“Spence, wait up!” I hurry along the concrete path, nearly tripping on the large stones that cross a trickling little creek. Spencer looks back at me as I stumble over to him, a look on his face that plainly says, “Jesus, Keegan, I should have gone home the second I saw you here.” I ignore this look, however, and walk in step with him over to a bench under a blossoming white-flowered tree. We sit for a moment. “Why are you mad at me?” I ask.

“I’m not mad,” Spencer says, though his tone states otherwise.

“Then what the hell’s your problem?” I demand incredulously.

“Look,” he says. “I… I’m going to the fucking gift shop.” Without waiting for a response, he stands and walks up a new pathway, passing through a red-and-gold faux pagoda and past another, making his way through the maze of children jumping from stone to stone, embedded in the asphalt. I follow him across a bridge littered with the same white blossoms that had been on the fragrant tree under which we’d previously been sitting. He stomps into the gift shop and attempts to hide in a corner, surrounded by “I heart SF” oven mitts and “Asian Cooking Made Easy” booklets. I snatch a packet of origami paper from the shelf beside him, and he stares at me.

“What?” I ask defensively. “I like origami.”

“Can you even do origami?” he mutters under his breath.

No. As a matter of fact, I cannot. “I could learn,” I tell him.

He turns away from me to face Lucky Cat cell phone charms and says, “No matter what you do, you never learn.”

I am astounded. How can he say that? “Spencer,” I say reasonably, “what the fuck did I do?”

A short Asian woman in a puffy pink coat scowls at me. “Not here, Keegan,” Spencer says quietly. “Just go home.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong!” I say loudly.

“Shh,” says Spencer. A man in a plaid shirt and eyeglasses eyes us suspiciously. “We’ll talk later.”

“Is this about last week?” I say suddenly. “Spencer, I was smashed, you know I forget things when I’m smashed. You can’t expect me to remember what I did!”

Spencer sets his jaw and surveys the koinobori. Then, without a further word, he stomps out of the gift shop. I drop the origami paper, follow him to our cars, and cut him off with mine before he can pull out of the space. He honks at me, loudly. Then my phone buzzes—he’s sent a text. “Keegan, get the f out of my way.”

I text back. “No.”

Spencer honks again. I grimace at the number of people glaring at us, and I move my car to let Spencer through. I drive behind him all the way to his house, where I hop out of my car faster than he can get out of his. I block his front door. “Keegan, move.”

“Not until you tell me what I did that made you mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then why are you being all avoid-y-ish?” I put my hands on my hips, which I know is pretty femmy, but I ignore said femminess and try to look menacing.

He gives me a look that tells me he’s trying not to laugh. “Avoid-y-ish?”

“You know what I mean.”

Spencer’s slight smile fades. “Fine,” he says. “Come inside, then.”

I follow him into his house after he unlocks his gate and door, and I walk to the bay window facing the bustling street below. He rummages in his refrigerator for a moment. “You want something? A soda?”

“I'm fine,” I tell him, watching the people of San Francisco go about their daily business. I hear him sit down, so I turn and sit across the small kitchen table from him. His cerulean eyes stare unblinkingly at the unopened lid of his diet Dr. Pepper bottle. “Twenty-four flavors,” he'd told me once. “The original twenty-three plus aspartame.” I'd laughed. That was before he started avoiding me like the plague, of course. This avoid-y-ness really only started after last Saturday, which was out friend Kara's twenty-first birthday. Needless to say I got pretty drunk out of my mind, so I don't remember much. All I know is that Spencer wouldn't return my calls, texts, emails, nothing! Not after Saturday. He was one of my best friends; I can't imagine what I'd said to make him hate me so much. “So,” I say.

“Soo,” Spencer repeats, still watching his bottle cap.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't know what I'm sorry for, but whatever it was it must have been bad. And even if it wasn't bad, you're still angry with me. And I hate you being angry with me. It sucks. So I'm sorry.”

Spencer smiles a tiny bit at his bottle cap. “I'm not angry. I just... needed to think.”

That's another thing about Spencer - he's obsessed with thinking. He's always saying he needs “to go think” or that I need to “think before you talk, dumbass,” or that he's “been thinking.” Whatever. Life's better when you don't think, you just do. “Think about what?”

He shrugs, his light brown hair falling into his eyes. “Things.”

“Spen-cer,” I groan. He finally looks up to meet my eyes. “I don't like this. I miss you.”

He bites his lip and looks back down at his Dr. Pepper. “I know, I - I'm just trying to figure out how to deal with you.”

My anger flares. “Deal with me? You act like you can't stand me! Like I haven't spent every weekend for the past forever hanging out with you because you called me. You act like... like you don't even like me! But... you like me, don't you? We're friends, Spence, we're...”

He looks upon my dismay with dismay of his own. “No! God, of course I - Keegan, of course I like you. That's - that's the...” he murmurs unintelligibly for a moment, his blue eyes wide and wild.

“Spencer,” I say, “shut up and tell me what happened.”

He takes a breath. “Okay. Okay. Um. So, I was drinking soda, 'cause I'm the good kid. You were drinking cheap beer because you're the kid everyone else's mom hates.”

“That is not true,” I say mildly, even though it probably is. “Your mom likes me.”

Spencer smiles briefly. “I think it's the charm and the big brown eyes. She's a sucker for 'em, what can I say? Anyway...” he says, as I prompt him to continue with my hands, “I, uh... well, you were really... inebriated?”

“Drunk as a skunk,” I concur. “And...?”

“Well, you... you kind of...” he bites his lip again and his brow crinkles and something happens in my stomach like a corkscrew on a roller coaster. His impossibly blue eyes lift up again to meet mine.

“What?” I say huskily, amazed at the rough tone in my voice.

He clears his throat, but his answer comes out in the same low, rough sound as mine. “You kissed me.”

I stare at him. I notice for the first time that Spencer and I have been leaning closer to each other across the table as we spoke. I suddenly am aware that his hand rests on the tabletop barely an inch away from mine, and his feet on the floor under the table brush mine through our sneakers. A blush rushes over my cheeks, but my eyes are locked in his gaze. I can't look down. I can't look anywhere but into the crystal-clear bottle-blue depths of Spencer's eyes. And that's when I see that he's staring right back into mine. And my breath hitches and I think of all the things I could possibly say to that, everywhere from, “And I can't remember?” to “And you're angry with me for it?” But what comes out instead is a clear - albeit very gravely - “Wow.”

Spencer swallows. “Yeah. Wow.” His fingers brush my hand, and a new blush paints my cheeks, and my stomach does that corkscrew-on-a-roller-coaster thing again.

“I...” I begin. But I can't think. I can't move. Spencer's leg is pressed against mine, two thin layers of denim separating our skin from touching. But up on the tabletop, our skin is touching. His index finger is against my pinkie, burning my hand and increasing my heart rate. “I'm... sorry?”

“Are you?” he whispers.

I swallow. “I'm... sorry that I don't remember it.”

Spencer cracks a tiny smile. “Yeah. It... it wasn't so special. Don't feel bad you missed it.”

I frown. “Was it like... tongue-y?”

Spencer chuckles, letting his fingers touch mine lightly. My face gets hot all over again. “It... might have been.”

Is he flirting with me? “Your tongue or mine?”

He laughs, louder this time, allowing his fingers to fall in the gaps between mine. “Definitely yours.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Oh.”

“You were drunk,” he defends. “If it was sloppy, you can just blame it on the alcohol.”

I move my fingers up so that they curl around his, intertwining our hands loosely. I notice that his face, too, is pink. His fingers tighten around mine; soft and warm and so utterly Spencer that I almost want to... “Was it sloppy?”

“No,” Spencer breathes.

The edge of the table is cutting into my stomach as I find myself leaning forward. The sun is hiding behind the San Francisco skyline, slitted shadows from Spencer's blinds over the kitchen window bathe our faces in a dim, inconsistent light. “How was it?” I ask, the unnaturally husky tone returning to my voice.

“It was...” he swallows. His eyes flicker to my lips, barely five inches away from his. “It was...”

I grip his hand tighter, and lean my face closer. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch as he leans forward, too. “How was it, Spencer?” I whisper.

Before I completely comprehend what is happening, he closes the miniscule amount of space between us. His lips are on mine, soft and warm and Spencer-y as his hand. He tilts his head lightly to the side and I press closer, my heart pounding. His lips open slightly and I push past them with my tongue quickly before pulling back out. Then again. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose and pushes closer to me. His fingers tighten against mine. We're both standing, now, struggling to lean across the table without falling, but without breaking contact. Eventually, though, we have to. But our hands stay connected on the tabletop, reassuring our lips that it is only a temporary break. “It was like that,” he whispers.

I nod, my gaze flickering back and forth between each of his blue, blue eyes. “So, perfect, then,” I say breathlessly.

“Pretty much,” he says, giving me a little baby of a smile. I move around the table so that I'm standing next to him, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can see the rosy pink that his cheeks possess, each one of his tiny freckles peaking through the natural, nervous blush. I never once lose my grip on his hand. “So,” I say.

“Soo,” Spencer repeats. And then his eyes meet mine again.

You know how in the seventh grade, when they first taught you how to use Bunsen Burners, and they explained that blue flames were the hottest? Well, that's how Spencer's eyes are: Blue flames. And I'll be damned if they aren't the hottest.

He suddenly throws his arms around me, knocking me backwards a few steps, and I hug him back. He's barely four inches shorter than me, but his forehead finds the crook of my neck and his warm breath finds its way down the front of my shirt, making goosebumps erupt on my arms. I rest my chin on the top of his head and just hold him there for the longest time, I press my lips to his light brown hair softly a couple times. He simply nuzzles my neck like an under-appreciated kitten in response. “You asshole,” he mutters at me.

“What did I do?” I murmur into his hair.

“Do you know how long I've— how much I—?”

“There it is, Spence, always the articulate one.”

“Shut up. You know what I'm trying to say.”

I smile. “Most of the time. Sometimes, it's easier if you just say it.”

He kisses my collar bone softly, rocking us gently back and forth. “This is where we belong, you know.”

My breath hitches. “I know.”

“You notice how your arms fit around me perfectly, how mine fit around you? See how my head's the exact height to lean on your shoulder? It's like we were... it's like this was...”

“Made to fit,” I say. “Meant to happen.”

“Exactly.”

“I was stupid. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have had to have been drunk to be brave enough to tell you how I... how I feel.”

Spencer smiles against my neck. “I like you much better sober,” he says. “Better at standing up. Leaning on you is much more fun than having a drunken you lean on me.”

“Yeah, well.” My arms tighten around him. “Just out of curiosity... how long have you...?”

Spencer snorts—very attractively, I might add. “Liked you? Let's see... we've known each other, what? Two years and five months or so?”

“Sounds right.”

“So maybe... two years and four months, then.”

“Spencer! And you never told me?”

He pulls back to look me in the eyes. “I didn't know how you'd take it.”

“So you had to wait until I was drunk and could make the first move,” I say, as though this makes sense.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. He pulls me to him again. “I bet you can feel my heartbeat,” he says. “It seems so loud to me.”

“I can feel it,” I tell him. I hug him closer. “It's fast.”

“Faster than normal,” he concurs. “It's your fault.”

I close my eyes and smile. “It's your fault mine's doing that, too. And don't even get me started on my stomach.”

Spencer chuckled. “So does this... what does this mean?”

“It means,” I say softly, pulling back to plant a small kiss on his forehead, “that you... make me feel different than anyone else ever has.”

“So does that mean you'll be my boyfriend?” his blue eyes gaze up at me hopefully.

I wrinkle my nose. “Ugh. I hate that word.”

“Romantic,” Spencer scowls.

I kiss his lips softly. “Yes, I'll be your boyfriend, Spencer.” I can't resist rolling my eyes.

But he accepts it. “Good,” he says fiercely. “Because I am so not going another week trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to hang out with you after you kiss me.”

“Yeah,” I say reasonably. “Now you know exactly what to do after I kiss you.”

“Open my mouth?” he suggests.

“It's a start,” I say fairly. Then I kiss him again.

“So much better when you don't taste like beer,” he breathes against my lips.

“So much better when I'll remember it tomorrow,” I respond.

Spencer chuckles. “Kissing standing up is awkward.”

I frown. “How did we do it at Kara's party?”

He grins devilishly. “We had a bed.” He pulls away from me and skips off to his bedroom.

I stare at the doorway before following him, shouting, “What? I think this calls for a reenactment! Or... something!”

I hear him chuckle. “Well, then, hurry your ass up. You've kept me waiting two years and four months. Don't keep me waiting any longer.”

I smile. I don't think waiting will be a problem anymore.

The End

A/N: When you’re in San Francisco for two days and are expected to hang out at a freakin’ Tea Garden with your freakin’ family, this is what happens. Yes. I don’t actually think it came to me because I was in San Francisco… it’s just, whatever I do nowadays, it’s kinda like WWRGBD, you know? What Would Random Gay Boys Do? So that’s how it happened. I wrote the first bit of this in text messages on my phone, standing in the corner of the tea garden’s gift shop where the cookbooks, origami paper, and koinobori live. Yes, a short Asian lady in a puffy pink coat scowled at me, and a man in a plaid shirt and eyeglasses most definitely eyed me suspiciously. Anyway. Review, please?