Running with Lions

by Julian Winters

  Sebastian snorts.

  “Don’t stay out too late or you’ll get benched, Captain Hughes!”

  Sebastian gives her a one-finger salute. He’s wound up. The “casual” brush of Emir’s hand as they walk is far from accidental, and this whole “screw the system” thing is too good to be true.

  In the car, Emir says, “I still can’t believe you remembered.”

  His feet are back on the dashboard. He’s slouched in his seat. His chin is tucked to his chest, and the blue glow of the big screen shines on his cheeks. He pops a handful of peanut butter M&M’s into his mouth.

  The Mustang’s top is peeled back. It’s past ten, but the summer night is still heady with warmth. Sebastian smiles at his hands. His chest boils with a confident fire. He’s done another thing to wipe that recurrent, beginning-of-the-summer scowl off Emir’s face.

  Emir says, “Didn’t your mom used to keep a bowl of these…” He shakes the bag of candy. “…in the kitchen?”

  “And didn’t you used to pocket a handful before you went home?”

  Emir wiggles his eyebrows, unashamed. In the background, Tony Stark is building an iron suit from scrap metal; the dialogue is muted by the wall of sound Mason’s iPod provides.

  “Anna Sun” comes on, and Emir props himself sideways against Sebastian. “Is this a date?”

  Sebastian tips his head in Emir’s direction. An old Ford pickup next to them rocks to and fro. On the radio, the lead singer moans about a house falling apart. Sebastian bought them Dr. Peppers and he guzzles some of his to buy time.

  Is it a date?

  “I don’t know,” he says. Sebastian wanted to get away from camp. But being alone with Emir at a drive-in while he licks melted chocolate from his fingers is plain awesome. A fuzzy ache starts below his navel. “I’ve never been on a date,” he says, swallowing, “with a boy, officially.”

  Emir drums his fingers on his knees.

  “Wait, have you been on a date with a guy?”

  “There was this guy.” Emir picks at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans. “We met at an art show. He wasn’t from Bloomington. On the weekends he would take me to this tacky pizza place outside of the city.”

  Sebastian controls his face. But jealousy bubbles at the back of his mind. What the hell, of course Emir was attracted to other guys.

  Emir says, “It didn’t work out because he didn’t want anyone to know about us. At the time, I didn’t want to come out either, but he was a certified dick about it.”

  His head tilts away, so Sebastian can’t see his expression. But his jaw tenses. Sebastian suspects he’s more hurt than angry. “Sounds complicated.”

  Emir laughs, but it sounds melancholy. “I was sixteen, Bastian, so I wanted a boyfriend. But the whole thing made me uncomfortable with my sexuality, with being out.”

  “He isn’t still, um…” Sebastian stares at the explosions on the screen. “Is he still around?” He doesn’t ask because he’s intimidated, that much, but the guy’s an asshole for making Emir hesitate about being open with himself and others. Lack of support, especially from someone you’re interested in, is destructive.

  “Nope,” Emir replies. “Would you be jealous?”

  “Nope,” Sebastian says, like the biggest liar to ever open his mouth.

  Emir’s gray eyes reflect light from the big screen.

  Sebastian chugs Dr. Pepper; carbonation tickles his nose. It’s a good thing he’s seen this movie a dozen times, because he’s staring at Emir, mesmerized. He considers pulling the “yawn, stretch, put an arm around your date’s shoulder” trick, but he’s not quite that smooth. Mason could pull it off. Sebastian imagines Mason has pulled it off.

  Biting his lip, Emir says, “You never answered my first question.”

  “Huh.” Sebastian taps his index finger on his chin. Their lips are just a breath apart, but Emir doesn’t close the gap. Sebastian whispers, “Okay, yeah, a date. Sure.”

  Emir’s eyes flick down to Sebastian’s mouth. He says, “I’ve watched this movie a hundred times,” and his hand ghosts from the side of Sebastian’s neck into his hair.

  “Me too.”

  They’re almost kissing.

  “Um—” Sebastian cuts himself off and surges forward. Their noses bump. He adjusts the angle. Emir’s mouth tastes like Dr. Pepper and peanut butter and summer. His kisses taste like the very thing Sebastian didn’t know he was missing.

  Tickled by stubble, Sebastian’s fingers spread along Emir’s cheek. He feels more than hears Emir suck in a breath. He can’t tell who makes the first move, but Sebastian gets a hand on Emir’s thigh and Emir crawls—climbs into Sebastian’s lap with the steering wheel digging into the small of his back.

  “Emir,” Sebastian gasps, his hands palming denim.

  “Shut up.”

  Sebastian most certainly does not let out a dreamy gasp when Emir’s teeth nip at his lower lip. He is not a teen-romance cliché.

  Emir is balanced on knees that pin Sebastian’s hips. His left hand cradles the back of Sebastian’s head. A soft sigh breaks his lips, inches from Sebastian’s, as he lowers his hips.

  And Sebastian is doing his best to ignore the flare spreading like a supernova in his belly. He has one warm hand under Emir’s hoodie and another teasing a button on his jeans.

  Emir laughs into his mouth. “Curious?”

  Sebastian’s a teenager, a virgin with guys, and stuck at summer camp for thirty days with very little alone time. Curious is an understatement. All their fooling around has never quite gone there.

  “Sometimes.”

  Panic rams into Sebastian’s chest when Emir goes quiet. He’s prepared to retreat, but then Emir says, “Me too. Just not here, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sebastian is still on edge, though. He’s not freaking out, but the pressure is real. It’s not like trying to figure out a math problem, but he wants to get it right. This isn’t just sex. Sebastian’s not tossing this in the “summer fling” pile. This is a bigger deal than being with Sam or with anyone else.

  They kiss again, and Sebastian relishes Emir’s shiver when he pulls away.

  “Wow.” Emir exhales.

  Sebastian stares at Emir’s eyes. They’re dark, hidden by shadows, and that makes it slightly easier for Sebastian to ask, “Have you ever…?”

  “Yes.”

  Sebastian’s picturing a faceless, but very attractive, guy touching Emir. His stomach churns with acid. He says, “Cool.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Emir says, as if he can read Sebastian’s every thought.

  Sebastian’s lips are raw. He licks them as his fingers trace patterns on Emir’s skin. Tony Stark is blowing things up behind Emir’s shoulders.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Sebastian says, because tonight isn’t the end of camp or the end of the world. He stretches his neck for another kiss.

  22

  Last summer, Mason Riley was on top of the world. He’s been the undisputed best attacker on the Lions’ squad since sophomore year; he started every game. His grades were passing, students adored him, and scouts lined up with pamphlets on why their schools are the best fit for him. His thing with Val was normal; normal for them. Also, he wasn’t hurting for hookups during the school year. Mason was never lonely.

  Something has changed.

  Mason whispers, “She broke up with me.”

  It’s an especially quiet Saturday evening, so Sebastian doesn’t have to strain to hear him. They’re hip to hip on a bench outside the ice cream shop. Mason wasn’t in the mood for burgers with the guys, and Sebastian had no interest in catching the Will Smith flick playing at the drive-in. It’s moments like this he misses during the school year.

  Mason works a part-time job at the mall in the off-season. Most of his money goes to helping his mom with bills. A slacker
during the soccer season, Sebastian spends his downtime catching up on classes. They share Saturdays at Starbucks and the occasional Hughes family barbeque; Lily Hughes is a good PTA, bake-sale, life-of-the-party kind of mom.

  Evenings like this, shooting the shit and talking about soccer, music, whatever, under a bright pink and blue sky, are important to Sebastian.

  Sebastian nudges his sneaker on the pavement. “She did?”

  Mason glares at Val, who’s near the diner with her friends and a handful of visiting college guys. “I haven’t told anyone,” he says. His hands are clenched in his lap.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  An unspoken rule exists between bros: No questions about love-life-shit unless prompted. Sebastian respects the rule, but he’s curious about what the hell went down between Mason and Val. He’s been letting Mason deflect for weeks, but now the cracks in his armor of silence are discernible.

  “She ended things after last season.” Mason’s mouth goes tight. “She thought it was time for her to be serious about life, and that I’m never serious about anything. It was kinda rank.”

  Sebastian scratches his temple, giving Mason space to talk.

  “She’s right, though.” Mason winces, and Sebastian does too. He’s about to protest, but Mason laughs, dryly. “It’s cool; I can take it. I should’ve been serious about her, but I wasn’t.”

  Sebastian met Mason a month before he met Willie, a week after Emir left, and that has created a sense of loyalty. But he still says, “She’s a damn good girl, Mace,” because he believes it, because she deserved more than Mason gave.

  Mason nods. “Part of me is over it,” he says, frowning now. “But it messes with my head, bro, like full-on brain damage.”

  Sebastian’s afraid Mason will shut down if he hugs him. He punches Mason’s arm.

  “I’m not as good as I want to be,” Mason says, slouching. “Mom keeps telling me she’ll be fine, whenever I go away for college, she’ll be fine. But I can’t.”

  “Join the club,” says Sebastian, slumping forward. His elbows dig into his knees. “We’re a mess.”

  Mason elbows him and says, “You’ll do fine, dude. You’re built of awesomeness.”

  If you only knew…

  “I’m mostly okay with that, being a mess,” Mason says. Sebastian believes him, mostly.

  In the line at the ice cream shop, Willie and Grey argue like a married couple about flavors. Sebastian’s grateful those two have become inseparable over the summer. Grey has been a crucial distraction, keeping Willie’s mind off the fact that he’s sidelined by his knee.

  What truly trips Sebastian up is how soft Mason has gone for Grey. He doesn’t kick her from their table every day; he says a few polite words between mocking or talking over her, and he smiles. Like right now, when he says, “Who invited The Brat?”

  The sky is changing from cotton candy colors to indigo. The wind is light against their faces. Sebastian whispers, “Willster to the rescue.”

  Mason says, “He loves to watch me suffer,” and glares at Willie, as if he’s trying set him on fire with his mind.

  “Still don’t like her?”

  “She’s tolerable.” Mason Riley is such a poser. One side of his mouth twitches. “She talks too much. And she looks at me, like—” Mason waves a hand, and Sebastian says, “Like she’s drunk in love with you.”

  Sebastian’s familiarity with Mason’s expressions tell him one thing: Mason is smitten. He hangs an arm around Mason’s shoulders and pulls him in. “It’s not so bad,” he insists. “You two are kinda friends now, right?”

  “About as much as you and Shah are,” Mason says, casual as can be.

  Sebastian might spew chunks all over his favorite sneakers. He chokes out, “He’s okay.” Mason is the one guy Sebastian knows who does irrational, stupid things, and lives life as if regret is a foreign word. Sebastian shouldn’t hide Emir and their confusing whatever from him.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Things are,” Sebastian pauses, “interesting.”

  Mason raises his eyebrows but doesn’t interrogate Sebastian. He respects the bro code.

  Good, because Sebastian didn’t want to have to hire assassins to put Mason out of his misery. Then who would he soak up the last dregs of summer with?

  The ice cream shop has old-school megaphone speakers attached to the sides that play music Sebastian’s parents danced to. They’re blaring a crackled Elvis Bishop tune. Sebastian flashes on that one scene in Guardians of the Galaxy. He loves that movie. He loves the nostalgia the music evokes, the way it fits this perfectly weird little town. Next to him, Mason hums, tapping a foot.

  This distraction keeps them from noticing Grey. She’s a ninja, suddenly thrusting a cone at Mason. Her big green eyes reflect the last hints of sunset. “Peppermint.” She waggles the cone in Mason’s face. “Your favorite, right?”

  “Jesus,” Mason says, almost in a squeal.

  Willie hooks his chin over Grey’s shoulder. He says, mockingly, “She knew, dude, how awesome is that?”

  “As awesome as someone shoving that plastic spoon up your—”

  “Is that a thank you?” Grey cuts Mason off. She has one eyebrow raised.

  Mason grumbles, shifting until his thigh is pressed firmly against Sebastian’s. “Just sit, Patrick.” Eyebrows lowering, he growls, “Quietly.”

  Grey flops on the bench. She hands Mason the cone. A satisfied curl appears on her lips when he licks viciously at melting ice cream.

  “Small victories,” Willie whispers to her.

  Mason flips him off.

  Sebastian folds his hands behind his head, doing his best to stretch out while squashed four-deep on the bench. He hums “Blister in the Sun” while Mason and Willie continue their brotherly bickering. Grey tries to get a word in. She’s not annoyed. Maybe it’s because Mason doesn’t shut her down each time she opens her mouth.

  Around them, the team fills the streets: having water gun fights, window-shopping, parading around like a bunch of teens drunk on good weather and freedom.

  Sebastian should get in on that.

  “Isn’t that Shah?” Mason points at the ice cream shop.

  Sebastian’s breath stalls. He peeks through his eyelashes, pretending Mason’s wrong. It’s simply a random skinny guy with tense shoulders who’s severely shy in public settings and has Permanent Scowl Syndrome. This guy just might look like Emir, if a person squints. Sebastian’s delusion lasts five seconds, until the guy begins to turn around—

  “Yep,” Grey says, lips smacking on strawberry ice cream. “It’s him.” She is now the enemy to Sebastian.

  “Huh.” Willie is careful not to meet Sebastian’s eyes, but he smirks as if he has a secret. “He never comes to town with us.”

  All of Sebastian’s friends are now dead to him. He’ll begin his search for new ones tomorrow, but first—

  Grey asks, “Should we invite him over?”

  Sebastian studies his shoes. His cheeks are hot. He refuses to make eye contact or say the wrong thing.

  “He doesn’t like us,” Mason says.

  “He doesn’t like you,” Willie and Grey say together, cracking up.

  Mason fakes a laugh while giving them a two-finger salute. “That’s not humanly possible. I’m very likeable.” His chest is puffed up and his chin juts out. “Isn’t that right, Patrick?”

  Grey punches him in the thigh. Panic butts into Sebastian’s life when Grey says, “I’ll get him to come over.”

  He manages a “No” that’s both strangled and anxious.

  Three heads turn slowly in his direction.

  Sighing, Sebastian wriggles off the bench. He dusts off his jeans. He’s fighting off a frown. “I’ll go get him.” His friends’ narrowed eyes confirm that they’re putting it all together.

  If he told them, wo
uld it be so bad? Mason and Willie have never judged Sebastian, not when he didn’t stop a goal during a game, or when he cried over Sam. Having a thing with Emir should be harmless.

  Clearing his throat, Sebastian says, “Maybe he’ll be a little less anxious if I’m the one who invites him over. We’re, um, friends. Again.” He leaves out and I think I’m falling for him because that is a moment of pure boxed-macaroni-and-processed-cheese-cheesiness he can’t live out loud.

  “Okay,” Mason says. Grey’s smiling eyes affirm Mason’s words. Willie looks skeptical.

  Sebastian turns on his heels. He takes a deep breath, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and strides over to the shop.

  “Can I have a—?”

  “Vanilla and chocolate swirl, right?” Sebastian props his hip against the order window counter like a smooth criminal. Emir sizes him up. Sebastian licks his lips. Emir raises his eyebrow.

  “Uh…”

  “Still your favorite, right?” Sebastian’s trying not to seem too hopeful.

  “No.” Emir turns back to Barb and says, “Actually, can I have a scoop of butter pecan?”

  Barb, along with her husband Shea, owns Clovers and Sprinkles. They have an agreement: Barb, with her sweet, kind, wrinkled face, mans the till while Shea, who has a penchant for mumbling four-letter words in his Irish brogue, scoops the ice cream. Sebastian’s pretty sure Barb wears the pants in their relationship, though.

  Sebastian’s an absolute idiot. After all these years, Emir couldn’t possibly like the same ice cream flavors. He almost misses it when Barb asks, “Anything for you, Bastian?”

  “He’ll have two scoops of cookie dough ice cream in a waffle bowl,” says Emir before Sebastian’s tongue remembers motor skills. Emir wiggles two fingers confidently. “My treat.”

  Sebastian does a double take. Of course Sebastian’s still the same, boring guy he was when they were kids, while Emir, who doesn’t like the same ice cream flavors, who’s semi-dated a guy, who has had sex with a guy, has changed.

  Emir asks, “Hey, are you okay?”

  No. Sebastian wipes at the tingling sweat at his hairline. Eventually, he remembers why he’s standing in line with Emir. “You don’t usually come to town.”