Izzy and the Right Answer

by R. Cooper

Girls lived at this place, Iz decided. So only the truly wasted and the real entitled assholes would pee in the yard. Everyone else would wait for the bathroom. He turned to look at the fridge magnets and the calendar on the wall, marked with dates and cute loopy hearts. He had another sip and returned to facing the glass doors when more people wandered into the room in search of beer.

  He was in a Starman t-shirt and a scarf and a loose, open, violet flannel. His hair was in a ponytail because he’d just washed it and it was fluffy. His eyes were smoky and his lips had been pink before he’d had so much mystery juice. He’d noticed a few looks and hadn’t bothered to try to interpret them before he’d run in here, where there were fewer people, and it was quieter, and he was marginally safer.

  But he wished Ronnie would hurry up.

  He had another sip and frowned to find the cup empty.

  “There’s more in the living room,” someone remarked, their breath on his ear jolting Iz into spinning around.

  He stared blankly at the man. He assumed it was a man, though one really shouldn’t assume anything. Or at least not take anything to be one hundred percent certain.

  Like this boy, who possibly had thought Iz was a girl, and now had a confused furrow in his forehead that would have been sweet if it had been about a higher math problem or an insufficient sample size in a case study.

  Iz smiled hopefully and the guy blinked. “Oh, you’re the one who fixes things.” His plain white Oxford and tense shoulders said Engineering student, or possibly CS.

  “Yes, I am,” Iz told him, though the boy’s gaze was stuck on his mouth. “If you were obliquely offering to get me more alcohol in the hopes of ingratiating yourself with me or lowering my inhibitions, and are now having a small crisis, I give you permission to walk away. You can stay if you like, but I’m waiting for someone.”

  Iz should have been starting to slump from the booze in his system, but he was shaking minutely, with tension or sugar or from whatever else had been mixed in with that drink.

  “I’ve caused more than one crisis, so know that you are not alone in your confusion. Feelings are hard, I know. But please be aware that if you take your confusion out on me, a six-foot behemoth is going to come in here and murder you for it.” Iz cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the exaggeration. Ronnie was six feet tall and would defend him, that was true. But murder and Ronnie didn’t belong in the same sentence, much less a descriptor like behemoth.

  “I’m gonna—” the guy said, and took off without another word.

  Iz went to the glass doors to rest his hot face against them. “Great night so far,” he whispered to himself in encouragement. “You are having fun.”

  “Scaring boys off again?” Ronnie asked lightly, coming into view in the glass a second before he bent down and lifted Iz off his feet.

  Iz didn’t even think to argue. He dropped the cup and watched it roll around the linoleum as Ronnie settled him over his shoulder, one hand pressed to the small of Iz’s back, his arm snug around Iz’s thighs. Iz put a palm against Ronnie’s back to steady himself, though he didn’t think it was necessary since Ronnie would never, ever let him fall.

  He didn’t really understand why he had been picked up, however. Before he could ask, Ronnie said, “Ready?” and started to walk. Iz’s stomach flipped, probably from the alcohol or from being upside-down.

  Ronnie opened the glass doors and suddenly they were outside and everything was cold except for wherever he and Ronnie were touching. Iz had a view of Ronnie’s lower back and not much else. Well, and the butt that even Rahim would have approved of. He vaguely wished he’d brought a coat. He hadn’t because house parties were always too warm. But he hadn’t expected to be taken outside.

  “What?” Iz demanded at last, gripping Ronnie’s shirt to help minimize the bumping and swaying. “Ronnie, it’s cold.”

  “We’re moving on,” Ronnie answered cheerfully. “We won’t be outside long.”

  “I can walk.” Iz huffed, annoyed that he couldn’t cross his arms.

  “Orders,” Ronnie explained. “You can get stumbly.”

  Iz couldn’t even put his nose in the air. “Who said that?”

  “I did,” Rocco said quietly from somewhere Iz couldn’t see.

  He twisted his head anyway, trying to find him. He caught a glimpse of red sneakers.

  “Rocco.” Iz’s mouth was so dry. “Hello.”

  “Izzy,” Rocco returned.

  “I didn’t know you were coming.” Iz wasn’t sure if he sounded accusing or pleased, but at least his breathlessness could be explained by Ronnie’s hold on him. “How are you?”

  “Iz, are you hammered already?” Ronnie carried him onto the sidewalk with only a hint of strain in his voice. “Did that guy slip you something?”

  “No!” Iz pulled at Ronnie’s shirt, which exuded a faint aura of weed but which was fitted to his back and tight around his biceps, because he was trying to attract people. “Where are we going? Wait.” There was one other significant party on this street. “A frat house, Ronnie? Really? Why?”

  “Frat boys are the biggest sluts for cock,” Ronnie sang, probably drawing attention, not that Iz could see anything. “Everyone knows.”

  Iz sighed loudly. “And this matters to me, how?”

  “Ah!” Ronnie said, stopping for a moment as if he wanted to see Iz’s face, then remembered he couldn’t. “So the one you like isn’t in a frat.” He resumed walking. “I mean—that narrows it down. Alistair says I should try the CS crowd next, but I don’t think so. Not unless they know poetry.”

  “I—I—that’s—” Iz lost his words. “Have you all been trying to guess? Even—” His voice cracked but he didn’t care. “Put me down.”

  “I’m—we’re worried.” Ronnie obediently slid Iz to his feet, then began to straighten Iz’s clothes, tugging at violet flannel and Iz’s scarf. “You’ve been sad. I don’t like it when you’re sad, even though I know it’s stupid of me.”

  Iz fussed with his ponytail while staring determinedly at Ronnie with his softly spiked and swooshed hair, warm skin, his jeans. “And what were you going to do? You can’t make someone like me. You can’t make someone like anyone.” The alcohol churned in his gut and the soft echo of the words was enough to make him immediately wrap his arms around Ronnie’s tense form and squeeze him tight. “I’m sorry.” Iz was learning, but he knew this much. He spoke to Ronnie’s chest. “Okay. I’ll go with you to a frat house so you can have sex.” He made a face Ronnie wouldn’t see. “But you can’t leave me alone in there for long.”

  “No one there is going to fuck with you,” Rocco promised evenly, and Iz turned to finally look at him. “Right, Ronnie?”

  “Hell no,” Ronnie agreed, already moving again, warm hand curling tenderly around Iz’s wrist to pull him forward.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, although, yes, thank you.” Iz didn’t quite stutter. “I thought you and I were hanging out tonight, Ronnie. I was looking forward to it,” he added, and smiled when Ronnie’s hand tightened. “Not that I am unhappy to see you.” He directed that at Rocco.

  Rocco looked good, the same. Maybe freshly shaven, in a gray sweatshirt with a black logo on it and dark jeans. He didn’t seem drunk. But large men tended to hold their liquor better, at least at first. Or hide its effects better, Iz really wasn’t sure which.

  He wasn’t wearing the leather jacket.

  Ronnie, on the other hand, was obviously and delightfully intoxicated, or suddenly in a much better mood.

  Iz gasped. “Are we all going to hang out together?” He almost clapped his hands together. “After Ronnie is done and he comes back, I mean.” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “We never do that.”

  He was in a much better mood now too.

  “I didn’t realize you wanted to,” Rocco said, with an odd note in his voice.

  “I hope you won’t be too bored,” Iz remarked politely. “Ronnie, you’ll tell me if I’m bothering him, won’t y
ou?”

  “That isn’t—”

  Ronnie didn’t allow Rocco to finish. “Pfft. He’s not bored. He thinks I can’t see it, but I can. I mean” –Ronnie stopped for barely a second, then continued on before Iz could bump into him— “if he didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be. So that has to mean something, right? But also don’t listen to me. I’m a known idiot who imagines things.”

  “You’re my favorite person,” Iz told him, coming up behind him to better cling to his arm.

  Ronnie didn’t turn around. “I need to drink more.”

  “Ronnie,” Rocco said quietly but didn’t add anything else. He looked at Iz. His expression was as hard to read as ever.

  “I have already had something to drink,” Iz informed him and wasn’t sure why. “But I can still feel the cold. I’m not stumbling,” he said, as he stumbled. Ronnie instantly slowed down. Rocco followed, only a few steps behind now. “How’ve you been? Did you work today? Are you also looking for a big slut for cock?” Iz frowned in distress. Ronnie would leave and then Iz would have to watch Rocco pick up someone.

  He wasn’t ready.

  He tripped on some stairs, and then Rocco reached out and tugged his hand from Ronnie’s. “Careful.”

  “Yes. I am trying to be,” Iz told him seriously. Rocco’s hand was callused and dry. Iz imagined his hand felt like a bony icicle in comparison, although Rocco did not let go until Iz was safely at the top of the stoop.

  “I’m mostly here because Ronnie asked,” Rocco informed him, sotto voce, and gave Iz the gentlest, most encouraging smile he had ever been given by someone not his mother, Patricio, or Ronnie.

  Rocco thought Ronnie and Iz were heartbroken and lovelorn and needed help. Iz realized this with a pang in his chest, but let himself be pulled through the front door of the frat house.

  Inside, it was hot and too loud. Flashing red party lights momentarily disoriented him, and then the looks of several people who turned to watch him come in. He didn’t think he could last an hour in here.

  He froze and Rocco stopped just short of bumping into him.

  Ronnie reached back to tug Iz forward through the press of people. He waved to a few of them while Iz did his best to meet some of the stares. Ronnie did not stop moving until they were in another room, what probably would have been a dining room if a family lived in the house and not the sort of boys who called each other ‘bro’ and wore backwards hats. The room was attached to the kitchen, but only had a couch and a large flatscreen TV showing the game several of them were playing. They were killing zombies.

  Turning away from that left him facing the original room, an entranceway and living room together. Someone in a bro hat gave him a nod.

  Iz gave him a quick smile and looked away.

  “Gonna go make a circuit. I’ll bring you back a drink, Iz.” Ronnie clapped him lightly on the back, exchanged a look with Rocco that Iz couldn’t interpret, and then made a beeline for the stairs.

  Iz was near the kitchen. He could get himself a drink if he wanted. Not from the keg in the other room. He didn’t really care for beer.

  “Do you want a drink?” Rocco asked, standing near his shoulder, and Iz raised his head in surprise.

  “You don’t have to stay with me,” he said because it was polite. He tried to mean it. “I know you’d rather….” He gestured toward the people around them.

  Rocco’s answer was confusing. “I’m not drunk enough for that yet.”

  “Do you not like a fraternity bro?” Iz leaned in so he wouldn’t have to shout the question. “I thought that was why you two came here. To have sex,” he clarified. “They’re mostly fit, or athletes too. Isn’t that your type?” Iz’s fragile wrists and weak muscles did not compare.

  “We discussed this once already, as I recall.” Rocco inched forward, standing next to Iz now instead of slightly behind him. His hands were in his sweatshirt pockets. “My type boils down to whoever is willing.” He scanned the crowd without looking down at Iz. “Boys desperate to fuck, especially closeted-and-weird-about-it boys, are also not very picky.”

  “You should—” Iz stopped there, reminding himself his opinion was not welcome. “Be safe,” he finished. Rocco was probably going to say something about Iz should not give sex advice, but Iz knew enough. “The porn filmed in frat houses can be arousing but I find some parts of it… upsetting. I don’t know why. It might be something that only bothers me. They don’t—there often isn’t care. Not even the care between friends. I’m very silly to you, I bet. Worrying over men in videos who probably aren’t really in fraternities. Sometimes I have a hard time telling acting from reality.”

  “Izzy.” Rocco finally looked at him. “Nobody is using me. You don’t need to worry. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Iz nodded.

  Rocco angled his body away from most of the room. “You watch porn? Sorry. I just… didn’t expect that, since you’re ace. But I don’t know much about it.”

  “Ah.” Iz licked his lips before nodding again. “Sometimes I do. Coming feels nice and does wonders for my moods. I don’t have much imagination, so it’s nice to see and hear something. I don’t think every ace person does. But I do. Probably not as much as you or Ronnie do.”

  He had a memory of his mother urgently reminding him that not everyone was comfortable with sexual topics discussed in the open, and that he had to learn about time and place.

  “Or any of the others,” he added slowly. Rocco blinked several times, his expression blank, his cheeks bright. “I’m not judging. Not any of it. There are studies, you know. Endorphins… human skin-to-skin contact… social bonding… these are all things some people need. And it must feel good to have someone else make you come or no one would bother.”

  Rocco met his eyes. “Jesus, Izzy.”

  Iz didn’t know what to make of the scrape of his voice or his stare, the wild way he dragged his gaze over Iz’s face and body before turning to look at everyone else.

  “People here seem to mostly be ignoring me,” he remarked when Rocco didn’t say anything else. “You can go if you want. I think I’ll be okay.”

  Rocco blew out a breath. “Those guys in the corner are panting to get you upstairs. Nobody’s ignoring you.”

  Iz turned toward the corner. Three boys were drinking from red cups and talking to each other. One had on a shirt with no sleeves. The other two were in loose button-ups.

  “If you were looking, I’d wingman for you,” Rocco offered, creating another pang in Iz’s chest. “But I don’t know if I’d trust any of them. They’re often not kind, afterward.”

  “People should be kind to me and not you?” Iz wondered, then put a hand on Rocco’s arm in case those words had hurt. “If someone already has issues with who they can be attracted to, then someone like me can seem ideal. A lot of the people who approach me do it with something on their minds. But I’m not what they actually want. And, if I am, I don’t want them.” He frowned and wondered if he could get a cup of water, where Ronnie was. “Anyway, they’re barely looking at me.”

  “Sometimes people don’t look at what they want because they’re scared, or they want it too much.” If Rocco objected to Iz’s hand on his sleeve, he didn’t say. “But trust me, they want you.”

  “Oh.” Iz probably should have left it at that. “Ronnie says getting laid is one of the usual responses to someone in my situation. What? Your face did a thing.”

  “My face does a lot of things.” Rocco glanced at him once, then again. He looked longer the second time. “You really have—I guess I have trouble believing that you were interested in someone and they turned you down. It’s possible, of course, it’s just that… if someone like you can’t get someone to like them back, what chance do the rest of us have?”

  “Thank you?” Iz pursed his lips. “You didn’t answer my question. You’re very good at that. Would you call that a dodge or a block?”

  “Block. Or parry.” Rocco snorted. “You aren’t even trying to read minds
or to know everything right now, are you? You’re so sharp you can’t help it. That’s what I mean. Anyone who gets to know you wouldn’t—They must be something. This person. And if they are, they’re going to discover what you are soon enough.”

  “And what is that?” Iz buried his fingers into the soft folds of Rocco’s sweatshirt.

  “Brilliant and beautiful.” Rocco swallowed. Iz stared at his throat in fascination. “You’ll get what you want eventually.”

  “Makes me sound like a pirate,” Iz observed. Rocco also hadn’t said it in a happy way. A reluctant compliment. Iz pulled on Rocco’s sweatshirt to get Rocco’s eyes on him. “I know I get things because of how I look. But it doesn’t mean I get everything.”

  “I know,” Rocco said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  Iz shook his head. “I don’t think I would make a very good pirate anyway.”

  “I didn’t actually call you a pirate,” Rocco reminded him. “You don’t look like one. But maybe that’s why it would work. No one would see it coming.”

  “Are you teasing me again?”

  “A little,” Rocco answered, serious except for the hint of teeth in his smile. “Don’t pout.”

  “I’m not.” Iz scrunched his nose thoughtfully. “Usually only Patricio and Ronnie do that. Sometimes Eric. I don’t mind teasing if it means you feel more comfortable around me. We’re friends, but you’ve never been at ease with me. That’s probably my fault.”

  “It’s not.” Rocco sounded very sure. He patted Iz’s hand before pulling away. “I’m going to get you a drink. Stay put.” Iz watched him move confidently around the kitchen as if he’d been to this house before. He poured orange juice and vodka into a cup, then returned to hand it off.

  “Is this part of your plan to cheer me up because I’m sad?” Iz wondered, but accepted the drink and had a swallow. It burned. He handed it back but said a polite ‘thank you’ anyway.

  “It’s….” Rocco left that unfinished and emptied the cup in one drink. He stuck the cup on a shelf and seemed to forget about it. “You keep saying that I don’t like you,” he said abruptly. “It’s not true. I didn’t think you would have anything to say to me, or anything in common besides queer shit and gossip about our friends. And Ronnie.”