story art by the talented Klaudix Kiddo

tying up along your coast by lily Josh knows it’s a risk, but by the time he calls Drake, he’s already put himself on the line by pitching him to the producers as though it’s a done deal. The truth is, all he knows is that Drake is in some kind of limbo where he’s not recording or touring or even really promoting anything for a few months. He’s not sure what makes him act so recklessly, but after Olivia drops out and the next two actresses crap out for various reasons, Josh convinces Jonathan that Drake would be perfect for the role, that no one else could possibly do what Drake can. “A movie is kinda the last thing on my mind right now,” Drake says. “Is it funny?” Josh lies down on his bed, watching the ceiling fan do slow shadowy turns. “It’s fucking hilarious,” he says, and then adds, “In its own way,” because Drake has a great sense of humor, but it can be very specific. “Hm. I guess I just—why can’t you send me the script?” “I told you, they’re just making a few changes. I promise, you can see it soon.” There’s a pause on the other end, and Josh can imagine Drake walking around his kitchen, scratching his head and adjusting his glasses, the ugly ones he wears when he’s home. “But you and me, together? I thought you said you wanted to get out of that rut." He sounds a bit wounded, and Josh tries to forget what Drake had looked like when he'd said it to his face. “What are the characters like?” “My character is a big loser who can’t get a date.” “Sounds familiar. What about me; am I still awesome?” “Actually,” Josh says, “You’re the most popular girl at school,” and laughs for so long that when he finishes, Drake isn’t on the line anymore. * “Since when do you hang up on people?” Josh demands later, when he isn’t finding the whole thing so hilarious. “Since people started getting high and calling me.” “That’s not cool,” Josh says, but adds, “Sorry,” because Drake can be a stickler about manners. “So, did you think about it?” “It was hard not to think about it after you spent twenty minutes saying how it was the perfect role for me.” “Because it is. It’s perfect for you, but more importantly, you’re perfect for it. C’mon, man,” he says. He’s just gotten out of the shower, long enough for Drake to cool off, and is back in bed with a towel draped over his head. “I miss working with you, and I already talked the director into thinking you’re the only guy for the job.” “I’m supposed to agree to be in a movie without having even seen the script? Do you know how insane that is? I don’t even think I’m allowed to do that.” “You’re allowed to do whatever you want! Just tell ‘em you’ve seen the script. Say that you love it.” Drake makes a long, thoughtful sound that means he’s about to be talked into it. “Tell me more,” he says. “You know I want to work with you.” Josh smiles into the phone. He honestly hadn’t known any such thing; Drake gets so lost in what he’s doing sometimes that he forgets about everything else, and it had been one thing when they’d seen each other every day, but now that it’s all up to them, there’s plenty of room for doubt to creep into every stretch of absence. “Okay, it’s like this. We’re a couple of dysfunctional New York kids, and even though I’m from the wrong side of the tracks or whatever, we somehow end up hooking up.” He knows he should be more specific about what hooking up entails, because Drake probably thinks it’s another buddy-flick, but if Josh goes into any more detail then Drake might say no and keep limiting himself to awful slapstick for the rest of his life. Sometimes, Josh wonders how Drake can be so sensitive to aesthetic beauty in music and so oblivious to it on the screen. He doesn’t expect Drake to see it right away, but he doesn’t want to take the chance that Drake would miss this opportunity. Josh has seen the vision for this thing, and Drake could be beautiful in this film. “It’s an honest, existential look at life,” Josh adds, certain he’s heard that tagline in some meeting or another. “We’re going to Sundance with this; it’s gonna show everybody what we can really do.” He hears the rustle of pages turning; the leather-bound planner Josh likes to give him a hard time about. “I do have a few months free,” Drake says. “Excellent,” Josh says, tugging the covers up to his chest and turning out the light. “And hey, did I mention we’re gonna film in New York?” * * Josh had needed Drake to say yes, but he doesn’t let himself admit it until after the fact. He’d needed this, because since the show had ended ten months ago, they’ve been co-conspirators in ignoring something they’ve shoved so far down that Josh has begun to worry Drake doesn’t even remember it, or that it hadn’t happened at all. When he gets Drake in New York and there’s no going back, Josh is going to drag it out and dust it off, because the memory is growing so old it’s beginning to ache every time he stumbles across it, and nothing to do with Drake should ever hurt. * * It had been the night before their last day on set, and everyone had been reluctant to leave. They’d all found reasons to linger, but the place was almost empty by the time Josh had gone searching for Drake. He’d found him in his dressing room, lying on the sofa they’d all but worn out over the past four years. “Staying the night?” he’d teased as he’d crawled behind Drake, pleased with the way that after all these years, their bodies could finally fit together on the long cushions. At first, he’d thought it was a joke; that Drake was going to pounce on him or pull a squirrel out of his pocket, but after a few seconds had passed, Drake was still lying there, facing the back of the sofa with some unknown hurt in the stiff line of his body. Josh had stayed, afraid of what was happening, until Drake had finally turned to bury his face in Josh’s chest, one hand on Josh’s shoulder and the other fisted in his t-shirt. He should have known. Drake could be like that once in a while; pensive and obsessive about something until it spilled over into a fit of temper or this, this sorrow that Josh hadn’t even seen coming. He hadn’t even realized what was happening until it had begun to seep through his shirt along with hot sighs of misery from Drake’s lips. It had been so controlled—Drake does everything with grace, so why not this?—but he hadn’t been able to control the steady leak of tears that had soaked Josh from shoulder to chest as they’d lain there together for a long, silent stretch of time. It had been long enough for Josh to eventually settle Drake against him without resistance, narrow shoulderblades beneath his palms and the terrible wet sounds of Drake’s unhappiness hidden, nearly secret, between them. The tears had been startling, but when Josh remembers that night, it isn’t what he thinks about. What he thinks about is how he’d been able to feel all the words Drake had been holding inside--painful, as though he might shake apart if he didn’t get them out, but how all he’d managed was to do was choke out Josh’s name a few times, drenched in apology and questions that Josh hadn’t been able to answer. Even knowing Drake as well as he had—as well as he still does—Josh hadn’t been able to guess what those questions might had been. It had been a kiss, but Josh doesn’t like to think of it that way, because it had been so different from every kiss he’s ever had. It had been a kiss, but it hadn’t been going anywhere. Instead, Drake had tried to convey some indecipherable message with the salty wet exploration of Josh’s mouth—and Josh had allowed it, let Drake touch their lips together and taste, take whatever he needed, until his breathing had evened out and he’d tucked himself back into Josh’s chest. There hadn’t been anything more to it; just Drake’s notion that it was the best way to find comfort, and Josh’s easy assent. It’s been less than a year since then, but sometimes, when he hasn’t seen Drake in a couple weeks and he realizes it’s because neither of them have made the effort, he thinks about those things Drake hadn’t said. * * After twenty minutes in a café with Drake, who nods earnestly throughout the entire pitch, Jonathan offers him the role. Josh sits back and watches the way Drake’s graceful fingers rub at his water glass when Jonathan asks what he probably thinks are difficult questions. But Drake is a pro; he’s heard them all. He and Josh have both been doing this for so long that it would take a lot to trip them up. Drake looks over the fully revised script while Jonathan shoots Josh a look that says he’s charmed by Drake, completely taken. Josh nods in agreement, but he’s keeping an eye on the sections Drake is reading, so when he says, “Yeah, I think I’m in,” Josh knows he hasn’t read any of the things that might make him balk. They’ll have to talk later, but for now they wear their grownup faces and arrange for all the proper channels, contracts and all Josh’s least favorite things about the process. Then later, when they’re alone and walking around his favorite shopping district, Drake nudges his arm and says, “It’ll be fun to go to New York. You can show me around.” “Sure,” Josh says. He’d love to, but he can’t enjoy it yet. This isn’t a done deal until he comes clean with Drake. They shop for the rest of the afternoon, half his mind working up the nerve to talk about this while the other half revels in having Drake all to himself. In the last store, Josh gives up on thinking altogether and takes at least twenty shirts into the dressing room. Each time he emerges, Drake gives the new shirt a thumbs-up, and each time, Drake is also wearing a different hat, scrutinizing himself in the mirror from every angle and generally hogging the mirror. “What does this hat say to you?” Drake asks, when Josh comes out in a black v-neck t-shirt with glittering blue patterns down each side. Then he catches sight of Josh. “Oh, hey.” “It says, ‘please, sir, won’t you spare twopence for me morning paper?’ And what do you mean hey? This is an atrocity.” Drake gives the hat a mournful look and tugs it off his head, his hair mussed, flyaway pieces catching the red-gold tones of the afternoon sun. “You know it’s not an atrocity,” he says patiently, brushing his fingers over the embossed fabric. “You know you look good.” Josh’s arms crawl with gooseflesh from the light touch at his side. “My idea of good, or yours?” Josh says, which is a little unfair, because Drake is dressed like a regular guy today, and not an extra from American Bandstand. Drake flops down on the leather sofa adjacent to the three-way mirror. He’s not looking at himself, but at Josh’s reflection, wide-shouldered and refracted to infinity in the angled mirrors. “Both,” Drake says. “Seriously. Get the shirt. And get that green one, too.” “Fine,” Josh says, and realizes as he hands over his credit card that he’s obeying half out of guilt. They really need to talk. * The next day, Drake has meetings with agents and lawyers and a hundred flourishes of his signature that ensures a done deal. Josh plays basketball with his cell phone bouncing in his pocket the entire while, convinced it’s going to vibrate and tell him the whole thing’s been called off, but later that evening, Drake shows up with a couple suitcases and his guitar, typical Drake-survival-necessities, and drags it all to the spare bedroom. “How’d it go?” he asks, even though he’d just gotten off the phone with Jonathan, who’d said that Drake was on board and ready to roll. Josh still can’t believe he’s the one responsible for orchestrating this entire future train-wreck. There is something deeply disturbing about the way he’s dragged Drake into this movie. There’s something wrong with him, like he’s some kind of psycho who lies to his friends about whether or not they’re going to have to make out with him. Josh follows him into to the living room, verging on a panic attack. “It was okay,” Drake says. He looks tired, the way he gets when he’s forced to do things that don’t interest him for long periods of time. “But I’ve got the script, I’ve got my plane ticket, and I’ve got you.” He grins at Josh so openly that Josh has to look away. “I guess you’ve got a lot of work to do.” “Yeah.” Drake kicks off his shoes and pulls the script out of his bag. “I want to sit down with this thing and actually read it. You know, it’s weird. They were so…impressed, or something.” “What do you mean?” Drake tips his head to the side, thinking. “They just seemed surprised I wanted to do it, after we’ve been working together all this time. I told them it was kind of inevitable,” he says as though it’s the logical answer, and Josh winces. Drake had told them it was inevitable that he and Josh would end up doing an onscreen romance. Josh is torn between laughing and crawling into bed for a week. “So, okay,” Drake says, paging through and reading carefully in a way he hadn’t had the chance to do, earlier. “So, you. We’re…oh.” “Kind of, yeah,” Josh says, hopelessly busted. “That sounds like something you would’ve mentioned.” “Did I not mention the fact that Steven was actually Stephanie, before they went after you for the part?” Before Josh had gone after him, and not just for the part. Drake just stares at him from across the sofa. “The most popular girl in school. Ha ha,” he says, but there’s only a faint trace of annoyance in his voice. Mostly, he looks like he’s trying to figure Josh out. “And they thought this would work?” Josh shrugs. “They’ve seen us in other stuff, man. I guess it was really easy for them to envision me going all pining and obsessive for you.” “So, what do you…I mean, do we…?” Drake isn’t even turning pages anymore. “Maybe you should just read it and get back to me,” Josh says, and heads to the kitchen to mix himself a drink. While he’s opening cupboards and pouring from a bottle of bourbon, he thinks of all the things he could say in defense of the movie. It’s about way more than that, and Jonathan understands what it’s like to grow up, to be afraid of growing up. But mostly, I’m sorry, and please don’t quit. * “So, is it the best movie ever, or what?” he says as he approaches from behind the sofa, where Drake is still curled up with the script. He hands Drake a martini he’s carefully mixed up just the way he likes it, a peace offering that Drake thoroughly inspects before taking a careful sip, as though he doesn’t trusts Josh’s skills. “C’mon,” Josh says, coming around to the other end of the sofa. “Let’s hear it.” Drake worries the corner of one page between his fingers. “There’s a lot of talking.” “True.” That’s the whole point of it; it’s a thinking movie, after all. “Not a lot of action.” “Some action,” Drake says, smirking around his glass. Josh smiles back, sitting down on the floor near the coffee table, where he puts his own drink. “A little bit.” “Dude, have you thought about this? I know you were messed up the night you called me.” “But I wasn’t messed up when I talked Jonathan into changing the entire role for you. It took a couple weeks to wear him down.” Drake nods some more, vaguely distant, but his shoes are off and his glasses are on the coffee table, which means he’s here to stay. No matter what they say now, Drake is in this with him. And Josh is ready for anything, even when Drake says, “Look, I wanna do this movie, but I don’t know about some of the things we have to do.” “The drugs aren’t real,” Josh says, and Drake rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” “You’ve done this shit before.” “Okay, first of all,” Drake says, pausing to swallow down half his drink, managing to look ridiculously elegant as he does so. Josh always feels the same, no matter where he is or what he’s doing, but it seems as though there are a dozen different Drakes, and they’re all ridiculously pretty. “First of all,” Drake repeats, licking the last of the martini from his mouth, “I’ve done making out. I haven’t like, simulated sex.” “Please. I’m the one who has to simulate everything; all you have to do is lie there.” Drake waves his hand toward the script. “Which time? It’s not all just lying there. And that’s not my point. My point is that the whole thing would be easier if it were with somebody else, no offense. Do you really think we can do that?” “We already signed contracts that said we will. And we’re professionals.” Josh has never felt less professional in his life. “That’s what they say,” Drake says, twirling his glass by the stem. This is suave Drake, whom Josh finds intriguing, but right now he’d rather be with casual-Drake, who has bad posture and cheats at video games. “I’m not saying I can’t…I just wanted to make sure you could handle it.” He throws a smirk at Josh. “Well, yeah,” Josh says slowly. “Of course you can handle it. You get to be all closed off. Cool.” “I thought that was what made me perfect for this.” “It is. Right, you are.” Maybe they shouldn’t talk about this, because Josh doesn’t think he can win a pissing contest over who’s going to have the hardest time pulling this off. “You want another drink? Sweatpants? Because this is strictly a no-argyle zone.” Drake wiggles his feet on the coffee table. “You have something against my socks?” he says, peering down at the blue and green pattern. “No,” Josh says, grudging with the admission. He just wants to feel like Drake is here, really here. They haven’t hung out all night in way too long. “But I guess you’re right,” Drake says, getting to his feet and running his fingers through his hair. “I’m gonna get something comfortable on, and—do you still have that big furry blanket?” Josh reaches behind a leather armchair and pulls out the forest green faux-fur blanket. It’s so heavy he has to carry it over to the sofa with both arms, and when Drake comes back from changing into a t-shirt and threadbare jeans, he dives onto it, rubbing his face on the fur and giving an extravagant sigh. “I missed this thing,” he says. “I can ask my mom where she bought it.” “Nah. I like yours.” Josh likes that Drake likes it. “Don’t make me check your bag when you leave.” “Fine, be that way.” Drake peeks at him over the thick corner, bound with silky thread that gleams in the light. It’s so fucking good to have him here, but Josh feels wound tight, unable to relax because he doesn’t know where they stand. “Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says. Drake just shakes his head and flops onto his back. “I get why you did it,” he says, fingering the edges of the blanket. “You do?” Josh isn’t even a hundred percent sure why he thought it would be okay to go out on a limb like that and risk his friendship with Drake, his working relationship with Jonathan and everyone else, by pushing this thing through. “Sure.” Drake shrugs with one shoulder and leans up on his other elbow to reach for his drink. “You’ve always thought you were so much more cutting-edge than me.” “No, I don’t.” “You should give me some credit,” Drake says, rolling his eyes. “I always say yes, don’t I?” Josh backs off, because that is a dangerous question. Drake says yes to Josh’s every explicit request, but there’s something else on the table, a silent unrecognized offer that’s been sitting out since Josh’s awkward tumble into adolescence. Drake may bend happily to Josh’s demands, but when it comes down to it, Drake is the one who calls the shots. * As nice as it is to have Drake around, Josh isn’t exactly sure why he’s here. He doesn’t seem at all inclined to go home. He has a few appointments, but for the most part he tags along with Josh, or hangs with him at the apartment. Josh brings him along to the commitments he can’t miss, and lets everything else slide. He doesn’t have to do basketball this week, or drinks with the guys. It’s not that Drake embarrasses him—the opposite; he’s always felt different, better, more like himself with Drake at his side—but he’s always felt the conspicuous nature of the two of them together, even at private parties, the way it amuses people, makes them think they know something about them. At least no one knows about this. Yet. “So, uh, what happened with Melissa?” Josh asks over breakfast. Drake has been staring blearily at the Entertainment section for five minutes, stirring his coffee with lazy clinks of spoon. “Nothing,” Drake says, shrugging with one shoulder. He doesn’t take his eyes off the paper. “We just, you know. It was over a while ago, but we were both too…” “Nice?” Drake shrugs again. “Whatever you want to call it. Maybe it was more like denial, because things had cooled off, and then it was basically, ‘Nice knowing you, it’s been fun.’” Josh gives him a critical once-over. He wants to know more, because he remembers how far gone Drake had been that first year with her, how everything had been different, suddenly, because he’d been in a serious relationship and Josh had still only been on a handful of dates. Back then, he’d been plagued by incessant thoughts about the fact that Drake was getting sex on a regular basis: every night, with blow jobs and hand jobs and who knew what else in between. He’d been as crestfallen as he’d been turned on, and that last night in Drake’s dressing room had been the small shred of reassurance he’d needed. Two friends don’t just kiss like that without layers of trust and affection--love, Josh thinks, even now—and it had cemented their friendship so Josh was able to let the other stuff go. “It’s way more awkward than I’m making it sound,” Drake admits. “It is not a good time.” “I bet. I just wanted to make sure you’re not fucked up, or anything.” Drake finally looks up from the paper. “Nope. Are you fucked up?” Thinking about what he’s just signed onto, Josh isn’t sure the answer isn’t yes. * Sir Ben wants to meet Drake. He insists on a dinner, and Josh doesn’t have a say in the matter. On one hand, he wants to know what Sir Ben thinks, loves seeing Drake through other people’s eyes, but something about the idea makes him uneasy, so he makes it sound optional when he mentions it to Drake, who predictably runs with it. Two nights later, the three of them are sitting at an upscale restaurant Josh has never been in, and Josh is easing the way with small talk. He’s as nervous as he’d been on his first audition, but Drake, who is wearing a suit with pink pin-stripes and a bow tie to match, is cool and smiling, as though he doesn’t know that he’s with greatness, a multi-nominated Oscar-winner. “I was the last one to get on board with this cast change,” Sir Ben tells Drake, right up front. Josh had sort of hoped it would remain in the past, something that didn’t matter. “But Josh made quite the campaign for your talents.” “Is that right?” Drake suddenly looks less ridiculous, and more like a grown-up who knows exactly what he’s doing. Josh sits back in his seat, flushed with misery and sweaty under his collar. Sir Ben takes a long drink of water. “But in this business, you learn that once in a great while, if you trust the right people, they can do great things for you. And thus, Stephanie is gone; Stephen it is.” “I think we can make it work,” Drake says. “And don’t tell Jonathan, but the scenes with you and me take on a whole new resonance this way. I think they’re more powerful; more poignant.” Josh’s heart does an alarming thump in his chest. Drake hasn’t told him any of this, but he’s right, and Josh sometimes forgets that Drake is an artist, that his music has made him as good with words and feelings as any actor. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I too had similar thoughts,” Sir Ben says, with a pleased expression Josh has never seen. “Your secret is safe with me.” Drake grins, and Josh wants to give him everything. “Yes, I think we’ll get along quite well.” Sir Ben motions for the waiter and orders a bottle of wine, which Josh supposes he’ll have to share even though he doesn’t particularly like wine. He likes sweet drinks with liquor, but has learned long ago they’re not the thing to order when you’re doing business. “After hearing Josh here go to bat for you, I’ve been very eager to meet you.” “Uh oh. He talked me up good, huh?” Sir Ben chuckles and folds his hands together. “I thought you must either be very talented, or very desperate for work. Or-“ He waves his hand. “Well, never mind.” The waiter has served them each a glass of wine, and he swirls his glass, a showy gesture, before he takes a sip. “Or what?” Drake asks. Josh wishes he’d let it go; if Sir Ben has something on his mind, he says it. If he’s thought better about saying it, there’s probably a good reason. “It had crossed my mind that our Josh’s affection might be a bit blind,” Sir Ben says. The worst part is that he says it as though Josh isn’t even there, so he doesn’t feel like he can defend himself. Even if he did, what would he say? It’s worse than meeting a date’s parents, squirming in the spotlight while everyone else is having a perfectly nice time. Drake laughs. “Nah. Josh is the first one to tell me all the ways I’m messed up, in painful detail.” “And you do the same for him?” Drake’s mouth curves up, against the rim of his wine glass. “Josh has never been messed up. He’s the one who makes it okay for everybody else to...you know.” It would make Josh’s life a lot simpler if Drake would finish that thought. Drake thinks Josh makes it okay for people to…what, to kiss him through their tears and then go on as if nothing had happened? To make people love him and then move in with his girlfriend? Because none of those things are okay; they’re just things Josh has allowed in the past because he has—according to his therapist—deep-seated unresolved issues with Drake, like Josh really needs to pay someone eighty bucks an hour to tell him that. “He’s whatever you want him to be,” Sir Ben says knowingly. “But only if he allows it. Our Josh is a noble, dying breed.” Drake blinks at him. “Uh.” “What I mean is that if he wants something enough, he can put up with anything. I know his type. He’s like me: a great romantic.” Josh doesn’t think of himself as a great romantic. Most of the time, he feels like an idiot, especially when it comes to things like that. He’ll hook up with someone and never see them again, or waste his life on someone who’s never given him more than a single, sad, bewildered kiss. Maybe being a romantic means being miserable. In that case, he’s the biggest fucking romantic in this entire goddamn town. He doesn’t expect Drake to say, “He is,” as though it’s common knowledge. “No,” Josh says, because he doesn’t like the way this is going—all about him, nothing about Drake. “No, that’s not me. I’m just about the job, man,” he says, making uneasy eye contact with Sir Ben, whom he still can’t figure out even after working with him for three months. Sometimes, he gets the feeling Sir Ben isn’t as wise as he pretends to be, and sometimes he wants to call him Ben, because there’s a certain point where the title seems ridiculous, and they’d crossed that line when they’d run through scenes where they’d cut themselves clean open for each other. Sir Ben, Josh’s ass; there’s nothing about his knighthood that keeps Josh from wanting to run, run, throw his napkin on the table and run. “So there’s no grand romance at work behind our unusual casting change?” “I don’t remember you being this much of a busybody,” Josh finally cuts in, because he really doesn’t need to hear Drake make a joke out of it; out of Josh; out of their entire fucked up relationship that’s still better than anything Sir Ben has probably had. “Are we going to order?” Josh downs his entire glass of wine in one gulp. “There’s nothing wrong with a little romance,” Sir Ben protests. “In fact, it often makes things more interesting, don’t you think?” “Definitely more interesting,” Drake agrees. “Josh?” “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I’ve never really had a grand romance, so I’m the last person you should ask.” Sir Ben shifts in his chair, toward Josh. “Why should the subject of romance make you hostile? You’re still young. You’re both still young, plenty of time for great love affairs.” “I’m not hostile; I just don’t think you should be—should be speculating like this, about me and Drake. We just like to work together, okay?” It comes out far too defensive, he can hear it even as he’s talking, and Sir Ben was right; he is being hostile. He feels hostile; cornered; like this entire dinner is all at his expense. The table is silent for a few moments, though Josh feels Drake’s stare, and finally Sir Ben clears his throat. “I apologize. It makes perfect sense that you would want to work with Drake again, after all this time. What has it been, a year?” Josh is pretty sure that isn’t an apology at all, but he nods, and Sir Ben gives him a warm smile. “Now, how are your rehearsals going? I’m sure you two have been burning the midnight oil in order to get you caught up to speed.” “We’ve got it worked out,” Drake says, with a guilty glance at Josh—or maybe he only perceives it as guilty. Maybe he’s the one who feels guilty, because they know their parts inside out, but they’ve been holding back where it really matters, holding back in a way that can really hurt them once they get to New York. “Yeah,” he says, giving a firmer nod this time. “We’ve got it all under control.” * “He was just trying to relate to us,” Drake says on the way home. He’s driving; Josh ended up having five glasses of the wine he doesn’t even like. “And you have to admit, he’s got you pegged.” “In what way?” Despite the wine, Josh feels wound tight. It’s possible that someone owes him an apology, but he’s not sure who. Drake shrugs as changes lanes, casually, with one hand. Josh remembers watching Drake drive back when they’d both been new at it and Josh had felt so awkward behind the wheel that he’d always wanted Drake to drive, just so he could watch Drake’s hands on the gear shift. “The way you are,” Drake says. “Patient, I guess. When it comes to what you want.” Josh sighs and tears his gaze away from Drake’s hands. “Whatever,” he says, and looks out the window at passing lights. “I’m not as patient as you think.” Drake lets that go, because in reality, he’s the patient one, the forgiving one, the one who can let things slide off his back. They ride in silence the rest of the way, but when Drake jerks the car up to the curb at Josh’s apartment, he says, “So, you’ve never had a grand romance, huh?” It’s not a fair question. The way he feels about Drake shouldn’t count. He’s kept it hidden all these years, so it shouldn’t be eligible to be held up and inspected for the traces of a grand romance. If it were, if they cracked Josh open, they’d see all the smooth, easy furrows of affection left there by Drake. So, yes: he’s been marked by his own ridiculous notion of love—shaped by Drake in ways he wishes he weren’t. “You’d know if I had,” he says vaguely, and climbs out of the car before Drake can ask anything more. * They’re going to kiss. It’s for the movie, but it’s still going to happen, and Josh feels it between them at the oddest random moments, like when they both grab for the remote and instead of fighting him for it, Drake yields right away, his smile turning shy. It’s there in the silences, too. Josh can feel the kiss in Drake’s heavy morning gaze, and sometimes he lets Drake feel it right back. Yeah, they say to each other a hundred times a day, they’re doing this, but when it comes to this particular thing, they don’t. Eventually, Josh has to step up and say something. “Maybe we should just practice,” he says, a couple nights before they leave for New York. He’s worried that Drake might not be ready, because what they’d told Sir Ben had been mostly true, but not quite. They can’t wait any longer on it; not if they’re going to do it right on camera. As many times as they’ve run their scenes, they’ve only walked through the dialogue, carefully avoiding any overtly sexy scenes. Everyone else had already been ready to go by the time Drake had come on board, and Sir Ben isn’t the only one making the assumption that since most of his scenes are with Josh, they’ve worked on it together. All of it. The truth is, they’ve only done the easy parts. They’ve gone over everything but the touching, which is dangerous because while there’s a good chance their chemistry could carry them through the way it has in the past, there’s every chance things could get awkward. “Practice what?” Drake has dragged the furry blanket onto Josh’s bed and crawled underneath so he can watch the eleven o’clock news. He seems destined to crash in Josh’s bed again, and Josh isn’t going to question it. There’s nothing wrong with two guys having some downtime before shooting a movie all the way across the country. “Hello, the kiss,” he says, standing between Drake and the TV, far more defensive than he ought to be. He realizes that his arms are crossed over his chest, and drops them to his sides. “Kiss?” “For the movie?” Drake flaps his hand in Josh’s direction. “I know, I know. But, why the kiss? Of everything we have to do, that’s what you’re worried about? The kissing?” “I’m not worried!” Josh turns away from Drake and looks at the TV, where the business reports are on. “I just don’t think we should go into it cold. I want to look good.” “Yeah, I see what you’re saying.” Drake sits up and lets the blanket slide into a pile of green fur. “We’re gonna have to do it sometime, so we should look like…” “Like we’re good at it. Like we’ve done it before, like we’re prepared.” “Like we’re prepared, right,” Drake says with finality, as though one of them has just managed a coherent thought. “Okay. So…” He smoothes his hair down and fishes the remote out from under the blanket. The TV fades to nothing, and Josh suddenly feels very weird about this. Now that the TV is off and they’ve made arrangements to do this thing, it seems like a bad idea to climb onto his bed with Drake. “Ready,” Drake says, and then Josh doesn’t have a choice, because when Drake pushes aside the blanket it’s practically an invitation. He settles next to Drake and wishes it were brighter in here, less weird, less like his bed. Drake has that look he gets when he’s trying to get into a scene, unfocused, teeth biting into his lip, until he reaches over his head to pat at his hair. This is what he does when he’s buying time. “Wait, which kiss?” Good question. The movie has a lot of kissing, but they should start with something easy. Or maybe even the easy stuff is too hard right now. “Maybe we shouldn’t try to do any specific scene,” Josh offers. “Maybe we could just cut straight to general kissing and get it over with.” “Okay.” Drake finally looks at him, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. If they don’t do it now, they’ll just be in limbo forever, so Josh dips his head and touches his mouth to Drake’s. He half expects Drake to pull back, or at least to flinch, but Drake is ready for it, and meets him with a soft press of lips. Josh is careful at first. Every move he makes is in response to Drake’s shy exploration of his mouth: unthreatening, close-mouthed kisses that would be fine for family viewing. Then Drake pauses for a deep breath, and when he comes back, it’s with a flick of tongue that goes right to Josh’s gut, far more exciting than it’s supposed to be. Josh figures it’s all right to open up a little just to let Drake know he’s on board, and there are a few moments where everything washes out to the wet, fleshy slide of Drake’s tongue against his. Just as the kiss teeters at the edge of something Josh doesn’t think they’re ready for, Drake pulls back with a small nervous laugh. Josh drags his hand across his mouth, but Drake presses his lips together in a way that looks thoughtful, even with the lingering smile. “I guess we already knew we could do that,” Drake says. His mouth is pretty; pink and soft, and so generous that Josh can’t stop staring. “You mean...because we’ve already done it?” So Drake does remember. “On the show,” Drake says, his eyes narrowed. So he remembers, but doesn’t want to talk about it. “Right,” he sighs, because they’ve still got New York. * It feels good to have Drake milling around on the sidewalk, waiting to shoot a scene while Josh goes over some of the last-minute changes with Jonathan. Drake probably doesn’t realize how many things have had to be switched around on his account, but Josh is still amazed at how small the changes have been, all things considered. The first couple days of taping, every move he and Drake make is scrutinized for…he’s not sure what, but he feels them watching. They’re probably looking for signs that Josh had overstated Drake’s abilities, or that their friendship is going to get in the way of their acting. Josh is well aware that there are people who think he’s too young to be mature about a role like this, but he proves them wrong when he sits on the riverbank with Drake and draws on his own nerves to kiss Drake with all the awkward blundering the script calls for. It’s funny how the two genuine kisses they’ve shared weren’t awkward at all. * Drake is drowsing on the sofa when Josh gets back to the suite they’re sharing. It’s dark, but not very late. Nevertheless, neither of them feels like hitting the city; they’d spent too long sweating on the streets all day long, working so hard at fitting their characters over their skin that there’s nothing left but a hollow exhaustion. “You get your takes?” Drake asks without lifting his head. He’s watching a biography of Audrey Hepburn, which he’s probably pretty serious about. Drake has ideas about classics, and their relevance to his own art. “Got ‘em.” Josh kicks off his shoes near the door and joins Drake. He takes the armchair with fabric far too slick to be comfortable. He’s not going to stay here long; not when there’s a king-sized bed with down covers just in the other room. “Were you waiting up for me?” “Nah. I tried to sleep, but I guess I got used to your apartment.” Josh slithers out of his chair and turns off the last two lamps. “I’m going to bed. Early day tomorrow.” Drake sits up and stretches with one arm, the remote clutched to his chest with the other. “Yeah, big day.” Tomorrow is a big day, Josh thinks as he’s brushing his teeth. They’re heading out to the beach, where they’ll shoot all his hardest scenes. His big emotional scene with Sir Ben seems like nothing compared to the rest of it. Because of the rest, he feels as though the turmoil he needs to draw from is already right there where he can reach it. Tomorrow, he’s going to touch Drake all over. “How come you get the king?” Drake complains from the other room. Josh looks at his reflection over the sink and pushes his hair back with a handful of water. His eyes are too wide; he looks like a man who is about to commit a felony. “You can share, if you want,” he says, and when he comes out, Drake is already taking up the entire left side of the bed. * They head out for the beach early in the morning, while the glow of morning is just beginning to bleed up from the dark horizon. Josh is quiet on the way out. He’s been thinking about this day ever since he’d asked Drake to do this. Even though the movie is about so much more than what amounts to a few love scenes, he can’t help but feel there’s an immense pressure attached to what they’re about to do. He and Drake break apart on the way there. Even so, he can still hear Drake’s chatter coming from a few seats back, while Josh sits alone in his seat, pretending to listen to his ipod. He’s going to keep this professional. From the beginning, he’s been holding this mantra of professionalism like a talisman that might protect him from screwing things up in any of a thousand possible ways. If he keeps things professional, then nothing can go wrong, and he’s confident of his ability to do so right up until they’re getting ready for the shower and he sees the yellow gleam of morning sun on Drake’s back. Professional, Josh repeats, his breath frozen in his chest for so long he doesn’t know how he’s still standing, professional, professional, until the word doesn’t mean anything but the flutter of panic in his chest. A lot of the crew is supposed to show up later, after Drake and Josh have shot their big shower scene, so he’s glad there aren’t a lot of people around to see him in the stupid modesty pouch that’s handed off to him as casually as a bottle of water. At least Drake has to wear one, too, although as soon as Josh is under the spray and Drake is massaging thick apricot-scented suds into his hair, he discovers that he might as well not be wearing anything. The way Drake uses his hands is very believable. In fact, his hands should win an academy award for their unhurried exploration of Josh’s shoulders, and their careful combing through Josh’s hair. He shouldn’t even be thinking this, but it feels like Drake could mean it. Then again, Drake really is a professional, which makes Josh an idiot for second-guessing his motives for following the script. None of this is real, he reminds himself, but then it’s his turn to touch, and there’s something surreal about being able to do things with gravity that in the past, he’s only been able to do in jest. This time, he takes the time to trace the line of Drake’s jaw as he moves in close, using his size for the first time to crowd Drake against the wall. Drake takes it all, and tips his face up for more. He’s kissed Drake a few more times over the past few days, even gone through with that embarrassing bedroom scene, but this is different. There aren’t any lines to worry about now, no timing, just a free-for-all for Jonathan to splice together into a sexy montage, and so for the next few minutes it’s only Drake’s mouth and sunlight and water streaming down their faces. Drake must sense the difference, too; it’s in the way he kisses slow and deep, with his hands clutching at Josh’s shoulders, slipping a few times on slick skin before he finally wraps his arms around Josh’s neck. The position puts them close, and Drake’s legs are suddenly wrapped around his waist—okay, that’s an improvisation—but at least Josh isn’t alone in this, because his stupid modesty pouch may be failing, but so is Drake’s, everything sodden and clinging and doing nothing to hide the way his erection is digging into Drake’s belly. Drake’s mouth tastes of warm water and the spearmint gum Josh had seen him chewing that morning. This time, Josh tastes as much as he wants to, holding Drake against the lattice and trying to take in as much as he can. This time, it’s nothing like the bedroom. It doesn’t matter that Josh gasps against Drake’s mouth or grinds their hips together; it’s what he’s supposed to be doing, and he’s not going to think about whether Drake is acting when he brings Josh in with his legs, a heel pressed to the small of his back. He’s not going to think about how much he wants to come or how he might actually do it right here, with Drake dripping wet in his arms. For a second he could swear he hears Drake start to say his name, and then it hits him that god, this is what Drake looks like when he fucks, this is what he feels like: restless, all sleek torso and flexing abs that rub Josh so right that when he drops his head to Drake’s shoulder and groans, the sound he makes adheres entirely to the script. The lattice digs into his hand where he holds on, hiding his face and shaking, nearly drawing blood. He’s not sure if Drake knows. He keeps going, hands fisted in Josh’s hair as Josh tries not to shudder and give the rest away, when the truth is that he feels shaken apart, as though this entire thing has been an ambush and now he’s cut off at the feet. The strangest thing is how the water keeps going and the film keeps rolling, and he still has to ease Drake down with a soft afterglow kiss, and then step back and look at his familiar face and say— “I love you.” The words stick in his throat as much as he’s supposed to pretend they do. He’d give anything for the line to be different, or for it to require less sincerity. To be less pathetic. He’s just been with Drake, and Drake is the one he’s talking to. The thing is, he’s completely forgotten what comes next until he watches Drake’s face twist with scorn as he slips out of Josh’s grasp and says, “Whatever, dude,” as though Josh has embarrassed them both. He hadn’t been prepared for Drake to be so convincing, and after that it doesn’t matter that Josh has forgotten what he’s supposed to do next, because he’s already doing it. Nothing. * As he heads inside to get dry clothes, Josh faintly hears sounds of approval from Jonathan, but for the most part, he’s detached from the entire project—at least until his next scene, which he’ll have with Sir Ben alone, thank God. He feels completely out of character, doesn’t know how he’s ever going to get back to that place where he’d been so certain that he could nail this thing. Sir Ben steps out of his path when he bangs into the beach house where they’re taping. He’s such a cool old guy, so casual no one would ever think twice about his motives when he asks for some time with Josh to walk through some lines, the whole while making it sound as though it’s he who needs the extra time. His kindness makes Josh feel worse. They sit for a while in silence. Josh is ready; he doesn’t need this; he’s professional enough to pull through any scene, no matter how he’s feeling. Still, he can’t seem to bring himself to call everyone back, to do anything but sit listlessly on the sea-stained sofa. Sir Ben toys with his hat, which is starting to look pretty grimy. “The thing about grand romances,” he says thoughtfully, “Is that they’re only visible from the present, looking back into the past, which is why so many people fail to realize that they’re even in one until it’s all over.” Josh has no idea if that’s true or not. Sir Ben tends to give him too much credit when it comes to relationships; he doesn’t understand that there’s this huge Drake-shaped substitute for all the life experiences Josh is supposed to have had. It’s not that he hasn’t had them; he’s just had them with Drake. Or, in some cases, he hasn’t had them because of Drake. It’s not as fucked up as it sounds, because he knows for a fact that Drake still won’t travel anywhere without the magic sweatband Josh had given him when they were young enough to find it hilarious, and that Drake’s “…so, what do you think?” when he introduces a girl to Josh means she’s not getting a second date unless Josh gives his okay. He’s only withheld his okay once, and still can’t believe how quickly Drake had bent to his opinion. “With all due respect, sir,” Josh says, “If you say grand romance one more time, I’m going to put my head through this table.” * * When they’re ready, Josh finds Drake out on the porch with Jonathan, sipping red drink with a straw and laughing at something Jonathan is saying, their heads bent together over a sheet of paper they both seem to find endlessly amusing. After this morning, Josh doesn’t feel like anyone should be laughing, especially not Drake. He goes cold and turns back inside, unsure why he’s jealous, or of whom. “Don’t be an idiot,” Sir Ben says, the words edged with sharp British affection, but Josh just looks at the sand-strewn floor and thinks, too late. * * “You always do this,” Drake says as soon as they get back to their hotel room in the city. It’s late, and they haven’t spoken since the eight takes it had taken to get Josh’s thirty-second fantasy. By the time they’d finished, they’d both been damp and flustered, and when it was over, Josh had scrambled away with only a cursory exchange with Jonathan. After that, there had been too many people around, and Jonathan had already been doing playbacks of the day’s scenes, eager to go over every painful detail, and it had been easy for Josh to hole up behind the house and wait for everyone to pack things away for the night. Tomorrow, there would be more of the beach. “What’s that?” Josh says, grabbing some clothes for the shower. “Whenever something happens on set, you take it so personally. Remember that episode when I had to call you a loser? You wouldn’t let me in your dressing room for like three hours.” Josh sits down on his bed, tired and gritty with sand after a day of tromping around on the beach. He knows he’s being a bitch about the whole thing, but it had felt real—Drake’s face, even thinking about it hurts—and for him, a lot of it had been real. If Drake knows him so well, then he should know Josh can’t just shake off the personal stuff. “I don’t always do it. I do it with you,” he says. That probably doesn’t help his case, but Drake stops looking through the room service menu and spares him a fond look that makes his heart do an alarming stutter. “I know. But you have to know it was just…” This is another Drake entirely; a tired, disheveled Drake that’s far more accessible than martini-Drake and rockstar-Drake. “You’re the one who asked me to do this. You knew we’d have to do that scene, you knew I’d have to say that.” He’d known it was in the script, but he couldn’t have predicted how it would all play out, or how he’d feel when it did. Josh reaches for his clothes again. “I’m not feeling particularly talkative. I’m hitting the shower.” “Wait,” Drake says, letting the menu drop as he gets to his knees on the bed. “Showering,” Josh says, and takes off before Drake can say anything else. He takes a long time in the shower, washing the smell of apricots from his hair and the sand from his feet, the crease behind his knee, everywhere it’s clung to his skin and clothes. Drake is right. He should be freaking out about the authentic grade A frottage he’d actually committed on film, but instead he’s stuck on Drake’s look of disgust from when he’d pulled right out of Josh’s slippery grasp and made it clear he was not okay with what had just happened. Or, his character hadn’t been okay with it. Not that Josh is judging, but he’s never seen Drake quite this convincing. The least he could’ve done was to find Josh afterward and let him know they were cool. * While he’s safely locked in the bathroom, he lets himself think about the easy way Jonathan had said, “I want you guys down on the beach for a few minutes so we can shoot your jerkoff fantasy scene.” In that moment, it had suddenly hit Josh what an enormous mistake he’d made by orchestrating this situation. Drake had trotted dutifully down to the beach, and Josh had followed, feet slow in the sun-baked sand, because there had been nothing he’d wanted less—and more—than to have Drake leaning over him, saying, don’t you want to touch me? as though the answer weren’t obvious to everyone who’d ever laid eyes on Drake Bell. But he’d done it. It had been his job, so he’d done it, heavy with regret, and Drake had done his part, which means that now, stalling for time in the bathroom, Josh can close his eyes and remember the way Drake had blotted out the sun as he’d leaned down over him. He can remember the lean curve of Drake’s thigh when he’d reached up the leg of his swimming trunks at Drake’s strangely lilting invitation. It had been all according to script until Drake had sucked in a breath and blinked rapidly when Josh made it all the way up into his bathing suit. No one had been able to see the way his balls had rested warm and dry against the side of Josh’s hand, but he could feel it, that much was plain in his dazed expression, which wasn’t at all what the camera wanted to see. Josh thought it would seem ungraceful to yank his hand back, so they’d stopped for a beat too long, frozen in Josh’s misstep, until Jonathan had stopped and yelled Cut! Don’t forget who’s supposed to be doing the seducing, here! he’d called over the endless roar of tide, and after that, Drake had teased like a pro, letting Josh no closer than a virgin on a first date: the fantasy of a true loser. * When Josh comes out of the bathroom in pair of basketball shorts and a green t-shirt he stole from Drake two years ago, Drake has turned off the lights and left just a lamp to light the bedroom. He’s got the radio on some rock station, and is lying with his head at the foot of the bed, flicking a lighter at the end of a joint. He’s changed, too, into a pair of shredded jeans and a white undershirt. “Did you find that in my bag?” Josh asks, rubbing a towel at his head. Drake takes a long drag and says, “It’s not like it was hard to find,” before he exhales a puff that shows white against the dark room. Josh remembers the first time Drake had done this, how he’d had to teach Drake how to inhale, fingers tentatively touching the soft stretch of Drake’s throat as he’d given direction and Drake had coughed out erratic clouds of smoke. It wasn’t until Drake was older, less naïve and had understood how much weed his musical heroes had smoked that he’d learned to have style about it. “And I ordered room service.” “’kay.” “So you should probably come here and have a little smoke with me.” Drake’s jeans are ripped on one side in a series of slits down to his knee, and when he rolls onto his back, Josh catches a glimpse of pale thigh. “I don’t know.” The idea of lying down with Drake sounds good, but it feels as though he’s spent all day being forced to want Drake, and the part of him that really does want Drake is raw and exhausted. “Josh,” Drake says, putting the joint between his lips again, where it flares red and then dies out as he looks right at Josh on an exhale. “Come on.” He lights another one—two in his mouth at once, look how far he’s come—and holds it out until Josh takes it. He sits down on the bed. This morning he’d had his hands all over Drake’s bare skin, and now he can’t even touch him. “Good stuff,” Drake says as Josh reclines on the velvety beige bedspread and smokes as a form of avoidance. “Even though you’re mad at me.” “I’m not mad,” Josh says. He doesn’t have the right to be angry; Drake had been right. “I just didn’t expect you to be so good at treating me like crap.” “I’m not,” Drake says softly, reaching out and brushing Josh’s knee. “You always forget I can actually act.” “Drake,” Josh says, and takes another long drag. “I. Fuck, maybe I’m the one who can’t act. Because-” He sits up and looks down at Drake, who’s paying close attention, his eyes focused, studying Josh as though it matters. “Because what?” “Because it wasn’t all acting, okay?” Josh tries to relax as he exhales, to let it all go: the worry, the possible judgment, the tension that’s been gathering at the back of his neck all day. “No kidding,” Drake says with the barest smile. “Josh, man. “Josh,” he repeats, as though he just wants to hear the sound of it again. “Stop acting like I’m gonna run away, okay? I agreed to this movie, to everything you asked.” “Right.” “I agreed to the kissing.” “I know.” “I agreed to the humping,” Drake says, and then ruins it with a laugh that breaks loose. “I mean, whatever we did in the shower. Man, that was intense,” he sighs. “I think the lattice is stamped into my back.” “Really?” “Mm hmm.” Drake lifts the joint to his lips and takes a slow puff. Lying down, his hair hangs to the left side of his forehead, and he’s taken his contacts out in favor of glasses with dark frames. “Can I see?” It’s just starting to hit Josh, the heavy cover of a high that weighs him down even as his mind drifts above the whole scene. He pushes at Drake’s shoulder and starts to lift Drake’s t-shirt until Drake rolls over and squirms free as though he’s never going to need it again. There are a few distinctly lattice-shaped marks on Drake’s back: a V on one shoulderblade and a full impression on his lower back. Josh follows them with fingers that seem to belong to someone else; traces the marks from beginning to end, and then takes the liberty of following Drake’s spine down to his waistband. “These are kind of hot,” Josh says against his better judgment. “I know.” Drake tries to get a look over his shoulder, before he rolls onto his back and resumes staring at Josh from beneath long eyelashes. “We were hot.” It takes a few seconds for the words to settle into a place where Josh can make sense of them. “Yeah?” “Yeah. I watched them running it back, and everybody was like, ‘whoa, kid’,” he says, smiling at the memory. “Even Sir Ben said we’d brought method acting to new levels.” He blows a perfect smoke ring, because that’s the type of thing Drake does. “I’m not sure that part was a compliment.” “You never know, with him,” Josh says, smiling down at Drake, who still hasn’t put a shirt back on. It’s not like him to leave himself so exposed, a face he seems to realize it the same time Josh does. He runs a self-conscious hand down over his belly and leaves it there. Josh suddenly feels awkward, as though one clumsy move could ruin things with Drake forever. “Lie down with me.” Drake pats the spot next to him, his palm clapping against heavy down linens, and Josh obeys out of habit. They’ve always told the other what to do, always taken the other’s suggestions, which is interesting to Josh at the moment—mostly because of the pot—that there’s the possibility he could say to Drake, let me kiss you for real and Drake would just close his eyes. It’s a nice thought. “You don’t look mad anymore,” Drake says. He still smells of the beach, sunscreen and fresh air and now, smoky weed on his lips. Josh finishes his joint in one long drag, holds it as long as he can, and exhales a cloud so thick that Drake makes a sound of approval. “I was never mad,” Josh says, and he means it. How could he be mad at Drake? “Uh huh. You have to know I’d never be that harsh, especially after…” He waves his hand, fingers curled elegantly around his own joint, which is nearly spent. He’s going to burn himself in a minute, or singe this fancy bedspread, so Josh plucks it from his hand and deposits it in the ashtray. “Hey.” “There’s more for later,” Josh says, smiling some more when he sees the way Drake is looking at him from beneath long eyelashes. “What?” “Why’d you want me for this movie?” “You said you knew why.” “Maybe I’m not so sure anymore.” “Because you pick shit roles for yourself.” Drake snorts. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that a couple hundred times. But seriously, why?” Josh stares at the circle of light in the corner of the ceiling, where the lamp is set against the room’s shadows. For a while, he almost forgets the question, and then it comes back to him like a boomerang that he catches right in the chest. “I wanted to be with you.” “Why?” Josh rolls his head to the side so he can see Drake. “Because I know you,” he says, and this is why he loves to get high, because the right words just rise up from nowhere and he doesn’t have to think about anything but the freckles across Drake’s shoulders, and everywhere else Josh forgets he has them because he’d have to be this close to see. He loses himself for a while, hung up on the gorgeous stretch of Drake’s throat. “Okay,” Drake says, his voice startlingly near. Josh has drifted a little too close, but he doesn’t pull back. They’ve always lain around this way, even when they were fifteen and ultra-aware of their bodies, and of how other kids said they were gay just because they were on TV. They’ve never cared, and Josh has always loved that about them. But he still wants more. He wants an excuse to do more than just lie here together, but they’re finished with those scenes, those perfect excuses, and now he’s got nothing ahead of him but this strange friendship that always stops just short of where he wants to go. “Don’t get all mopey,” Drake says, and Josh’s eyes flutter closed when he feels Drake’s hand in his hair, smoothing over all the places it’s beginning to curl. “We haven’t even gotten our food yet.” “Did you even order anything besides dessert?” “We deserve it,” Drake says, and Josh doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that his face is smug. “You did some heavy lifting, and I’ve got work-related injuries.” “You didn’t feel heavy. You felt good,” Josh says, and he knows it’s not the best idea, but with Drake’s fingertips rubbing gently at his scalp, he feels disoriented enough to add, “Real good.” “I know,” Drake says, and everything is suddenly happening in slow motion, the slide of Drake’s hand down to Josh’s face, the press of his knee between Josh’s as he rolls halfway on top. “I was there, I know what happened,” he murmurs, so close Josh can feel his breath. Josh’s dick hardens, slow and languorous, even though Drake hasn’t done anything yet. With Drake, this is all it takes. Josh lies still, barely breathing. It feels as though Drake is on the verge of something, just like he’d been that last night in his dressing room, like he’s been for years. Drake has always kept him waiting. His fingers are warm and careful on Josh’s face as they stroke lightly over his stubble, down his jaw and onto his neck. The thing is, Josh still can’t be sure what’s happening, because this is what they do, and there’s every chance Drake could roll away and leave him there empty-handed. “Drake. Can you please tell me what’s going on?” “I dunno,” he says, but his thumb grazes Josh’s lip as though he knows exactly what he’s doing. After all they’ve been through today, it’s a hell of a time to get shy. Josh has never let Drake off that easy, and he’s not going to start now. He catches Drake’s thumb between his teeth, just a light press of teeth before Drake buries his face in Josh’s neck with a sigh, breath spreading hot and humid across his skin. “I wish we could do it for real,” he says, a little muffled, but so close there’s no way Josh can mistake what he’s saying. “I wish…what we were pretending to do today. If you were into that.” Josh spreads his hands over Drake’s back and holds on. If he’s into that? He’s been walking around with a hard on for years because of Drake’s hands and voice and lean thighs draped all over him all the time. “Of course I’m into it. I’ve been into it since we were sixteen. Fifteen,” he corrects, thinking fourteen. When Drake lifts his face, his cheeks are flushed, eyes so dark they’re nearly unreadable in the dim light. And there it is again, the sense of déjà vu, a nagging familiarity to the way Drake tilts his head and touches his mouth to Josh’s; easy, so easy, just like the first time that Drake refuses to talk about but is willing to repeat here on this bed, nearly a year later, with his hand resting at Josh’s collarbone as though afraid he’ll go away. Josh has never been kissed by Drake without some kind of context. They’ve never kissed just for the pleasure of it, but it is a pleasure to have Drake lying on him, sweet and mellow, and kissing like he’s trying to convince Josh of something he’s already known for years. Drake wouldn’t go here with Josh unless it meant something, wouldn’t sigh so encouragingly against his mouth as they kiss long and unhurried, while Josh’s heart thumps with wild swells of delight. Everything is different, now. This time, he can press the flat of his hand to Drake’s back to feel him more, Drake’s mouth closing over his own again and again, can slide his palm down and feel the restless roll of Drake’s hips firsthand. His jeans slide against Josh’s basketball shorts, slippery fabric gliding across their thighs. If Josh guides him just right, the side of Drake’s hip wedges up against his erection. “Drake,” he says, one knee coming up as he brings Drake in with both hands on his ass. “What made you change your mind?” Josh never have propositioned him outright, but the offer has been on the table for as long as Josh can remember, buried at first by business and proximity, and then dragged into the open after that first melancholy kiss. Drake doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about. He lifts his mouth from Josh’s for a moment and looks down, hair hanging forward over his face. “This morning, what we did. All I could think about was how close we were to really doing it; to fucking. If it had been real.” Josh remembers the way Drake had easily spread open so easily, legs locked around Josh’s waist. “Me too,” he manages to say, and since Drake is the one who’s mentioned fucking, it seems okay to slide his hands into the back of Drake’s jeans. When Josh’s fingers dig in to test the smooth, pliant flesh, Drake’s eyes sink shut so beautifully that Josh does it again, just to see him bow his head and bite his lip. Drake is in this, they’ve already started, so Josh kisses him again and reaches between them to unfasten Drake’s jeans. It just takes a quick tug at the button fly, and then Drake joins him, the backs of their hands brushing as Drake gets his zipper down faster than Josh could have managed on his own. Then Drake is kicking his jeans down, naked and hard, just as room service knocks on the door. Drake swears, half-laughing, and pulls the bedspread over his lap. “Hurry up,” he says, which leaves Josh to sign for their food with his dick sticking out stupidly against the front of his shorts. Once the door is locked, Josh leaves the food and goes back to the bedroom, where he gets undressed the rest of the way and gets on the bed. Drake is the one who comes to him, crawling across the bed until he’s close enough to kiss. It’s not a complete shock to discover that Drake wants this; it’s just a shock to finally have it confirmed one way or the other. In a way, he’s always suspected. He’d just assumed there was something about their friendship—or about him--that kept Drake from doing anything about it. So the idea isn’t new, but Josh is still floored by the way Drake touches him; like he’s not just horny, but wants to make this good, make it a romance. Typical. He’ll probably write a song about it, too. Drake eyes him with a faint, sleepy smile, as though he knows what Josh is thinking. “I always wondered how you’d be,” he says. Of course he wants to talk about it. Drake loves to explain things, tell stories, prattle on about the details of his day, which has always made him great company because Josh could listen to Drake talk for hours on end, even if he does like to interrupt and give him a hard time. Josh isn’t going to interrupt this. “Yeah?” Drake nods, spread out naked over Josh, braced with one elbow so he can give Josh a light kiss. “The time was never right. But didn’t you ever want to…” He gets distracted by Josh’s mouth, which he touches with his fingers before he kisses him again, with slow probing tongue. Yes, Josh wants to answer, but then Drake makes a sound in the back of his throat so helpless that Josh goes a little shaky with desire, and forgets the question entirely. * Josh has wondered how Drake would be, too. There are some things he knows. There had been glimpses, back in the days when Drake had been young and reckless on set, when Josh could hear the sounds coming from his dressing room, and had learned that Drake’s method was to be more careful than necessary. It’s a wonder Drake never got tired of the come on, come on, harder, his girlfriends always seemed to want, but for whatever reason, he never changed his ways. At a party six months ago, Josh had stumbled through Drake’s upstairs hallway and heard the same thing from Melissa, more, she’d urged, as though she hadn’t even been enjoying it, and then- you don’t always have to be such a fucking gentleman, while Josh had pressed his teeth to the rim of his beer bottle, shamelessly eavesdropping, imagining the stubborn care behind Drake’s slow, easy pace. He wouldn’t have complained, he’d thought with a tug of longing that nearly choked him. If anything, he’d want Drake to touch him in exactly the way that came naturally to him, to learn how Drake wanted to feel things, to let things happen on their own. The one thing he can understand is that she’d wanted more. Even now, with Drake lying on him, warm skin all over and the air conditioner idling in the background, Josh’s hands want to go further, to go everywhere, without working up to anything the way he knows Drake probably likes to do. “I did want to,” he says, hours too late. Or, what passes for hours in this weed-slowed room. “I wanted to do this,” he says as he burrows his fingers into Drake’s hair and gathers it in his fist, just enough to feel the texture, smooth at the ends and tangled near the roots, exactly what he expects after a day at the beach. “All the time,” he says, dragging a slow kiss over Drake’s lower lip, adding teeth when that doesn’t seem like enough, and then going back to do the same thing again. Drake’s breath catches on a tiny moan when Josh does it the second time. “What else?” “Everything,” Josh admits. “The things you did with everybody else.” The whole package: not just doing stuff to Drake, but being wanted, being touched, being the one. “I wanted this,” he says, and before he can lose his nerve, palms the sweet round curve of Drake’s ass—Josh’s guilty pleasure. He squeezes with both hands, and gets Drake’s face pressed to his neck, hot gusts of breath that must mean it feels good. “Me too,” Drake says, and spreads his knees so he’s suddenly astride Josh’s thighs, with his ass still in Josh’s hands. “I want to do you just like this,” he sighs, eyes shut as he nuzzles at Josh’s jaw. He can’t mean what Josh thinks he means, but when Josh lets a finger slip down further, Drake’s legs spread, slow and easy. Josh lifts his hips so Drake slides forward. “Like this?” he asks, surprised by the way his own voice sounds: hoarse, sexy, like he’s talking dirty when all he’d intended to do is ask a question. He can’t help it; he can feel the velvet press of Drake’s balls right up against the base of his dick. “Yeah. I mean, we can do other stuff, but this is how I imagined it; this is how we should be, man.” Drake lies flat against him for another kiss, slow and sloppy, which jump-starts the excitement that Josh has been too cautious to really feel up until now. His dick surges with blood, so full and ready that he leaks all over both of their bellies. Drake thinks they should fuck; Drake thinks it’s only natural that they would express their friendship this way, and Josh isn’t even sure he can last through one more press of Drake’s abs against the sticky, sensitive head of his dick. Maybe this really is natural. It definitely feels more natural than any of the hookups he’s had since he first got enough confidence to go to bed with someone—not that there have been many, because from the moment he’d set foot on a sound stage, his mother had said watch out for those people, the ones who only want one thing, which has left him with some weird trust issues—but he still doesn’t know exactly what to do next, other than kiss Drake and be kissed and listen to the soft contented sounds they make under their breath, their own way of communicating what they like. Drake likes to touch his mouth between kisses, his fingers always hovering at the line of Josh’s jaw just waiting for a break. Josh learns to expect the glide of fingers over his lips, a touch to the dip beneath his mouth, and that if he opens his eyes, he can watch Drake watching his own exploration, sleepy-eyed and unlike anything Josh has ever seen. Josh doesn’t know how anyone could have tried to boss Drake into doing things differently, because this is perfect. Maybe it’s the weed, but he feels closer to Drake than he had when they’d gotten their first huge paychecks, won their first awards, even closer than that last-day kiss where Josh had tasted Drake’s tears, and he knows enough about relationships to know that you don’t get closer than that. “You feel good,” he says, the next time they pause for breath. Drake’s fingers dance across his lips, even as he speaks. “You too. I can feel you,” Drake says, and rolls his hips, a languorous motion that sends Josh alarmingly close to the edge. “Are you about to come?” “Uh. I…” He smiles a little and wonders how he looks to Drake, who’s blinking down at him, heartbreakingly familiar. He’s always been this perceptive. “I don’t know, but you probably shouldn’t do that again anytime soon.” “Cool.” Drake smiles back and eases up, but that doesn’t stop him from shifting so he can rub himself against Josh, moaning shamelessly even as he laughs under his breath. “Or maybe I should do it again, while you touch me.” Josh has been smoothing his hand down the back of Drake’s neck, but he falters when Drake says that. “While I touch you where?” “Here,” Drake says, and guides Josh’s hand down between his legs until one finger bumps against the place never thought he’d go, as hot and damp as all the other places they’re pressed together, and so soft that Josh can’t help but stroke over and around a few times, even though he hasn’t decided how he’s going to do this thing. Drake seems to get off on it, the way he writhes and swallows down what Josh thinks would have been a beautiful sound. “I brought stuff. Wet stuff, for your fingers,” Drake says, and Josh flinches again, skating the edge of an orgasm that he can tell is going to wring him out good, and might go on for hours. It already feels like it has, as though he’s always had Drake within reach, right here in this bed. “Have you even done this before?” Josh asks. It’s doubtful. He’s been studying Drake for years for signs that he likes guys, and has never seen so much as a hello that lingers a moment too long. Drake pushes himself back up with his arms and sits upright, which gives Josh an alarming view of both their dicks, both hard and dark with arousal. Drake is gorgeous, but Josh can see that he wants to cover himself, to curl in away from the scrutiny. “What does it matter?” he asks, sounding a little defensive. “I’ve wanted this for a long time; that has to count for something. And I bet you’ve done it.” “Not much,” Josh admits. “And not with you. Drake, this is important to me.” “And those other guys weren’t important?” “No,” Josh admits, and shuts his eyes. It’s awful to admit; he’s never had a real relationship with anyone but Drake--but he’s been doing other stuff, working on his craft, and that has to count for something. “Hey, no,” Drake whispers across the edge of Josh’s mouth. “I love that. I don’t want this to be just…whatever. I’m not, I don’t do this unless I mean it,” he says, and kisses Josh like it’s a promise—totally unnecessary, because Josh had already known that about Drake. He doesn’t do this unless he means it, which is why his heart gets broken every time. This time, their bodies press together and Josh lets it happen, a slow rub of skin on skin until they’re both putting some force into it. It feels too good to stop, and Drake must feel the same way, because he keeps going, meeting Josh kiss for kiss until neither of them can do anything but hold on and let it happen. He should’ve known they could move together like this. There’s a physicality to everything Drake does, and Josh has always instinctively followed his lead. It’s easy to follow, in this. Drake does most of the work, moving at first like a swimmer doing laps for leisure and then like he’s out to win something, a slow build of smooth rolling motion that leaves Josh breathless as he presses his thumbs to Drake’s hipbones, his mouth to salty skin. “I wanna do what I said,” Drake says, his breath rough on Josh’s ear. “But this feels too good. I can’t stop,” he says, and breaks off with a series of moans that punctuate a few final thrusts of his hips; a harsh “oh, oh, oh,” that sinks into Josh until there’s no room for anything else. He spills over with sensation that blooms deep and rises to the surface, as though Drake’s pleasure is too much for him to take. He doesn’t know how long they lie there that way, clinging together through the aftermath. The pocket of heat between them is slick and sensitive, and provides a dull throb of pleasure with every rise of his belly against Drake’s. Josh feels suddenly vulnerable, naked in more than body. He holds on tight, and Drake’s weight settles on him in response. It’s quiet, but the weed delays everything, keeps his words trailing behind his thoughts until the moment has passed and he realizes that Drake is heavier now than before, dozing with his cheek pressed to Josh’s shoulder. “Dude, no,” he says softly, rubbing his hand over Drake’s hair. “How about a shower?” A nap sounds good, but it would feel better to be clean. “Yeah, start it,” Drake says, rolling off Josh and lying there, wrecked. A shower would do them both some good. * They take turns, which is disappointing, but less so when they’re back in the main room and Drake upends all the silver lids on the room service tray to offer Josh the bits he deems best: smooth frosting from the edge of chocolate cake and thick bites of cheesecake, all from his own fork that he cleans with a decadent swipe of tongue. Josh sits on the sofa, still dazed by the effect of Drake’s skin, and lets Drake feed him until they’d finished both desserts. The whole while, Drake smiles like they’re sharing a private joke, and Josh can’t help but smile back. He wants to kiss some more. No, what he wants is to assign some kind of meaning to what they’re doing here, what they’ve just done. If he had to guess, he’d say things have changed for them both; Drake’s eyes are soft and knowing as he slides the fork out of Josh’s mouth and into his own. “Good, right?” “You know it is.” Josh licks the last trace of chocolate from his lips. “What time is it?” It feels late, as though they’ve been in here for hours and must be late for something, but when Drake fumbles for the watch he’d left on the coffee table, he says, “Huh. Ten-thirty.” They don’t have to be back at the beach until mid-afternoon tomorrow. “Plenty of time to do whatever,” Drake says, nudging Josh with his shoulder. Josh nods. “We could go out,” he says, even though there’s nothing he wants less. “Oh, you want to go out?” The faint crease of a frown shows up between Drake’s eyebrows. “No, whatever’s cool,” Josh says quickly. “I just thought you might want to…” Drake squints at him, and for the first time, Josh realizes that Drake isn’t as certain of everything as he seems. Josh has been wanting to touch Drake since they sat down. While the eating was nice, flattering and surreal, it feels as though things have been reset between them, and now someone has to make the first move all over again. It shouldn’t be like this, which means they may have missed a few steps along the way. “Drake, can I ask you something? It’s about that last night on set, do you remember? When I came to your dressing room?” Drake pulls his knees up to his chin, his damp hair hanging over his face. “I remember.” “It was a bad day for all of us, but you seemed…more.” Josh waves his hand in the space where he remembers how Drake had felt, hot and damp and miserable in his arms. “More what?” Drake is still and expressionless, the same way he’s always gotten on the rare occasion Josh has brought it up. “More everything.” “It was a long time ago,” Drake says, his words guarded in a way they haven’t been all day. “What does it matter?” “You kissed me,” Josh says softly. “It matters.” Finally, Drake pushes his hair from his eyes and gives Josh a sidelong look. “It wasn’t fair, okay? I didn’t get any say in it; it was just over, and everything was decided.” “What was decided?” Drake shakes his head. “Everything. You think I didn’t know where you and me were headed? I mean, you knew this was coming, right? Eventually? I knew, but I’d already started things with Melissa. And it was great because I got to have you in my life, and I got to have her, too. But when the show was over, it was like some huge decision just got made for me: I was with her, and you were on your way out. And you just took it so easy…” “I did not take it easily,” Josh says, remembering the days he’d spent sulking, imagining Drake wandering around his huge house in constant domestic bliss, and bracing himself for the engagement announcement that had never come. It hadn’t been easy at all. “But I kissed you back,” Josh says. “I would’ve done anything you wanted, especially that night. If I’d had the first idea how to go about it, I would’ve taken advantage of you.” “But you know how to take advantage of me now?” Josh shrugs. “We both do. You’re here, aren’t you?” “All part of your master plan, huh?” “Mm hm.” Josh smirks. He can tell just from Drake’s voice that they’re on their way back to the bedroom. He can do anything right now: climb on top of Drake and kiss him, touch the long stretch of his thigh, even get down between his legs. “I know what you’re thinking, and we should do it,” Drake says as he slides toward Josh in one smooth glide. He kisses Josh’s neck with so much care that Josh rolls his eyes, but still tips his head onto the back of the sofa to expose his entire throat for Drake’s careful exploration. It’s hard to tell if Drake is a sensualist or if he thinks he still has to worry about scaring Josh off, a waste of time, because Josh isn’t going anywhere. He curls his fingers around the edge of the sofa cushion as he shudders under Drake’s warm, wet mouth, as though his throat is the most sensitive part of him. In reality, anywhere Drake touches him has always sparked with pinpoints of pleasure. “It’s cold in here,” Drake says, pressing in close, winding his arms around Josh. “Let’s go back to bed.” Josh inhales, eyes closed, feeling his way over the bumps of Drake’s backbone until Drake gets up and moves across the room. Josh is going to get up in a minute, but for now he’s going to enjoy the cool gust as the drapes are pulled back, and then, filtered golden through his eyelids, the gleam of city lights.

home     email lily