Missing the bus should not make Josh Washington's eyes prick with angry tears, but today, it does. The next bus isn't due for another twenty minutes, and he just spent the past hour talking about his daddy issues. The last thing he wants is to sit here and stew over them. He slumps onto the empty bench, tugging his hood up and burying his hands in his pockets.

When his fingers brush over his phone, he doesn't think about calling Chris. He just does.

Chris picks up on the second ring. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," Josh says. He tries to cough the tightness out of his voice, but it doesn't work. He's not in the mood to hide anything anyway, but he stills feels a flush of embarrassment at how smallhe sounds. Chris' tone shifts immediately.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I missed the bus," Josh says. And I was up all night, and my skin crawls whenever someone looks at me, and I think if I hadn't missed the bus, I might have walked in front of it.

"Do you want me to come pick you up?"

"Nah," Josh says, even though he does. He wants to blink and find himself home. He wants the sick, heavy pit in his stomach to dissipate. Most of all, he wants Chris. "Just wanted some company, I guess."

"Okay," Chris says. He must know Josh well enough to understand that this isn't about missing the bus, but he doesn't push it. Instead, he launches into an enthusiastic speech about some new tech development at work. Josh hardly understands a word of it, but he presses the phone closer to his ear. He's grateful for the sound of Chris' voice, even if Chris is miles away.

God, he's so good, Josh thinks, not for the first time. Too good for you, a needling voice adds—also not for the first time. Josh shoves the thought aside to focus on Chris. He hums every so often to let Chris know he's there and listening.

In the end, twenty minutes feels like no time at all.

Chris doesn't stop there, because when has Chris ever stopped when he's supposed to? Josh steps onto the sidewalk to find his boyfriend leaning against the bus sign. Chris dips his head to hide a sheepish smile and then meets Josh's gaze. They face each other as the bus rumbles down the street.

"Our apartment is two blocks away, you know," Josh says.

"Oh, is it?" Chris asks, feigning surprise. "I'd gotten a bit lost. I was hoping you could walk me back."

"I don't take in strays," Josh says, even though he's the stray, if there ever was one. Chris has a steady job, a loving family, close friends. Josh has two dead sisters and enough medication to kill a horse. Anyone else would have called Josh on his shit longbefore this dumb joke, but Chris doesn't. He holds out an arm instead.

"Have pity," he pleas. Josh does, but not before swatting Chris' arm away. They fall into step next to each other, and Chris looks at him with exaggerated hurt.

"I'll walk us home, but I'm not taking your arm," Josh says. "I have a reputation to maintain. I can't be seen fraternizing with a nerd such as yourself."

Chris makes a scandalized noise and brings a hand to his chest. "Joshua. I am many things, but I am nota nerd."

"There's a back door, by the way," Josh continues, undeterred. "At our apartment building? You can go in that way. We can't go in the same door, obviously."

"Obviously," Chris gripes, not sounding angry at all. He's always been bad at this; Josh can carry a ruse forever, but Chris cracks right away. He's too genuine for his own good. Josh sneaks a look at him, and sure enough, Chris' face has already broken into a smile. Chris catches Josh looking and nudges him with an elbow. Josh nudges back, harder. They continue until a particularly forceful nudge almost knocks Chris off the sidewalk.

After that, they're quiet. Their fingers brush as they walk, and Chris hooks his pointer finger around Josh's. Josh lets him, and slowly—finger by finger—they hold hands. When they reach the apartment building, Josh forgets to make another joke about the back door. They go in together.

Their apartment is small and clean, thanks to Chris. Josh figures money is the only thing he's good for, so he offered to dip into his substantial savings. But Chris insisted on paying half, and that half wasn't much. Chris is tidy, too. While Josh leaves a trail of unwashed clothes and dirty dishes in his wake, Chris cleans. On the weekends. For fun. It's blasphemous, if you ask Josh.

Chris locks the door behind them, and Josh notices two beer bottles on the coffee table in front of their couch. They're still cold, condensation just beginning to bead on the glass. (Not to worry, though; there are coasters underneath.) A plate of nachos sits next to them, and Josh's mouth waters at the sight. Has he mentioned that Chris is also a great cook? Because, yeah—he is.

"You're the best boyfriend ever," Josh announces. He kicks off his shoes and beelines for the couch. It's soft and squishy, and Josh settles in. He tucks his feet underneath him before diving into the nacho plate. They're loaded with tomatoes, onions, peppers. In other words, food Josh wouldn't eat unless it was smothered in warm, delicious cheese. Which it is. God bless this boy. Left to his own devices, Josh is a microwaved Hot Pocket at 3 a.m. kind of guy.

"I know," Chris says with nonchalance. He sits next to Josh. Their legs touch, and Chris stretches an arm over the back of the couch. Josh wants to curl into Chris' side, but the food is so good. Food first, snuggles second, Josh tells himself. He shoves another loaded nacho into his mouth and ignores the smaller plates that Chris left out. Josh has no need for such formalities.

Chris shifts his arm to rub Josh's back. The movement is slow and soothing, and Josh releases a muffled hum as he chews.

"Did you eat today?" Chris asks. Josh's hum cuts off, and he chews slower to bide himself time. He shrugs.

"Sort of," he says, when his mouth is no longer full. Sort of is half a piece of toast that Josh couldn't bring himself to finish. He hates wasting food, but this morning the bread stuck to his throat and refused to go down. Convinced he would choke on the next bite, Josh tossed the half-eaten piece of toast in the trash. He buried it underneath the top layer so Chris wouldn't see.

Chris' hand leaves Josh's back, and he retreats to the kitchen. He returns with a glass of ice water and places it on the table in front of Josh. "Make sure you drink enough," Chris orders.

Josh's lips turn up in a smile. "Thanks, mom," he says, taking the water anyway. He hasn't been drinking enough, he realizes now as the water slides down his throat. He finishes half the glass before setting it back down.

Chris exhales a weary sigh. "Please leave parental terms out of this relationship. You know that's not my thing."

"You don't have a thing," Josh reminds him. "You're a big vanilla nerd."

"A big vanilla nerd who makes great nachos."

Josh can't argue with that. "Fuckin' true," he agrees. He grabs a nacho overflowing with toppings, surprised it doesn't crumble under the weight. Chris helps himself too, and after a few minutes of silent munching, Josh asks, "So what's the plan?"

"I got us some movies," Chris says, shrugging. "Saw, Cabin Fever—you know, the usual pick-me-ups."

"You know me so well." Josh's voice teases, but he means it. He plants a greasy kiss on Chris' cheek, and Chris wipes at the spot before getting up to turn on the TV. Josh is in the mood for flesh-eating diseases, so they start with Cabin Fever. Chris flicks off the light and grabs an armful of blankets from the closet before returning to the couch. They pile the blankets over their legs, and the nachos don't distract Josh for much longer. Soon, he's ready for the second item on his itinerary.

Josh leans back against the couch and casts an expectant glance at Chris. Chris doesn't notice. His eyes fixate on the screen, and his arm no longer rests on the back of the couch. He's completely closed off.

Well, that's no good, Josh decides. He nestles against Chris, resting his head on Chris' shoulder. Chris makes a small noise of acknowledgment and kisses the top of Josh's hair. It's nice for about five minutes, and then it's not enough. Josh moves in closer. When Chris still does nothing but spare him a glance, Josh falls to his last resort. He bumps his head against Chris' shoulder—once, twice, three times—and whines in the back of his throat.

"What are you, a fucking cat?" Chris asks, finally turning his attention to Josh. "Use your words, Washington."

Josh shakes his head.

"You can't?" Chris asks.

Josh shakes his head again.

"And why is that?" Chris prompts.

"You said it yourself," Josh explains. "I'm just a cat." Chris snorts a laugh, but he relents, raising an arm to let Josh in. Josh curls into Chris' side, and Chris' arm settles around his shoulders. His fingers trail along Josh's upper arm. Josh shivers despite the weight of their blankets. Chris has already refocused on the movie when Josh tugs on his shirt and says, "Thanks."

"My pleasure," Chris says, likely used to such shenanigans. Josh has never been good at this—understanding his feelings. Putting them into words. Talking about them. He can flash Chris a toothy grin and say fuck me without thinking twice, but his throat would sooner close than let him say, Hey, I want to cuddle with you right now.

It's one of the many things he should bring up with his therapist, and one of the many things he doesn't.

Josh reaches forward to grab his beer and pops the top with an opener that lies nearby. He passes the opener to Chris, who does the same, and they clink their bottles in a toast before each taking a sip. Josh suggests they drink every time someone's skin comes off. Chris accepts the challenge.

Their bottles are empty in fifteen minutes. Realizing the game is a one-way ticket to alcohol poisoning, they abandon it. Chris gets up to grab them each two more beers, and he hands one to Josh with a preemptory, "Slower this time."

Josh obeys, but by the time the credits roll, he feels pleasantly buzzed. He turns to Chris with a slow smile. "What'd you think?" he asks.

"I think I might puke," Chris says. Josh doubts it, but he does look paler than usual.

"So you're not interested in the sequel then?" Josh teases.

Chris' head falls back against the couch, and he groans. "Why can't we just watch Love Actually like normal couples?"

"Normal couples don't want Love Actually in September," Josh notes.

"It's timeless!" Chris snaps, his voice cracking a little. Josh laughs—both at the assertion and Chris' voice. "Really, though, we can watch whatever," Chris amends. "All these years of exposure have hardened me. I'm sure I'll survive."

"I have faith," Josh confirms. Chris doesn't move to change the movie, though. His hand reaches for Josh instead, and he plays idly with Josh's fingers. Josh watches, his hand limp in Chris'. After a moment, Josh says, "Sorry you have to pull me out of a hole, like, every time I go to therapy. I'm pretty sure it's supposed to have the opposite effect."

"It's different for everyone," Chris says. "And I don't have to do anything. I want to."

Josh looks at Chris with a solemn expression. "Gay."

Chris flicks Josh's hand away, clucking his tongue. He props his feet on the table and stretches his arms above his head. He nestles deeper into the cushions, and Josh shifts onto his side. He slides his arm across Chris' stomach and rests his head on Chris' chest. Chris' heart beats steadily underneath him, and Josh's eyes flutter closed. Chris' chest vibrates underneath Josh's ear as he hums a quiet tune.

The sound brings back a memory, and Josh's eyes open. "Can I show you something?"

Chris' humming stops, and Josh regrets that he didn't wait longer to ask the question. Chris studies Josh's face for a moment, and then he says, "Sure."

Josh orders Chris to stay put and retreats to their bedroom. Tucked under a blanket in the closet is a record player that no one has used in—God, Josh doesn't know how long. He tosses the blanket aside and leans down, running the tip of his finger lightly over the needle. It's old and familiar, and Josh almost forgets that he isn't in his house anymore. A pile of records lies next to the player, and Josh carefully scoops everything into his arms. He makes his way back to Chris and flips the light on.

Chris watches intently as Josh sets the player on the floor and plugs it into the wall. Josh flips through the record collection, refreshing his memory, and still Chris doesn't move. Josh looks up and cocks his head. "Come here," he says.

Chris complies and settles on his knees next to Josh. He peeks over Josh's shoulder at the records, and Josh realizes that Chris isn't going to talk. As always, he's waiting for Josh to make the first move.

"This was my dad's," Josh says. Chris rests his hand on Josh's shoulder and squeezes.

"Yeah?" he prompts.

Josh nods. "When Hannah and Beth and I were little, we used to dance in the living room. Dad never let us touch the records, but he put them on whenever we asked. Sometimes he'd carry one of us on his shoulders and dance, too." Josh huffs a quiet laugh. "Hannah went ballistic the first time he picked her up like that—she was so little, and he was so tall. She covered his eyes by accident, and he almost knocked over a table."

Chris laughs, but it's quiet too. "I never would've pegged your dad as an old records guys. Or a dancing guy."

"Where do you think I get my moves?" Josh jokes. "He loved this shit. He'd spend, like, a stupid amount of money on some rare record. He never wanted to use them, but we always goaded him into it. I imagine it was hard to say no to us—we were annoying as hell."

Chris smiles knowingly. The Washington siblings subjected him to enough antics that Josh doesn't need to elaborate. Then Chris' brow furrows, and he asks, "How come I don't remember this? I've been to your house a million times."

"You know how it goes," Josh says, shrugging. "Once Beth hit her head against the ceiling when she was on my dad's shoulders, and he said we were too heavy anyway. Then my dad got busy, and even when he was home, he was too tired to do anything. We just…faded out of it. Someone moved it to the basement one day, and that was it."

Chris' next question is predictable, so Josh answers it before he has a chance to ask. "My dad gave it to me, sometime after Hannah and Beth disappeared. We'd barely talked—I mean, I was barely talking to anyone—but he brought it into my room one night. We didn't say much. I thanked him, and he left. I haven't touched it since, to be honest."

Chris' hand trails down Josh's back, and he kisses Josh's shoulder. Josh knows what Chris is going to say now, too, but he doesn't stop him. "You brought it with you, though. That's something."

"That's exactly what I thought you would say. You and my therapist would get along well, you know that?" A flush of embarrassment overwhelms Josh as he realizes how transparent he's being. "Sorry—can you tell what the topic of conversation was today?"

"It's okay," Chris says. "I'm glad you told me. I always wondered what was under that blanket."

"You never looked?" Josh asks. It's hard to disguise the surprise in his voice. He wasn't sure why he'd wanted to keep the record player to himself, but he had. He scoured the apartment for a good hiding spot when they first moved in. All their space was shared, though, and in the end, the blanket in the closet was the best Josh could do. He resigned himself to the fact that Chris would peek sooner or later, and left it at that.

"Dude, of course not," Chris says. "I figured you'd show me when you were ready."

Josh is struck once again by how good Chris is. He feels the pressure of big, important words build up in his throat. When they reach his lips, all that falls out is, "Oh."

"Just trying to respect my bro's space," Chris says with a shrug. He leans closer and nicks a few records from Josh's hands, which have gone surprisingly limp. "Let's see what we've got here."

He peruses the records in his hands, and when he's done, Josh passes him the rest. "No eighties dance music?" Chris laments. "Bummer."

Josh smirks. "The Washington's are a classic rock family."

"I can see that," Chris says. "What do you want to put on?"

"Oh," Josh says again. His skin prickles as the embarrassment returns full-force. "Nothing, if you don't want to. I was just—showing you, I guess."

"What?" Chris asks incredulously. "You tell me this story about how you guys used to jam, and you expect us not to jam? You know me better than that, Josh."

"I also know that you're a horrible fucking dancer."

A spark glimmers in Chris' eyes, and he looks—well, he looks the way Josh imagines he looks when he's up to no good. Chris hands the stack of records back to Josh and says, "You know what? I changed my mind. Put on a slow song."

Josh's mouth open in surprise, but he recovers quickly. "What makes you think I want to slow dance with you?"

Chris quirks an eyebrow. Josh isn't sure if this new, mischievous Chris is arousing or alarming. "I have a secret of my own," Chris says. He leans in closer, and Josh feels Chris' breath on his neck. "If you dance with me, I'll tell you."

Okay, definitely the first thing. Josh pulls an Elvis Presley record out of its sheet and places it carefully on the turntable.

"Alright, you asked for it," he announces. He sets the needle, and the player's built-in speakers crackle to life. Josh adjusts the volume, and the opening notes of "Can't Help Falling in Love" float through the air. Chris chuckles as he recognizes the song, and Josh looks up to find that he's already standing.

"May I have this dance?" Chris asks in a stuffy, formal voice. He reaches a hand down to Josh, and Josh takes it. Chris pulls him up and adds, "I'll lead."

"Oh, you will?" Josh teases. Chris just nods, and then—miraculously—he does. One hand settles on Josh's waist, and the other takes Josh's hand in his own. Chris' feet move in a perfect step, and Josh is so dumbstruck that he forgets to move his free hand. Chris glances at it, hanging limp at Josh's side, and he instructs, "On my shoulder."

"I know," Josh says hurriedly. He does as Chris says, and Chris leads him as Elvis Presley's voice fills the room. Josh trips on his feet a few times, a combination of surprise and tipsiness and the fact that he's never danced like this before. It's stupid and sweet, and Josh stares at Chris in astonishment. Chris averts his eyes, biting at his lip. His bravado seems to be gone, but they keep moving.

Chris slows to a halt as the song ends, and their hands fall away from each other. The following silence presses on Josh's eardrums. Finally, Chris meets his gaze. "That," he says, "is my secret."

"What—what the fuck was that?" Josh asks, too shocked to be more tactful.

Chris' cheeks redden. "Do you remember how neither of us went to prom?"

Josh frowns in confusion. "Uh, yeah. Because prom is—"

"For boring straight people, I know," Chris finishes. "But, like, I really wanted to go to prom. With you. I couldn't dance for shit, though, and there was no way I was getting out on that floor unless I knew what I was doing. I guess I wanted to—to impress you, or whatever. So I pooled together my allowance money and took dance lessons. You remember those doctor's appointments?"

"You little shit," Josh says. "I knew you weren't sick."

"Yeah. Those were dance lessons."

Josh's brain is so busy processing this that he almost forgets a vital piece of information. "Dude," he snaps, "you never asked me to prom."

"I know!" Chris says. "You kept saying how dumb it was, and I thought there was noway you liked me, so I just—I chickened out. I totally chickened out."

"And you've been hiding this ability for years?"

"For years," Chris confirms. "Don't worry, though—it's all lame shit like this. The other horrific dancing you've seen is, regrettably, genuine."

"I would've gone to prom with you," Josh says, "even if it was lame."

"You say that now..."

"I'm serious. I would have."

Josh isn't bullshitting. Another secret is how long he pined for Chris before they were together. The only people who knew about it were Hannah and Beth, and as far as Josh was aware, they took that to the grave.

Josh moves back to the record player and re-sets the needle. The music strikes up again. "Teach me," he says.

Chris grins, wide and goofy. "Okay."

They come together once more, and Chris walks him through the steps. Their heads knock every so often, with both of them staring down at Josh's feet. But Josh gets it, and he manages a few rounds without losing his step or tripping on himself.

"The beer probably isn't helping," Josh notes.

"Probably not," Chris agrees. "You're doing well, though."

"Suck-up," Josh mutters.

When the music stops, they don't separate. Josh closes the small space between them and loops his arms around Chris' waist. He leans his head on Chris' collarbone. Chris' hand settles in his hair, and they're quiet for a long time.

"How are you feeling?" Chris asks eventually.

"Better now that I know your deepest, darkest secret."

"Is it safe with you?"

"Oh, not at all."

"I thought not."

Josh pulls back to look at Chris, and he finds those words in his throat again. His fingers grip a handful of Chris' shirt. "Chris, I—" he starts, and then can't get the words out. He wants to—so, so badly—but it's like he's forgotten how to say them. He trails off hopelessly, and Chris lifts his chin.

"It's okay," Chris says. "I know." He kisses Josh, and the effect is instantaneous. Warmth spreads through Josh's body, and for the first time all day, he feels light. He stands on his toes and pushes harder against Chris' mouth, trying to pour his unspoken words into the kiss.

They pull away, and Josh asks, "You know what I was actually going to say?"

"What?"

"I was going to say, 'Chris, I kinda want more nachos.' I'm really relieved you share my enthusiasm."

Chris plays along. "How could I not? They're delicious."

"Mmm," Josh agrees, though he isn't thinking about the nachos anymore. He kisses Chris again, short and sweet and with the slightest bit of tongue. He nudges Chris in the direction of the couch. "Come on," Josh says. "I want to suck your face."

Chris raises his eyebrows. "Eloquent."

Josh mmms again, tired of words, and tugs harder at Chris.

"Wait," Chris says. "We need new mood music." He sinks to his knees and removes the Elvis Presley record, placing it back in its sleeve. He settles on a different album, and the needle is almost in place again when Chris pauses. "Maybe you should talk to him."

"I thought we weren't bringing parental terms into this relationship, Cochise," Josh warns.

"It's been a long time. It might not be a bad idea."

Heat boils in the pit of Josh's stomach, and he can't talk around this anymore. "Chris, we blew up his fucking lodge. I mean, because—you know—but alsobecause I lost my goddamn mind and thought it'd be a good idea to torture my friends. To torture you."

"I forgave you," Chris says.

"You're different. You've always been different."

Chris drops his head with a sigh and sets the needle. Music fills the silence, and Chris stands. He brushes Josh's cheek with his thumb. "It's your decision, Josh, and I'll support you no matter what. I'm just saying—I doubt it's the lodge he misses."

He moves past Josh, and Josh remains frozen until Chris calls him over. He settles himself in Chris' lap, but the feeling is gone. Chris leans his forehead against Josh's. "I ruined your face-sucking mood, didn't I?"

"A little," Josh admits.

"You know what always makes me feel better when I'm down?"

"What?"

"Love Actually."

"Shut the fuck up," Josh says, and then makes him.

Josh's head is all over the place, but few things clear his mind so well as Chris' kisses. He loses himself in Chris' skin, and by the time he comes back to the world, the record has long since ended.

Josh wakes to the smell of pancakes, and he knows today will be better. Chris has moved the record player to the kitchen, and The Rolling Stones drift from the other room. It's not Chris' style, but Josh appreciates his willingness to experiment.

Josh rolls over on the couch and reaches toward the table for his phone. He's missed a few texts since yesterday—most of them from his mom, and one from Sam. He swipes past them for now and pulls up his contacts. He scrolls until he finds Dad, and his finger hovers over the screen.

It's been so much easier not to deal with this. To placate his mom with yes, I'm taking my medicine and yes, I'm going to therapy. To ask how's dad? like there hasn't been radio silence since that night. It's the elephant in the room during every conversation, but Josh has always chosen it.

Josh might've chosen it with Chris, too, if Chris hadn't stormed his way back into Josh's life. That hadn't been easy either, but here they were. Slow dancing. Spilling secrets. Having something closer to a real life than Josh ever thought possible.

He takes a deep breath and presses the call button.