Work Text:
It was Lora’s idea. Well, the idea had crossed all of their minds, Flynn’s pretty sure about that. But Lora was the only one who dared say it aloud. She is the spark of the group. The mover, the shaker, the real daredevil.
And so, Flynn wonders, as he leads Alan through glitzy Tuesday night crowds, what does that make him?
What does that make them?
It was strange how he never noticed Alan before. In the past, when there was only Lora, Alan blended into the background. Holed up in his cubicle, wearing clothes the color of ash and rain, eyes on the screen. Dutiful, good-good-good. Boring. Wet cardboard.
Oh, how wrong he was.
Alan is a challenge. A walking bundle of contradiction. Reticent and blunt. Doubtful and stubborn. Adorable and standoffish. Cautious and courageous.
This part of him, the courage, Flynn never really understood until his whole adventure in the computer. Meeting Tron in all his glory. There is something spiritual, metaphysical, about programs, and Flynn knows Tron is an idealized extension of Alan’s soul. Who Alan wants to be. Just who Alan might have been, without the noise and hidden wounds of his past. More and more, as Flynn finds ways to visit Tron, he recognizes shards of that pure courage scattered throughout Tron’s user. And Tron’s always asking questions about Alan, giving Flynn reason to pay closer attention. The more he looks, the more he likes what he sees.
So when Lora, with sparkling eyes and crooked smile, suggested the two of them get dinner together, just to see how things went, he immediately agreed.
It is the first time they’ve been out together without Lora there. No daredevils here, Flynn thinks, as Alan shoulders past him to hold open the door. Let’s see what we’re made of. “What a gentleman,” Flynn says with a wide-open smile, pointing at Alan’s hand, tense, nearly trembling on the grimey door handle.
“Will you get in there, already?” Alan laughs. “It’s starting to rain.”
Flynn obeys, but not before nodding to the bouncer, who nods back, an unspoken thing. Courage. The two of them out at a joint like this, in an age like this, is an act of great courage.
Flynn isn’t stupid. He knows as well as anyone how the tides are turning. There is disease in the air, an age-old disease called moral panic. But this joyful place remains open, stubborn and courageous, a rock holding firm against the tide. A beautiful party at the end of the world. It’s why he chose to take Alan here.
They sit at a table near the bar. Flynn’s head feels hot, stomach fizzy. Lots of people came and went after Lora, men and women both, but something about this night is new. Serious. Substantial. Flynn feels like he’s fifteen years old again and driving a car for the first time. Hell, forget a car, it’s like flying that Recognizer for the first time. That terror, that thrill. Tonight’s really gonna mean something. Disco blasts from big speakers, weaving through the chatter of the clientele, and even that feels weighty with meaning. So, Flynn keeps it light. Skates over the surface. He jokes around with Alan, with the waiter, with the dancers, with the couple sitting at the table beside them. His mouth works on its own, running on pure nervous excitement and all the time his eyes and mind keep circling back to one person. That person keeps quiet, picking at his food, downing whiskey shots.
Somewhere around the fifth shot, that person sets the glass down a little harder than usual, leaning in. “Flynn. Are we gonna talk about it?”
Flynn’s scattered attention collapses to a point. “Sure, Alan, what do you wanna talk about?”
Alan looks at him over the rims of his glasses. “Why we’re here.”
“Why we’re here?” Flynn gestures around. “To hang out. Have a good time. To chill. To live the life.”
“Flynn.”
“Bradley.”
Alan smiles, lifting one eyebrow.
They stare at each other for a beat, challenging the other one to jump in first.
Then Alan holds out one hand, a sort of Well? gesture.
Flynn puts his hand on his chest. “Oh, me?”
Clasping his hands together tight, Alan nods, with a wicked little smile. “You seem to have no trouble talking about everything else under the sun this evening.”
“Touché.” Flynn swirls the ice around in his glass. “Well, Lora seems to think we get along well.”
Alan does that tightened jaw flex thing. It’s hot as fuck. It also means he’s nervous as fuck, as if the five—nope, now six—shots of whiskey he’s just knocked back weren’t clue enough.
It makes Flynn a little bit exasperated. Wouldn’t it be grand, if he could put Alan at ease? For once in his life? He decides to rip the band-aid off. “I like you, man. I like you a lot.”
Alan keeps his expression carefully stoic, but Flynn notices his sudden inhale. The way his shoulders rise. Is it hope, or is he bracing himself?
“I also like Lora,” Flynn goes on. “And—I hope I’m not out of line by saying this—she likes me. She’s crazy about you, but she also likes me. And I figure that’s OK, because I figure you like me too.”
The corners of Alan’s mouth twitch, but he keeps silent.
“Oh, wow, Alan, tone down the flattery, would ya?” Flynn says.
Alan’s resistance breaks. He smiles wide and bright, and it melts deep and vital parts of Flynn. “Of course I like you, Kevin.”
Flynn bounces in his seat. The words are more intoxicating than any rum punch. “I knew it! I knew it.”
Alan shakes his head. Even in this low light, Flynn can tell his face is pink as punch. And twice as sweet. “Why I like you is beyond me—”
“Hey, stop right there. You like me. Let’s leave it at that.”
“OK.”
“Well?” Flynn leans across the table, nudging Alan’s hand with his, and Alan does not pull away. “How ’bout it? We could be good, the three of us. We could be really good. I mean come on, man. We pulled off one of the most successful crimes in history.”
“So you’re saying,” Alan leans forward. “The threesome that hijacks their company together—”
“Stays together?” Flynn finishes, in unison with Alan. “You better believe that’s what I’m saying.”
“Mm.”
“So? What do you think?”
Alan breathes out, long and slow, looking towards the window to gather his thoughts. The rain’s really kicking up, hitting the window one drop at a time. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh,” Flynn says. “Words everyone wants to hear.”
Alan laughs, and it’s not a light sound. He removes his glasses, takes three tries to hook them around his collar with whiskey-clumsy hands.
Flynn reaches across the table to help him. Alan lets him. Courage.
“I…” Alan says. “I want to say yes.”
Flynn bites his lip.
“I want to. Badly.”
The power it’s taking to not explode into: “WELL, SAY IT THEN!” must be bright enough to power ten city blocks.
“I like you so much, Flynn, I do.”
Alan likes him. Alan likes him so much. Flynn feels like he’s back in the computer again, ready to jump into the MCP. His heart pounds, and he holds his breath.
“You are…” Alan breaks off, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, holding out the other one to count. “You’re funny. You’re brilliant. You’re…” Yeah, Alan’s face has definitely gone red. “You’re attractive as hell. And you’ve got Lora’s stamp of approval, which is all I really need.”
Flynn holds his breath. But.
“But. You are also the CEO of Encom. That puts you in the spotlight. Public scrutiny, Kevin. Always.”
“So, we’ll be careful,” Flynn says.
“Careful.” Alan’s laugh is bitter. “What, like tonight?”
Flynn lifts a shoulder. “Two coworkers, trading business ideas.”
“Here?” Alan looks around. “In a place like this?”
“Everyone’s cool here, man. It’s OK.”
“It’s not. Kevin, you—” Alan cuts himself off, leaning close enough that Flynn can hear him through the noise. “You never know who’s really in a crowd. People know your face now. You’ll have enemies—you already have enemies. That much has become clear since you took Dillinger’s position. Think about the current political climate, the rising panic all across the nation. The…” Alan sighs. “What I’m trying to say is, it’s never been more dangerous. It’s a powder keg out here. A rumor like this—like us—it would destroy you, Kevin.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you would. Think of all the work it took to get here. You’d care if this all went away. We would be ruined, all of us. Lora, too. We’d lose our jobs, our homes, our—”
“Not if we keep things secret.”
“And what sort of life is that?”
“A better life than one without us,” Flynn says, boldly.
Alan shakes his head. “I will not have a hand in your downfall. I refuse.”
“You keep talking about this downfall of mine like it’s set in stone.” Flynn leans back in his chair. “How is that fair? I mean, Alan, come on, have a little faith.”
“I’m just being realistic. And—and even if worst doesn’t come to worst, if we somehow manage to avoid all the danger, there’s always a chance it goes bad on a smaller scale, among the three of us.”
“We’ll have disagreements, sure, that’s normal with every relationship. It’s not a reason to just not try. And who says we’ll end that way? Who says we’ll have such a devastating blow-up, we’ll never come back from it? We’re all adults. We can talk it through. Again, Alan, you just gotta have a little faith.”
“Faith,” Alan says, going very still, his sight tunneling inward. The alcohol hitting all at once, no doubt. He might have laughed, Flynn can’t tell over the noise of the restaurant. “Faith and I haven’t seen eye-to-eye in a long time.”
This was maybe a poor choice of venue, Flynn realizes. Maybe they should’ve gone somewhere quiet. Like a park. Flynn thought the energy of this place would fit the occasion, but maybe Alan wouldn’t be quite so nervous at a secluded park.
Alan turns to the bar, ordering another shot. What is that, seven? He’s not used to drinking like this, Flynn can tell by the slur of his words and the unsteady way he holds himself against the bar. Wait, seven, why is Flynn counting again? Why is he feeling concern? Never in his life has he felt the need to tell his fellow man to put a cork in it.
Alan tosses back the shot, slamming the glass onto the table, blurting out: “My father was a man of faith.”
“Oh, yeah?” Flynn replies, somehow not at all surprised by the topic change. “I think you mentioned that before.”
“Faith,” Alan continues, “and high standards. Impossible standards. Just impossible.”
Flynn thinks about Alan and Tron, their stubborn stickler personalities, and bites back some off-color joke about the apple not falling far from the anal retentive tree. No, he cannot crack a joke like that. Ever. It would hurt Alan quite a bit, and the door on this strange, drunken honesty would close forever.
“Always had to be the best in school,” Alan’s saying, whiskey-filtered memories all watery in his eyes. “Always had to be the best in sports. Don’t talk back. Don’t cry. Be a man. Go to church. Get a job. Get a girl who will eventually become your wife.” Alan shakes his head. “I almost did it all. I was an Eagle Scout, I worked one job or another since I was ten, tithing every Sunday. I tried to be all that he wanted.” He trails away again, hunching his shoulders against the noise of the bar. “I really did.”
“Uh-huh.” Flynn knows exactly where this is going. “So when did you… you know. Figure it out?”
Alan shoots him a look.
Flynn holds that look, unwavering.
“I was fourteen,” Alan says, giving in more quickly than Flynn expected. “I had always liked girls, but was too shy to ever talk to them. Then this new kid moves into the neighborhood. Quick-witted, bad-mannered, way better at sports than I could ever be. Didn’t take me long to recognize the feeling I got when I was around him.”
“Sounds familiar,” Flynn cackles. Alan’s really got a thing for troublemakers.
Alan stares blankly, those seven shots blocking his ability to catch Flynn’s joke and fire it back with some kind of sarcasm. “What?”
“Forget it.” Flynn waves it off. “What happened with this kid?”
Alan’s eyes are far away. For one second, he’s really back in time, unaware of the storm outside getting worse until someone enters the restaurant, chased by a gale of wind and rain. Alan jumps, twisting in his seat to see who it is.
Nobody of consequence. Two young men, with eyes only for each other.
Flynn pokes Alan’s hand, gently calling him back. “What happened with this kid?”
“Right. Uh.” Alan pulls back from Flynn’s touch. “My parents didn’t approve of me hanging around with Trouble. And they really didn’t appreciate how close Trouble and I seemed to be getting. I ignored them, of course. I was fourteen, and stupid, and I’d never had a friend that close before. But then… one night… we were… I don’t know. Wrestling in the backyard, as boys do. And, uh. He kissed me.” Alan winces at the memory, hunching his shoulders even more. “Trouble kissed me.”
Oh, man. Flynn is practically half out of his seat. “What happened next?”
“Well, I—I panicked.” Alan wrings his hands, shaking on the table, despite his flat and matter-of-fact voice. “I pushed him off, and ran away, and hid in my room. Hid for quite some time, actually. I faked an illness, so I could stay out of school and baseball practice. Of course, I couldn’t fake it forever, so the first time I dared to go outside again, it was to church. I was honest about it. I told my pastor everything. I still remember crying, and hating myself for it—I could barely get the words out—asking him if there was any chance of avoiding hell—if there was any way I could be fixed.”
This is heavy shit. Flynn stares at Alan, stunned and honored that he’s sharing all of this. And horror-stricken. Because now he’s remembering the first and only time a virus managed to breach Tron’s code. The program had run to Flynn, full of shame and terror, not quite in tears, begging Flynn to fix him. He didn’t dare approach the I/O tower for Alan-One’s help just yet. He didn’t dare. At the time, Flynn laughed it off as he purged the virus from Tron’s code, promising the panicked program that it was nothing to be ashamed of, that Alan would accept him and repair him with no judgment. Flynn laughed. He didn’t know how deep it ran. That fear of corruption, that shame, it bled straight from the core of Alan’s own heart.
Now, Flynn squeezes his fists together tight under the table, because otherwise he’ll break something. It’s so unfair. What affects Alan is no virus. Not even close. It’s just programming. Innate. Natural. Morally neutral. Most things are. But getting that sort of calculus through Alan’s head will be pretty difficult.
“I didn’t want anyone else to know,” Alan goes on, mechanically. “But my pastor said I had to confess this sin to my parents, that nothing should be hidden from them. And I believed him. I was fourteen, Flynn. I was an idiot.”
“You were a kid,” Flynn says.
That sentence bounces right off Alan. He can’t accept it. He just pushes onward, voice flat as ever. “To put it nicely, my father didn’t take the news very well.”
Flynn’s beginning to wonder how many times Alan rehearsed this before speaking it aloud to him.
“And after his initial… reaction, he and my mother gave me my options. I was never to speak to this neighbor kid again. They would be monitoring me closely, my parents, my pastor, my baseball coach. One step out of line, and I was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Not—gone, gone. But they said to me, there’s places we can send you to, to fix you. Camps in the forest. Run by good, strong, Christian men. They’ll teach you how to be better. How to be good.”
“Oh, Alan.” Flynn wants more than anything now to vault over the table and wrap both arms around him. Crush the aching shame right out of him. But Alan’s drawn into himself, not even meeting his eye, so Flynn looks at the window instead. He thinks of Tron, and the religious dedication he holds for Alan. What would his user say, if he knew? Rain runs and runs and runs down the windows outside. All the lights of the city are there, split apart and blurred in the wet. Flynn’s glad Alan thought to bring an umbrella.
“I kept it a close secret from then on,” Alan says. “It turned me into something of a shut-in, if I’m being honest. But no matter what, the damn feeling wouldn’t die. I had a lot of doubts and questions I had to deal with on my own, and I’d be damned if anyone ever found out. Being alone was better. So I stayed alone, kept my head down, focusing on work and school, until I could escape that house for good.”
Flynn shakes his head, thinking back over his own teenage years. He’d figured out a lot by just jumping in and doing. Trial and error. It was reckless, sometimes painful, but he can think of nothing worse than sitting alone by himself, night after night, slowly suffocating under waves of doubt and silence.
“I don’t believe it anymore,” Alan says, twisting the nearly-empty shot glass around in his hand. “Don’t know if I even did, then. I was just obeying. Just afraid. I was always so afraid, Flynn. And that fear, it sticks in you. Like a poison.” Alan swallows down the dregs of his bitter drink. “And I don’t know… I don’t know if it’s ever gonna leave me.”
Flynn is dead silent. Alan has never shown this much of himself before. It’s devastating.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Alan says, brushing a hand over his face, replacing his glasses. “I guess it’s…” He breathes out in a huff. “I don’t wanna give you the wrong idea. I can’t just jump into things headfirst, the way you and Lora do. I wasn’t wired that way.”
Flynn realizes how much time has gone by, how much Alan’s said and he hasn’t even said a word. “Alan,” he says, surprised by the odd catch in his voice. “I’m so sorry, man.”
Alan looks through the whiskey haze, right into Flynn. His expression is tight, his eyes are shinier than usual. Full of desire behind the thick glasses, full of tears.
Fuck. Flynn blinks hard. Now his own eyes are starting to burn.
Alan falters against the table, lovely eyes fluttering shut, balance going out.
Flynn steadies him with one hand, flagging the waiter with the other. “Come on, man. Let’s go home. My place or yours?”
“Yours,” Alan mumbles. “It’s closer.”
Flynn writes the check, thanking his lucky stars he remembered to hastily scrub the whole apartment down before heading out. Just in case. Just in case they made it this far.
Alan closes his eyes and leans on Flynn as they make their slow way down the rained-on pavement, shiny with all the yellow streetlights and shop neon. In his own golden, rum-induced haze, Flynn fancies himself a sort of knight in rusty armor. If anyone messes with them, he’ll fight them off. Out here in the analog world, he’s the stronger one. He silently thanks Lora for pushing them to do this. He savors the weight against him, the way Alan leans with total trust. The privilege of walking him home.
It’s 4 a.m.
The workday starts in four hours, and they’re in no shape to clock in, but Flynn’s the new CEO. It’s fine. Alan doesn’t seem to be able to process this, hunched over the toilet in Flynn’s small apartment bathroom. “I have never put in a leave request on such short notice before,” he mumbles through ashen lips.
“It’s OK,” Flynn says, with a bleary laugh. “Don’t worry about it, Alan.”
Alan makes a miserable sound.
“Hey, I’m going to get you some water. OK, man?”
Another miserable sound.
“Great. Yeah.” Flynn pats Alan on the back, and gets up to see if there are any clean cups left in the kitchenette.
Alan’s not the only one having trouble with shifting paradigms these days. Flynn is a CEO now. Isn’t that a wild twist of fate? He could live anywhere. Anywhere in the world. But why would he? The arcade below his feet feels like home, more than any fancy high-rise like the kind Dillinger would’ve picked out.
Rain still runs down the windows, lighter than earlier, and Flynn’s head buzzes. Excitement. Worry. Rum punch wearing off. And sleep-deprivation, that too. Man, he’s hardly slept at all these days. Things just keep happening, and happening, miracles and dreams. Should probably catch up on sleep, at some point. But not now. Now, he’s got an incredibly hungover, incredibly important guest over, and he’s gotta focus on making sure that guest is OK. There are two clean cups left in the cupboard. A dusty Encom mug, and a plastic cup with some kind of weight-lifting Smurf slowly fading from its surface. Flynn chooses the plastic cup for the laughs.
To Alan’s credit, he manages a dramatic eye roll when he sees the cup.
“Better get used to it now; I’m thinking of replacing all the company mugs with this sort of thing,” Flynn smiles.
“How old are you?” Alan mutters.
“Hey! I’m almost as old as you. If you can believe it.”
“Yeah, most days, I can’t.”
“Come on now, ancient one. Drink your water. You’ll thank me later.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” Alan’s hands shake as he lifts the cup, and Flynn remembers how they shook on the door handle earlier. Alan’s good at keeping things out of his voice. Nerves, sadness, illness. His hands give it away. Tron’s hands are always steady. Like his courage. Like his faith. Unshattered.
Flynn wonders where the differences came from, why Tron can be so optimistically strong, all the time.
Tron was never threatened with conversion therapy, but he had spent a lot of time in the MCP’s camp as Sark tried over and over to wear him down, break his directive, assimilate his code into the MCP. Tron, the ideal, the best and strongest part of Alan’s soul. Able to withstand that nightmare and come through it without a scratch, or any leftover nervous shuddering.
Alan’s trembling is getting worse. He stops drinking. Flynn grabs the cup, and holds it still, hyper aware of Alan’s cold hand under his, and the stupid little Hefty Smurf graphic under both. “You OK, Al?”
Alan nods, gritting his teeth. Poor liar.
Maybe the only reason Tron could withstand it all is because his user had gone through it first, and knew that such things could be survived. Maybe some of this certainty had made it into Tron’s digital DNA. But younger Alan had no such knowledge. No user to lean on, to promise him that his code and directive were still good. No, from Alan’s perspective, the “user” in question hated his guts. Wanted to torment him for eternity. How fucked was that? Flynn can hardly wrap his mind around what that must feel like. Even trying makes him feel sick.
Suddenly, Alan pushes away the cup, spilling what’s left in it all over Flynn. He’s sick again. It’s all just water. Flynn rubs soothing circles between Alan’s shoulder blades, feeling pretty helpless and scattered. Seven shots isn’t enough for alcohol poisoning, right? Probably not. Still, the phrase sticks oddly in his head. Alcohol poisoning. Poisoning. What was that thing Alan said in the restaurant, earlier, about the fear? About the poison?
For a long time, Flynn’s had a wicked little impulse to corrupt Alan. Not in a bad way, or anything like that. He just wanted to see this uptight Eagle Scout lose control. Get a little wild. Be a little messy. All in the name of freedom. It was why he enjoyed teasing Alan, getting under his skin, winding him up until he snapped back in irritation. It was different than teasing Tron. Tron listened to his bullshit with wide eyes, respectful silence, nodding like it was sage truth. Alan just rolled his eyes and gave it back. Alan didn’t take him seriously at all, did he?
Well, that wasn’t true. Alan took him seriously enough to commit a crime for him. Polite, rule-following Alan, breaking into Encom, hacking the system. Helping retrieve that file, expose Dillinger for the slimeball thief that he was. Restoring justice to the world. True, Lora had a big role to play in convincing him, but he had still listened, hadn’t he? Still stayed. Ride or die. He broke the law , for justice, for a guy he barely even knew yet. And fuck, if that wasn’t insanely attractive.
How many times since that night had Flynn fantasized about getting Alan to let loose? Goody-two-shoes Alan Bradley, face flushed, shirt wrinkled, hair tousled out of place. Maybe they would be in the corner office with the doors locked. Maybe they would be in Flynn’s bed. Alan glaring defiantly up at Flynn, looking a mess, while Flynn told him dirty things. Delicious things.
Now. Now, all Flynn wants to do is tell Alan that it is OK. That he is still good. Perfect, even. His father, his mother, his pastor, his shattered faith, they can all go to hell. In Flynn’s eyes, Alan is perfect, with all of his flaws and contradictions. And Flynn’s something of a god in the digital world, so that’s gotta count for something. Come to think of it, Alan is a god, too. Now he just needs to find some way to put this in words that Alan can understand. There’s got to be a way. There’s got to be some antidote to ease this lifelong fear.
“I’m sorry,” Alan whispers, once he can catch his breath. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK.” Flynn’s palm is sweaty against Alan’s back. He wants to go further. He wants to wrap both arms around him and—“I promise, it’s OK. You should’ve seen me in college! Wow. I wasn’t always this worldly-wise maverick you see before you today, uh-uh. Picture this. Cal Tech, 1969. Dorm room basement. This guy challenged me to a shotgunning competition. I said, I’ll do you one better, let’s make it a shotgunning, handstanding competition. You’re wondering, how does that work. I’ll tell ya. Two people hold you up by the legs, so you’re upside down, right, and a third person pops a hole, feeds you the beer can. Whoever shotguns the most cans wins. Whew. The aftermath was like a warzone. I never—” Flynn breaks off, realizing there are tears streaming down Alan’s face. “Hey, whoa, are you OK?”
Alan puts his forehead down on his arm.
“Talk to me, man.” Flynn shakes him gently. “Alan, come on. Talk to me. Look, I know the image of a handstand shotgunning competition is pretty gnarly, but you have my Scout’s Honor. I'll never do anything like that within Encom’s hallowed halls. At least, not during business—”
“Flynn, please shut up.”
Flynn holds up both hands, shutting up.
“I want…” Alan makes his left hand into a fist, forcing himself to sit up straight, to face Flynn. “In the past five months, I’ve gone over and over and over it in my head. So many times. Around and around.”
Oh. Duh. Of course he has. Flynn feels like an idiot. The last thing Alan needs is more pressure on him to hurry up and make a decision like this. Or war stories about shotgun-handstand competitions.
“I hated myself for it. It felt like betraying Lora, somehow, falling for her ex, I mean, who does that?”
Double-Duh. Of course, it would feel like a serious betrayal to him. Alan wasn’t raised to see romance the way Flynn does. He doesn’t do flings. A “yes”, in Alan’s mind, is pretty much just “forever”.
“Last Sunday, Lora finally asked me what my deal was. And I knew, I couldn’t hold the secret anymore. Still, it took all the courage in the world to admit it to her. I thought we’d be over right then and there. But we weren’t. It was fine. It was all fine. This big, unforgivable, world-ending thing in my head, it was fine. Well, not quite fine, but it wasn’t the end.”
So this has been weighing on Alan’s mind for five whole months? And he hadn’t said a word until last Sunday? How has he not exploded from anxiety?
“I just…” Alan falters. “Why? Why did it have to happen now? Why is it now that I realize this, that I might actually find a way to be OK with this—now—in this time, with all this… this… shit going on in the world?”
There is never a perfect time, Flynn wants to say. There is only now. Right now. It’s true, of course. Occasionally, words of wisdom do make themselves known to Flynn. But speaking words of wisdom won’t help at all right now. And Alan does have a point. Of all uniquely bad times in human history to come out, this is one of them. So he just keeps on stroking Alan’s back, and listening.
“I do want this thing to work,” Alan’s saying. Around, and around, and around. “The three of us. I want… I want to try. But every time I think about trying, all I can see are all the ways it could go wrong.”
The question’s out before Flynn can remind himself to shut up. “What if it doesn’t go wrong?”
Alan pulls in a panicked sob. “I can’t build relationships on a what if, Kevin, I can’t.”
“Hey, OK! It’s OK. It’s OK.” Flynn sighs. Jeez, Alan. Breathe. “How about, how about a definitely? I’ll do you one better, how about three definitelies? I definitely like you. I can definitely keep a secret. And we can definitely take this as slow as you need.” He gives Alan’s shoulder a little shake. “And if you say no, that’s definitely OK.”
“That’s four definitelies.”
“So it is.” Flynn rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t—I never want you to feel pressured to say yes, or no, or anything you’re not copacetic with. Ever, ever. OK? If you say no, that’s fine. If you say wait, that’s fine too. Secretive and slow. That’s how we’ll go.” He chuckles, watching Alan’s face carefully for any signs of levity. “That rhymes.”
Alan takes a deep breath, considering Flynn’s definitelies. “Secretive and slow don’t seem to be your modus operandi.”
“A guy can be flexible.” Flynn smiles. “I’ll… pretend I’m a spy. Super stealthy. It’ll be fun.”
Alan snorts. “A spy?”
“Yeah, why not?”
At last, Alan smiles in spite of himself. He leans back against the wall, away from Flynn, blowing his nose. His hair is a tangle. He’s a complete mess.
And the universe, Flynn thinks, the universe is just really fucking unfair sometimes. Because how is Alan so beautiful, even now? It isn’t fair at all. Flynn is really and truly verging towards insanity. He wants to kiss him. Holy fuck, he wants to kiss him. Would it be OK to kiss him? Probably not. Probably, given the story of Trouble, he should wait. Let Alan initiate that first. So he bites his lip, and sits on his hands, and burns inside.
“You know,” Alan says. “Part of me really does want to say, screw it. Just let go. Do it for rebellion’s sake. But I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m a grown adult. I can’t make decisions that way.”
Oh. It’s really taking all of Flynn’s strength to not lean forward and kiss Alan madly until he stops thinking. “Who says you can’t make decisions for rebellion’s sake?”
“You’d want me to be with you out of rebellion?”
“Sure,” Flynn shrugs. Yes. Yes. Fuck, yes. “Rebellion’s kinda hot.”
The remark pulls a choked half-giggle from Alan. He shakes his head. “You deserve to be with someone who is as free as you are. I’d only weigh you down.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I could use some grounding in my life.”
Alan has no response to this. He just puts his head in his hands.
That’s enough of this. Flynn scoots closer. “You know it’s all lies, right? Everything they poisoned you with, growing up?”
“Yes,” Alan mumbles into his hands. “I know that.”
“Population control, that’s all it is, man. Oldest trick in the wannabe dictator’s book. Point out a minority, frame them as a common enemy, and you can unite so many people under you.” Flynn laughs, bitterly. “Alan, I’ll be totally honest. I wanna fuck you until you forget your own name. I could do it, too. And guess what, the big man in the sky won’t give a damn. He’s got… he’s got… I don’t know, galaxies to crash together, or something. He doesn’t care who you kiss. He doesn’t think you’re dirty or guilty or broken for it, either.”
“I know,” Alan says, in a very small voice.
“He probably doesn’t even exist.”
“I know.”
“OK, you know. That’s great. I want you to believe.” Flynn leans forward, puts his hands on Alan’s shoulders, looking right into his bloodshot, beautiful eyes. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”
He nods.
“Alan Bradley,” Flynn says, slowly, so Alan knows just how fucking much he means it. “You are perfect.”
Alan’s chin trembles. His eyes squeeze shut.
“You’re perfect, man.” Flynn pulls Alan close. “And I love you. OK? No matter what you decide, no matter what we are. I love you.”
Alan doesn’t say it back. Too many tears, too much poison in the way. But he does wrap both arms around Flynn, hugging him hard, with so much desperate strength, like if he ever let go, he would fade into nothing. He beats one fist against Flynn’s back. Again and again and again. Flynn understands. Alan loves him. Some day, he will know how to say it. There’s just too much in the way right now.
The little black rectangle of sky in the window is turning blue. Flynn’s starting to find patterns and shapes in the mildew stains at his eye level. Somehow he missed those earlier, during yesterday’s uncharacteristic cleaning spree. His back is aching like a bitch from sitting like this for so long. “Hey, Alan,” Flynn says. “We should probably take tomorrow off.”
“You mean today,” Alan says, tiredly.
“Right.” Flynn laughs. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Alan pulls away from Flynn, leaving a cold hollow in his wake. “We should get some sleep.”
“Where do you wanna…”
“Let’s take the couch,” Alan says, as they make their way out of the bathroom. “Lora says you always forget to change the bedsheets.”
“She says that, huh?” Flynn laughs. Let’s. He said let’s, didn’t he?
Alan collapses onto the center of the couch.
“Are you cold?”
“Mhm.”
Flynn scampers into his bedroom, still wide awake. What a night. Just. What a night. He collects all the blankets he can find, racing back to drape them, one by one, over Alan. He kneels on the floor. “You’re not gonna barf on my super fancy couch, right?”
“Your couch will be fine, Flynn.”
“Ha. I meant, do you feel OK?”
“I feel just peachy. Thanks.” Alan manages a smile, holding out one hand.
Flynn thrills, accepting it.
“Hm.”
“What?” Flynn asks. “What are you ‘hm’ing about?”
“Just working out what to tell Lora later.”
“Oh?” Flynn rubs his curious thumb over the callouses on Alan’s palm. “What are you gonna tell her?”
“Uh. That you’re good at hugs.”
“I am?”
“You are. And also… also, that she was right. As always.” Some kind of slow light is breaking over Alan’s face. “We do get along well.” He is as beautiful as the sunrise. “Kevin, I’m so tired of letting my past dictate my future.”
“Yeah?”
With his free hand, Alan points at Flynn. “We should be careful. We should be very, very, careful. And we should have an official talk about it with Lora later, when we’ve both slept. But…”
“But we should… give it a shot?” Flynn raises his eyebrows.
“We should give it a shot.”
“Alan!” Flynn jumps into the air. “Woohoo! What? Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talking about, man, yeah!”
“Maybe it’s the exhaustion talking,” Alan yawns, closing his eyes. “Or maybe I’ve got some rebellion in me, after all.”
Flynn beams, fistpumping the air. He is so, so happy.
“Well.” Alan huddles deeper into the blankets. “I’m going to sleep now.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you do that.” Flynn wants to dance around the room. Turn on the electricity, blare triumphant music to the world. But he will not disturb Alan’s peace. Heaven knows, Alan doesn’t come by it easy.
His bed is empty, but he won’t be sleeping with this much wild energy bouncing around his being. And Alan had said “let’s”. So Flynn climbs up onto the couch, sitting beside Alan’s head with a pillow in his lap. He lets one daring finger trace through Alan’s hair. “Is this OK?”
“Yes.” Alan takes a deep breath, resisting sleep to make a courageous, deliberate movement. When he settles down again, his head rests on the pillow in Flynn’s lap. “Is this OK?”
“More than OK,” Flynn whispers back. Truly, his entire body is on fire, waves of pure radiation, and it’s the most overwhelming thing he’s felt since redirecting that beam for the solar sailer. It’s only by some miracle that he keeps his touch gentle, stroking Alan’s soft hair until his breathing becomes regular. But this whole night has really been one miracle after the next.
It’s nearly noon. Flynn lies on the couch below the window, listening to the city outside, reveling over the warmth of his coworker/accomplice/friend/almost-lover in his arms. Some time between the sunrise and now, they and the blankets ended up tangled around each other. He isn’t complaining. Exhaustion headache aside, it is a perfect morning.
He’s decided to keep the arcade closed today. He can weather the loss of quarters.
The phone rings.
Reluctantly, Flynn extricates himself from the blankets to stumble-trip across the room. “Hi. Whoa.” Lightheaded exhaustion hits him all at once, and he crashes back into the chair. “Yeah, Flynn’s Arcade, this is Flynn.”
“Good morning, Flynn’s Arcade.” Lora’s smile is audible through the wire. “You sound tired. Long night?”
“Oh.” Flynn looks over at the mound of blankets on the couch. He wants nothing more than to crawl back into it. “Something like that.”
“And?”
Flynn pauses. His heart beats hard, full of hope. “I think it went well.”
“Glad to hear it,” Lora says. “Hey, Kevin?”
“Huh? Yeah.”
“How is he?”
“Half dead.” Flynn yawns. “He’s a lightweight, this one.”
“Half dead?” Lora cries in mock-dismay, as from the blanket pile, Alan’s middle finger rises.
Flynn bursts into laughter. “Whaddya know, he lives.”
“I’ll put away the nunchucks,” Lora says. “Hey, it’s a slow day at the lab. Can I come over for lunch?”
“Absolutely. The arcade’s closed today, but I think I can talk to the big man, make an exception.”
“Good.” Lora’s voice softens. “I missed you. Both of you.”
Flynn laughs. “We missed you too, Lora. See you soon.”
“See you soon.”
Over on the couch, Alan stirs. “Flynn,” he says. “You don’t happen to have an extra toothbrush, do you?”
“I can run to the store and grab one.”
“Thanks. Can you grab a whole bottle of aspirin, too? My head is killing me.”
“You got it, man.”
“Or maybe just one? And a bucket of water?”
“Your wish is my command.” Flynn scurries into the kitchen, collecting aspirin, and water, this time in the dusty Encom mug. He gives them both to his guest, and pauses. “Hey, Alan?”
Alan squints up against the dim light. Pained and just fucking beautiful.
“I’m really glad we spent the night together, man.”
“Me, too.” The pain in Alan’s expression sharpens, and he presses one hand to his forehead, groaning. “Flynn, I’m really sorry about—”
“Uh-uh-uh.” Flynn reaches out, pushing one finger against Alan’s lips, shushing him. “No. No apologies. You’re perfect. Remember?”
Alan rolls his eyes, but he cannot suppress the smile on his face. “You’re the boss.”
Flynn laughs, and puts on his coat to head out into the world. The sky is clear and blue overhead. Not a raincloud in sight. It’s beautiful.
Flynn pulls his focus back down from the sky, over to the corner store, repeating the list in his head. Toothbrush, more aspirin, and stuff to whip up some kind of lunch. He’s going to be as good as his word, and better. He’s going to give Alan something to believe in.
Lora is the spark. Alan is the courage.
What does that make him?
Glue, he decides. He will be the glue. The humble and vital glue. Holding everyone together through the tide of this new age. Fixing all the shattered pieces back into place once more.
It’s going to be a beautiful day.