There was a porch swing under my house's front overhang. Colored yellow with age, yet Chandler and I would still sit on it every day to do homework, ignoring the dirt and flaking paint trailing along the wood grain. And there was this day in eleventh grade—a cold day, but before Christmastime. The moments passed though like a chill wind, yet they're still there, seemingly etched into the wood.

I made lemonade that day, despite the chilly weather. Mom was passed out on the couch, reeking of something I couldn't place, so I left her a glass too because it seemed appropriate. Then I, balancing my textbooks on my forearms, kicked open the door.

Chandler's hair had grown out to mid-neck in a fluffy thunderhead. I remember that summer he'd gotten really into Rolling Stones, and in that moment, he was sporting the symbol on his t-shirt. Then a leather jacket over that. In hindsight, I'm sure I noticed how he looked fucking hot, but in the way that friends tell each other, laughs rippling through their words.

I gave him his lemonade and dropped my books unceremoniously onto the floor. "You look like a vampire."

He laughed. "I'm not that pale."

"Yes, you are, and you know it." The air was cold and pricked at my bare arms, each hair raising to the point that it looked like I'd grown fur.

Chandler unwound his Walkman and put the headphones on my ears, turning it to Rolling Stones until I convinced him to change it. He put on Men At Work instead, and I hummed the tune to Down Under while studying for American history.

"Hey," I start. "How bout this one: who were the presidents during World War One?" I looked up from my study guide to see Chandler staring at me from the other side of the swing, his legs crossed with his Walkman gripped tightly in his hands, knuckles bleaching white. He's not staring at me exactly, just a little to the side. His eyes weren't glazed over, just the opposite. They were filled with a strange, dark emotion that was so saturated that it felt almost tangible.

I snapped my fingers in front of his face. "You okay there, Dracula?"

He blinked, and his eyes turned soft again. "Yep, sorry." He gave a smile, flipping his pencil between his fingers, pursing his lips. He looked distracted. He looked different. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I didn't, because he seemed so closed off that day. I knew he probably didn't want to talk about it, whatever it was.

After a while we were done, just sitting on the porch, listening to cricket song pepper through the air around us. Normally we'd be gone by now, Chandler racing against the night to get home, but he was still here. Why was he here? Something about this afternoon felt so off, and I picked at my nails, attempting to crack the problem. But it was never something as linear as I first thought.

At the end of Overkill for the third time, the sky had taken on a wash of fire and brimstone, strings of red crosshatching clouds like corset laces. I took off Chandler's Walkman headphones and set them on his backpack below us. He looked up at me curiously, then swallowed in a kind of forced way, nodding. "Yeah, time to go."

"You sure you don't want to stay here? It's getting dark, maybe..." I trailed off, knowing he wouldn't accept. His family would wonder. He stood up and stretched, arms spread like thin black wings, and shouldered his backpack.

He gave a small smile. "See ya," he mumbled distractedly, then started down the porch stairs.

I caught his arm, and the action surprised even me. His skin was warm, hands filmed over with sweat. Instinctively, I ran my thumb across his palm in a calming gesture. "Today you seem so... strung up. What's wro—"

It was the most cliché thing, yet it was sweet and tender, his timing. As if he suddenly flipped on a light switch, spotlights illuminating this craving that brewed in his chest. He slid his hand into mine, fingers tangling like tree branches knitting together in the wind. His wrist pulsed. Then quickly, before it could register, he pulled me in, and I fell into him, and his lips found mine.

He smelled like his leather jacket, a bitter tang to his demeanor. I was frozen, but then it all clicked at once, and I dug my fingers through his hair and pressed into his chest. He tasted like some suspended capsule of summer, a flavor I couldn't place, all bright and warm and filled with the heavy scent of grass and rain. He was a doorway into a new era, one where we'd stay up late on his living room couch, watching MTV and pining for our favorites. I wouldn't go home. When he was there, his arms folded over my chest as we lulled to sleep, and that was more home than anything else.

We were waist deep in a sea of light when he pulled away, and everything expelled into the cold night air. I grasped at the pieces whirling away like they were confetti evading my fingertips. I wanted to dive back in. And in that moment I felt the lust in my stomach, crawling around like it had a life of its own. I understood what Chandler had been feeling, and how he couldn't keep it from exploding out from under him.

"Robin, are you okay with this?" He asked, and I got what he meant. I found it in his eyes again, a relieved smiley smirk dashing through them, and a deeper, compassionate resonance peeking out from underneath.

"Is that even a question?" I asked, then we dissolved into the air, fumbling around as two teenagers in the dark. Our bodies perpetual, our days endless.

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Published 11-25-16
Next chapter 11-28-16