What It Takes

by Jude Sierra

  What he can’t hide is his fear, the overwhelming anxiety that comes over him—not from Andrew, because it always hits him when he’s with Andrew. Andrew says he thinks it’s because Milo feels safe with him. All Milo knows is that after it happens; when his breath comes so short it feels like his heart will come out of his chest, when his vision goes dark with panic, he feels weak and embarrassed.

  One day Andrew pulls him into his closet and closes the door, so that his voice is the only thing guiding Milo through breathing and calming, and eventually crawls out to get Milo tissues. Milo cries into his own arms, folded up on his knees, shaking and wishing the floor would swallow him for being so childish and fucked up. Andrew is always the calm in the storm, and when Milo needs it, he always puts his arms around him or lets Milo lean against him, and never complains about the time he takes up when Andrew surely has better things to do.

  “I used to do this when I was little,” Milo says. It’s dark and Andrew’s body is warm—too warm. He’s sweating in the closet because of the stifling air and the heat of his own breakdown seeping through his skin. But it’s good.

  “I remember; you told me once,” Andrew whispers. Milo cries, silently, and shakes with his face buried against Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew’s all bony angles and smaller than Milo, but makes room for him anyway.

  They never talk about how bad things are getting, partly because they both know it’s hopeless to think there is help other than Milo getting away in two years when he goes to college.

  °

  “You haven’t complained about this in, like, thirty whole minutes,” Milo says one afternoon. “Are you gonna puke? You’ll waste away.”

  “Oh, look, a comedian gracing my presence.” Andrew punches Milo’s arm lightly.

  “You both need to shut up and focus,” Ted says. He’s using his whole body, moving the controller and his arms and torso as he navigates the game they’re playing. Milo’s naturally competitive nature kicks in and he turns back to the game. Andrew holds on as long as he can before throwing the controller down.

  “Weak man,” Ted says. His eyes never leave the screen.

  “Whatever.” Andrew closes his eyes. “Do you guys wanna go out? Movies? Coffee?”

  Ted swears when he dies again.

  “But this is a tournament!” Milo says. “We can’t walk away.”

  “Well,” Ted says as he hits the pause button, “we are getting our asses kicked.”

  “Fuck.” Milo puts down his own controller. “Maybe Andrew has a point.”

  Andrew’s already texting and checking times on his phone. “Sarah wants to come, and Lindsey.”

  Ted moans. “Oh god, not Lindsey.”

  “You totally want to get into her pants,” Milo says. “You can’t pretend you don’t.”

  “No,” Ted says. He shudders. “She’s so annoying.”

  “But you think she’s hot, right?” Andrew says, raising an eyebrow and sharing a look with Milo.

  “What movie do they want to see?” Ted stands, changing the subject effectively, but Andrew doesn’t miss the way he blushes. Sometimes he’s grateful that his skin is not nearly as fair as his friends’, because blushing rarely gives him away.

  °

  They end up watching the sort of slapstick comedy Andrew cannot stand. Thankfully, he’s next to Milo, who also hates this kind of crap. Majority rules have forced them here. They banter in whispers, commenting on the clothes, the awkwardness of cheap jokes and poorly choreographed physical comedy. More than once they’re shushed by other audience members. When a guy, obviously on a date, turns around and tells them to shut the fuck up, Milo sinks down in his seat, shaking with laughter. It sets Andrew off, who is susceptible to the giggles.

  “What does he care?” Milo leans in to whisper in Andrew’s ear, setting off a cascade of delicious, nervy shivers. “He’s totally going in for the super awkward, probably sweaty hand hold.”

  Andrew leans forward and peeks. He looks over and, in the bright wash of the screen light, half smiles in agreement. Milo’s lips are full and tempting and completely off limits. It’s very, very hard not to imagine him brushing them against Andrew’s neck. He gulps down a breath and leans into Milo’s space. If he inhales again to catch Milo’s scent, he really can’t be blamed. He hopes it’s subtle.

  “What would you know? Whose hand have you been holding?” Milo smiles, but it’s a little weird. Andrew’s wondered about him recently, because Milo never says anything about girls or crushes or wanting.

  They all eat at a diner after the movie. Sarah’s dressed normally—just jeans and a shirt that would work anywhere. She’s the kind of classic-pretty with sleek brown hair and beautiful clear skin that doesn’t need extra work. Lindsey, on the other hand, tries. She tries very hard. She’s dressed up more than any of them, wearing a glittery, slithery tank top that dips a little too low. She reapplies her lipstick while they wait to be seated, and Andrew wonders if that kind of thing works on Ted. Ted’s hardly said a word to her all night, but that hasn’t stopped him from looking.

  At dinner Milo cracks jokes the whole time, poking fun at the movie and actors. He’s in a rare carefree mood, and when he’s on like this, he’s witty and easily funny. Sarah, a notorious food thief, tries to snatch fries from everyone’s plates when they’re distracted, and when Milo catches her, he swiftly smacks her hand away with a fork. Everyone bursts into loud laughter, drawing attention from other patrons. The line cook, visible behind the counter along the left wall of the diner, shrugs at a couple seated on stools. Andrew loves their town, where people know them and make room for rowdy teenagers.

  “Okay, okay,” Sarah says, wiping her hand and still laughing. “Ted’ll share.”

  “Maybe Lindsey—”

  “No, shhhh,” Andrew interrupts Milo in a stage whisper, “don’t ruin the romance.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Ted says over the giddy laughter of the table. He balls up his napkin and throws it at Andrew, but it sails over his head and onto the booth behind them. Next to him, Milo laughs. His hair is a mess, the way it gets by nighttime, after hours of Milo running his hands through it and tugging on it. His freckles are faded as fall has eclipsed the bright rays of summer. When he turns to Andrew, his smile is bright in a way that’s very rare, and this moment of happiness settles into Andrew’s heart with a strong, cramping, longing weight. He wants this boy, but more, he wants this, to see his face creased with youth and happiness.

  °

  One Tuesday, mid-November, Milo comes home unusually wrung out from swim practice. All he can think about is how hungry he is, and his guard is completely down. His father is at the kitchen table with a stack of papers while his mother hovers at the stove. Whatever she’s making smells so amazing that he misses the lines of worry around her pursed lips and her posture of anxiety: shoulders drawn up and back ramrod straight.

  It’s been well over a month since he’s done anything wrong—long enough that he’s stopped tiptoeing around, relaxing carelessly into the calm before a storm he should have sensed gearing up. Being caught defenseless and off guard makes everything worse.

  “Are you prepared to explain yourself?” James speaks in the cold, controlled tone Milo knows means trouble. He has a split second to cast back for what he could have done today, before his father’s fist hits the table with a thump that rattles the matched set of salt and pepper shakers Milo’s always thought are hideous.

  His father holds up the papers. Though they’re almost the same height, he looms menacingly, always bigger in Milo’s mind than he really is. His father stops shaking the papers long enough for Milo to see what they are: the history exam he hid in his room. How turned over is his room this time? He has to stop fooling himself into thinking he can hide things there.

  “I promise to work harder,” Milo says, automatic words he doesn’t have to struggle for.

  “That’s what you always say,” his father counters, sneering so his lips peel back. The papers sc
atter on the floor. Milo’s body goes cold, the way it does when he’s blessedly shutting down, when he’s suddenly not present in his body. It’s a thing that has started happening in the last year. He doesn’t do it on purpose, doesn’t know how it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t happen at all and those times are the worst, because there is nothing to protect him then.

  After, Milo doesn’t remember what was said next. What he does remember is how it felt to come back to his numb body with a jolt; the throbbing sting where his father’s big palm slapped him is all the more painful for its unexpectedness.

  He doesn’t tell Andrew about that. He doesn’t call him that night, but texts, managing to fake a light tone that won’t tip Andrew off. After his father retreats to his study to make phone calls, his mother brings him an ice pack. She kisses him with regret and apology deep in her eyes. Milo closes his eyes and swallows his anger, because the most she can protect him from is developing marks that will show.

  ° ° °

  BY FRIDAY Milo has managed make what happened into a distant memory. His face didn’t bruise, and after a day his father’s tightlipped anger faded a little. But after being given notice of an exam Monday in his pre-calculus class, he follows Andrew home to study, cracks open his textbook and, out of nowhere, begins to hyperventilate.

  “Hey, hey.” Andrew’s voice pulls him back. “Here, squeeze.” He picks up Milo’s hand, and that’s both grounding and soothing. Milo closes his eyes, but when he does, he sees his father’s face, and he feels the fear he feels every day when coming home. He’s breathing so fast he’s starting to feel lightheaded.

  “Come here.” Andrew pulls him up, shoves aside hanging clothes and closes them into the quiet dark of his closet. There’s room on the floor; Andrew’s taken to keeping it clear so that they have comfortable space. Andrew keeps coaching Milo to breathe slowly and calmly. He squeezes Milo’s hand very gently and keeps his tone soothing. It takes a while, but Milo finds himself squeezing back and breathing the way Andrew coaches him.

  “Fuck,” he says after a while. “God, this is so lame.”

  “Milo, it’s fine,” Andrew says, his hand still around his. Milo’s not gripping it anymore, but he hasn’t let go. Even with it, he feels lost, without moorings. Andrew is cross-legged in front of him and he scoots next to him and tucks his face into Andrew’s neck. Andrew always smells the same: clean and light and familiar. Although Milo is much wider through the shoulders—almost too wide for Andrew to hug him at this angle—Andrew pulls him closer and combs his fingers through Milo’s hair. Milo smiles against Andrew’s skin.

  “God, you’re obsessed with my hair.”

  “It’s great hair,” Andrew replies easily. “If only you’d let me do it for you…”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Andrew tugs lightly at his hair and Milo sighs into the touch “Eh, a boy can dream.”

  Milo laughs lightly and keeps his eyes closed and tries not to feel anything, because everything is really close to the surface and it’s huge and crazy and too much, even Andrew holding him. He pulls away and looks right into his eyes, because he owes him at least this.

  “Thank you.”

  “Dork,” Andrew says, something fond and sweet sweeping across his features. “Anytime. That’s what friends are for, right?”

  “You know…” Milo swallows and smiles. “I kind of love you.”

  There’s a hanging pause, loaded and heavy. Andrew’s eyes widen and then, suddenly, he’s kissing Milo. Kissing. Milo’s shocked enough that his head tilts instinctively. Andrew’s fingers are still in his hair; Andrew’s mouth is on his and his breath and lips are too much. He gasps in a breath, then… well, he’s not sure. Not sure how he goes from shock and panic to kissing back. The kiss is tentative and scared until, in the space of one tiny moment, it increases in confidence; both of their mouths open by fractions and Andrew’s hand comes up to cup Milo’s check. They stay like this for a long minute, barely breathing and kissing with the newness of youth. But then Andrew moves, deepening the kiss, and panic and confusion surge through Milo’s body.

  °

  Andrew has energy that naturally calms Milo. Maybe it’s just the ease of growing up together over the last eight years. In his presence, everything feels right. Milo can be just himself. Milo knows Andrew loves him, just as he loves Andrew.

  Except maybe not the same way.

  That’s the most coherent explanation Milo can land on, once he’s in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, white knuckles gripping the edge of the mattress. His heart is still racing—mostly because he ran home, but also because holy fuck, what the fucking fuck?

  God, he just ran away. Didn’t say a word. He fucked up, big time.

  He kissed Andrew back. For this one crystal-bright moment, Andrew’s lips weren’t a surprise, but a revelation, soft and full and sweet. And when he kissed back, Milo let his lips open a little, felt the brush of Andrew’s tongue. One of them inhaled, sharp and shocked, and when Andrew surged into the kiss, Milo broke away and covered his lips with a hand and gasped out a broken I’m sorry while stumbling away from him with coltish jerks and averted eyes.

  The I’m sorry was like a slap that slammed Milo’s whole body into a too aware and terrified state. So of course he did what any dumbstruck, completely blindsided teenager would do.

  He ran away.

  I kind of love you, Milo remembers saying. And then Andrew kissed him. What the fucking fuck?

  Milo groans and flops over on his bed, covering his face with his pillow. What is he supposed to do with this? How is he supposed to face Andrew? Is Andrew like... in love with him? Was that kiss completely random, or some sort of experiment? Why did he like it so much? It felt nice—well, better than nice—but it was Andrew. No. Just…no.

  °

  Andrew hides in his bedroom for as long as humanly possible. He turned off his phone and washed his face and then showered and changed his clothes, as if any of that could possibly erase the whole afternoon. Now he’s huddled under the covers watching reruns of Cara Says, trying to forget.

  He’s divided, deep inside: one part of him lingers on the shape and texture of Milo’s lips. For more than three years he’s wished in wistful longing to kiss Milo. He knew it would never happen though. Just because Andrew is a dreamer doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He has no idea at all what possessed him to kiss his best friend while he was in the midst of a breakdown. In his closet, which is a hideous and hilarious irony.

  Here the other half of him jumps in, over and over, a cacophonous force roiling with anger because why? Life without Milo would be incredibly bleak. Perhaps if Andrew had never met him things would be different. But somehow, loving Milo—caring for him, entertaining him, laughing hysterically at his jokes—is the center of his world. Milo easily takes Andrew’s playful whims and makes them real, like the amazing fort they built near their pond in the clearing, a secret hideout they’ve taken advantage of so often. From the outside, it’s always looked like a tree house sitting on the ground. Inside, it’s Andrew’s expressive playground, a place where he can draw and paint and decorate over and over.

  Only Milo understands how much Andrew needs secret outlets. And yet Milo underestimates how important he is to Andrew. So often when he’s coming down from a panic attack or has escaped his home to just be in a calmer place, he apologizes profusely. Nothing between them is unbalanced, not to Andrew, despite the knowledge that he’s been in love, hopelessly, for a long time.

  Well... until he lost his mind and stupidly kissed Milo.

  °

  I... don’t know how to Doris, Andrew texts late that night. It’s too late, but he can’t sleep for thinking and rethinking and agonizing over how on earth he is supposed to fix this. Texting seemed the easiest way to reach out. Andrew frowns when he notices the typo.

  Do this, I mean, he texts, mentally facepalming. Autocorrect wins again.

  As always, Milo replies instantly.

  Thi
s is good, right? Easy banter. The usual kind. As if it never happened. Maybe it’s an out. Maybe it’s Milo saying they don’t ever have to talk about it.

  The thing is, Andrew doesn’t want to cop out. He’s not ready to confess that he’s maybe been in love with Milo for years, because that would make things weird, and he’s definitely not taking the risk of ruining their friendship over a one-sided crush, even if it’s more than a crush. He’s gay, and Milo is... Milo. Truth is, he has no idea. They’ve never talked about Milo’s sexuality, and Andrew had never questioned it, but then there’s the thing.

  The kiss back.

  Andrew, in re-reel number seventy-five, finally remembered that Milo pressed in, opened his lips and kissed him back before he pulled away. What was that about?

  So but seriously, Andrew finally types, we should talk about this.

  He’s met with silence, which is torture.

  At least to agree to never speak of it again, if that’s what’s best.

  Still nothing.

  Please promise we’re okay, or that we can be?

  Andrew’s stomach tightens as the silence plays out. He pulls his covers over his head, lays the silent phone on the pillow next to his head. The little cocoon he’s made is sweltering and suffocating. When the phone finally chimes, he flips the covers off and gasps in cold air.

  Sorry, Dad got up, room checked. I had to pretend to be asleep.

  Everything okay? Andrew asks.

  Yeah, he thought I was up. I should be careful though.

  Andrew tries to formulate another text, fishing for an out or an okay. Milo texts again before he can.

  Listen. We’re still best friends, nothing will change that.

  Oh thank god. His relief is huge, exhaled in one gust, leaving him limp. Go to sleep, don’t get in trouble. I’ll see you tomorrow?