Heyla, all. 'Tis the author. Be warned, this involves (gasp) gay people. Goodness me. I've never written fluff before, so please bear with me.
--

He is sitting on a bench.

It’s not raining, not quite, not yet; but it is overcast, and even though he knows the sun is there, he cannot feel it. The air is warm and stifling, an East Coast summer at its worst. He misses the summers of his childhood, spent in his grandparents’ home near Salt Lake City, but they turned ‘strange’ and he wasn’t allowed to go there anymore.

He remembers his grandmother, scolding him for wearing blue jeans and drinking soda; he remembers his grandfather, urging his parents to ‘take on a second wife’, whatever that meant. His mother would shake her head, and his father would just shake, and on the car ride home he’d mutter, “Mormons,” under his breath.

When they got home, he inquired as to what Mormons were, exactly. His mother sat him down on their comfy, worn down couch and tried to explain philosophy and religion to an eight-year-old. He came away with vague impressions that Mormons were from Utah, and that they were bad: this he didn’t understand, because his very best friend in the whole wide world was from Utah, he’d moved to the other side of the country just four months ago.

He knows now what Mormons are, and what cultists are, and the differences between them, though his parents would never agree with his definitions. Their view of religion had already been tainted, and now it is irreversibly stained. He isn’t so sure. He doesn’t like physical or mental restrictions, but he does like the idea of some Being up there, watching over . . . something. The world? The universe?

He remembers his grandmother, before she’d stopped talking to them, whispering to him “Everything will be okay,” and he repeats it to himself now.

Philosophy and humidity hang heavily over his head. He would shake it to clear his mind, but he knows from experience that doesn’t work, and anyway, the hazy heat drives him to lethargy. He feels himself slipping off the bench, his tee-shirt sticking to his back, glued with sweat. He is, and there is no other adequate term, gross .

He crosses his legs to stop himself from falling further, crosses his arms over his chest for lack of anything better to do with them, and wilts.

He can’t wait for the rain.

--

He is walking, in that familiar slump that haunts teenagers everywhere, when it begins to rain.

It’s not much; more of a mist than anything else. Hardly a satisfying conclusion to the ominous clouds that had been building up all day, but it’s better than the awful anticipation.

The park is familiar, an old haunting ground from when his family had moved cross-country in third grade. It was where he’d met his very first best friend; he’d had friends before, but never one that deserved the ultimate title. Best Friend. He’d liked the sound of it, the way it tasted and the way it played over in his ears, when they had taken the plunge. It was a big deal in third grade, to have a Best Friend.

His parents smiled tolerantly, and reminded him that church was a big deal too; and he’d arranged their playdates around church duties. It had been an integral part of his life, then, and he’d always expected that it would be. He’d go to Sunday School and weekday services, and in between he’d traipse to school and his friend’s house, and in his mind the two never crossed. One life shouldn’t cross with another, he wouldn’t let them; they were too different.

If he really, really thinks about it, he is sure that he could have integrated them somehow. Still could, if he wanted to, which he doesn’t; introduce his friend to the church, or somehow break their hold on him. But he is only seventeen, and has only just gotten his high school diploma, and to give up his belief (or his pretense) is to give up his family, his home, most of his life, and he isn’t quite ready to do that. He is reassured, however, by the fact that his friend does not seem willing to do this yet, either: they will take it together, and they will take it slow.

“Everything will be okay.”

The rain has tapered off, though it is still humid, and the air smells of ozone. His head snaps up. He smiles.

--

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

One word, two voices; one is husky, sounding more mature than the Bible in his backpack would have you believe, the other low and sweet, at odds with the owner’s jaded appearance.

One sits down next to the other--dark blue, pressed jeans contrasting with well-washed, bleach-spattered ones.

“The rain’s let up,” says the husky voice.

“Indeed it has.”

They sit in a comfortable silence, hand in hand, for long moments. One clears his throat.

“Hey, Andy?”

“Yeah, Bri?”

The names are tender and full of hope.

“Let’s blow this joint.”

One laughs, pretending to be shocked--though of course he understands the colloquialism--and they stand up in unison. Brian leads the way, and Andy, who has only ever been called ‘Andrew’ before, follows gladly.

They are going to fight their demons, even if they aren’t the demons that Brian’s grandparents and Andy’s church curse in eldritch tones.

Behind them, the sun is shining, reminding everyone that today is the summer’s solstice, and nothing can go too wrong. Everything comes out in the end, and--

Everything will be okay.