Han Shot First, It’s Important #2
"Pretty! You have a pretty face! With the freckles and the… the eyes and the cheekbones—" I'm gesturing vaguely at his face now. "That's relevant data!"
"Max." He's trying to sound firm, but I can hear the edge of panic. "You need to sleep."
"NO." I grab his arm. "No, you're not listening. This is important." I can see him trying to logic his way through this. That's what Leo does when he's stressed: he tries to find the proof, the elegant solution.
But I'm not a math problem. I'm his best friend, and I had a brilliant idea.
"If I was building the optimal first-time partner," I tell him seriously, waving my finger around, "I'd build you. Except you're already built! You're pre-built! Like… like open-source! Available! Compatible hardware!"
"Did you just… did you just compare me to hardware?"
Blast. Wrong metaphor.
"I mean, you're perfect," I try again. "Wait, did you say hard?" I'm holding my sides as the giggles have my stomach rolling a little. He said hard.
"But, no… yes! The perfect solution. We should have sex." Then I try to pull him onto the bed with me. Except Leo's pulling the other direction, trying to get me to lie down on the bed, not pull him onto it, and we're basically wrestling now.
"Come on," I say, "get in—"
"I'm trying to get you to bed, not in bed with you!" That's funny. That's really funny. I'm giggling, and Leo's face is getting red and—
Blast. "You're all flushed," I say, distracted by this new data point. "That's—"
"MAX." He finally gets me sitting on the edge of the bed. Actually sitting. "Stop."
But I'm reaching for him, trying to pull him down next to me because we need to talk about this. "Just sit. We can discuss the logistics—"
"We're not talking about this while you're drunk!"
"But—"
"No." He sounds stressed. Why does he sound stressed? This is a great plan.
I try a new approach. "You're not getting it," I tell him.
"There's nothing to get, you're drunk—"
"I'll show you."
I reach up, grab his face with both hands, his skin is warm, and I can feel the barely-there stubble, and his eyes go even wider… And I kiss him. It's not a perfect kiss. I'm drunk, and my coordination is shot, and I'm probably getting his nose as much as his mouth at first, but then I adjust and—
"Hmmm." I groan. Mmmmm. I think.
His lips are soft. Really soft. He's frozen for half a second, completely still. Wait. Wait, that's bad. That's bad, right? Miscalculation. Huge miscalculation. Holy motherboard, I just— Then he kisses me back.
His hands come up to my waist. When did they get there?
He's kissing me back, and it's good, it's so good, and I make this small sound that I immediately want to take back, except he makes a sound too and…
He pulls back, breathing hard. Staring at me with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted, completely still, like someone just yanked a variable out of an equation he thought he'd solved.
I'm smiling. Triumphant. "See? Perfect!"
"Max." His voice is rough. "No. You're drunk."
"So?" I'm still holding his face. When did I start doing that? "Still perfect!"
"We can't… I can't…" He pulls my hands away gently and takes a step back. "No." And then he starts pacing. "Okay. Okay." He's running his hands through his hair. It's getting really messy… that's distracting. "We're not doing this."
"But—"
"This is a terrible idea, Max."
"It's a great idea—"
"You're drunk. I'm sober. That's not… that's not okay." I'm watching him pace. He does this when he's working through a proof. Back and forth, hands moving, talking himself through the problem. Except I'm not a problem. I'm a solution.
"And you're my best friend," he's saying. "What if you regret this tomorrow? What if you hate me tomorrow?"
"I won't—"
"We can't risk our friendship for… for…" He waves his hands vaguely. "And your first time should be special! With someone you actually want!"
"I want you," I say, but it comes out quieter than I meant. He doesn't hear me. Or maybe he doesn't want to hear me.
“Not because you're drunk and some asshole grabbed you, and you're not thinking straight—"
"I'm definitely not straight," I interject.
"That's not what I—" He stops. Breathes. Starts again. "Your first time should be with someone you choose. Really choose. Not because you're scared or drunk or—"
"I'm choosing you," I mumble, but the room is starting to spin a little, and I'm having trouble following his logic. His hair is really messy now. Has Leo always had such nice hair? It's wavy. I never looked at the wave before.
And his hands, they're moving while he talks, all these gestures, they're bigger than I remembered. When did Leo's hands get so big? That's… that's relevant information. For science. For the plan. Definitely for the plan.
"—and we live together," Leo's saying. "With other people. What would we tell them?"
"The truth?" I offer.
"And what if it's bad? What if I'm bad at it?"
"You wouldn't be—"
"I can't be the reason you have a bad first experience, Max. I Can't." He's really worked up now. More worked up than I've seen him in… ever? Even during finals week, when he had three exams in two days, he wasn't this panicked.
It's kind of cute. Wait. Leo's… cute when he's panicked? When did that happen? Have I always thought that? Or is this new information? My brain is trying to process, but it's like my processors are running through honey.
"Those are all bad reasons," I tell him, or try to. The words are getting heavy.
"What?"
"Your reasons. They're bad. My reasons are better."
"Max—"
"Has anyone ever told you you're pretty when you panic?" The question falls out. "Because you are. Should tell you that more."
He stops pacing. Stares at me. "…What?"
"And you're smart. So smart. Smartest person I know. Don't tell Sebastian I said that." I'm listing sideways. When did the bed start tilting? "That's why we're perfect. You think, I build. Wait. No. Other way around? Huh?"
"Max, lie down before you fall over."
"'M fine." I'm not fine. The room is definitely spinning now. "'M just… thinking."
"You need to sleep."
"But the plan—"
"We'll talk about it tomorrow."
Tomorrow. That's… that's good, right? Tomorrow, when I'm sober and can present my data more clearly. Tomorrow, when Leo's had time to process. Tomorrow.
"Promise?" The word comes out smaller than I meant it to.
The line between his brows eases. His shoulders drop half an inch. "Yeah. I promise. Tomorrow, when you're sober, we'll talk."
"Okay." The tension drains out of me all at once. "Okay. Tomorrow."
"Now will you please get in bed?" I try to maneuver myself horizontally. It takes more effort than it should. Leo ends up having to help, lifting my legs onto the mattress, arranging pillows.
His bed is really comfortable. Did I know that? His bed is the best bed in the house. Better than mine. More blankets. He pulls said blankets over me, and I'm already sinking into the mattress, into sleep, but I manage to grab his hand before he can walk away.
"Stay?"
He tilts his head, one corner of his mouth tugging up despite himself. Like I'm a particularly confusing physics problem he can't help but be fond of anyway.
"It's my bed, Max," he says, amused.
"Ha!"
Right. I'm in his bed. That makes sense.
I hear him moving around, the rustle of clothes being changed, the click of the light switch, the toilet flushing. Then the bed dips and he's climbing in on the other side. We do this sometimes. Bed-sharing. When one of us can't sleep, has a nightmare, or doesn't want to be alone.
It's nice.
He's warm next to me, and I can hear him breathing, and my brain is still sluggishly processing the plan, the perfect plan, but it's getting harder to hold onto thoughts. Sleep is pulling me under. But I had something important to say.
What was it? Something about… Leo… and… Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow. He promised. That's good. That's…
The last thing I hear before sleep takes me completely is Leo's voice, quiet and resigned…
"Please don't puke in my bed."