’t borrow the car anymore.”
“Aw, that blows,” Joey says.
“Yeah, and it’s because somebody spilled a Slurpee all over the front seat…”
“—I said ‘my bad’!”
Mom raises her eyebrows. “Yes, well... Joey, can you get him a towel?”
So he does, and Claude ends up wrapped in a fluffy rubber-ducky towel, still shivering.
“You want a dry shirt?”
Claude looks him up and down— he’s definitely not subtle about it. “It’d be a crop top on me.”
“Hey, no short jokes.”
So Joey ends up digging through his closet, looking for something big enough for Claude, He’s not really that much taller than Joey, and he’s skinny like a beanpole, so really anything should work. “Do you have a favorite color?”
“Well—”
“Besides black.”
“Oh. Then no.”
Joey grabs a pale red Hawaiian shirt off the rack, the one Snake wore in their video, and tosses it over.
Claude squints at it and peers over into the closet. “You know what I like about you, Joey?”
“My stunning good looks and charm?”
Claude doesn’t laugh. “You’re an individual.”
“Thanks... I think.”
“It’s true!” Claude replies. “I thought you were just really committed to an irony thing.”
“I don’t know what ‘irony’ is.”
“I can tell.” After fiddling with his eighteen belts and skull suspenders, Claude strips out of his pirate shirt. So of course Joey checks him out, just to see what he’s working with (he doesn’t stare, though; that would be rude, and maybe get him slapped). He’s about a seven, though the goth thing is working for him. And Joey could probably take him in a fight, too, which is always good to know.
“What are you staring at?”
Shit. Guess he wasn’t that subtle. He plays it off with a shrug. “I’ve got a shirtless guy in my bedroom and you expect me to not look?”
Claude pulls the Hawaiian shirt on. He’s turning a little pink, like raw chicken. “Oh, I, uh, didn’t know you swung that way.” He stares at his hands as he buttons up, as if the buttons are going somewhere.
He shrugs again. Claude’s gone on enough unsolicited pro-gay-rights rants that Joey figured he’s at the very least pretty cool with all that. “I’d try anything once.”
“Sounds like you.” Claude chuckles. “How do I look?”
“Like the Addams Family on vacation.”
That earns him another laugh. “Perfect.” He’s still raw-chicken color, not full-on blushing. And he’s standing pretty close— that personal space thing is becoming a problem again. Or maybe it’s not, because it’s not too bad standing close to Claude. The Joey of three months ago would probably slap him for that, but it’s true.
And Claude’s looking at him kind of funny.
“What’re you staring at?” Joey smirks.
“Your stunning good looks.”
“Be serious,” he says, hypocritically.
“I am serious.” He grins in that sneaky sort of way he has. “I like you, Joey.”
“I like you too,” Joey replies, a little unsteady, because the boundaries of “liking” and “liking” are fuzzy and weird now, and he neither knows nor cares where he falls anymore. Didn’t he used to hate this guy?
Well, that doesn’t matter now, anyway. Claude leans in and kisses him.
He quickly overcomes the initial shock, the shock that’s not so much huh, I’m kissing a dude but oh my God, somebody wants to kiss me?! And when he gets past that, it’s pretty nice. It’s a bit like kissing a fish (a fish with a beard)— kinda sloppy, a bit too slimy— but on the whole, worth repeating. Different from kissing Caitlin, of course, but in a mostly good way, the way fries are different from pizza.
There’s no real fireworks, strictly speaking, and he’s not swept away in a typhoon of love or any of that kind of thing. But it is always nice to get kissed, especially by a seven-out-of-ten guy who’s really pretty cool when you get to know him. Maybe he’d be down to give it another shot, or make out or cuddle or something— after they cut the demo, of course.
“So,” Claude says, “what do you think?”
He grins. “Let’s finish up that tape.”
They bring the demo to school the next day.
The Zits are less than impressed.