What It Takes (9 page)

Maybe it would be for the best, though. Milo thinks maybe hiding things is making it worse.

Halfway through September he massively tanks a weekly exam in his calculus course.

Milo sits in the unusual quiet of his room—Shane must be out—before eventually dialing Andrew’s number.

“Hey you,” Andrew’s voice sings through the receiver. That alone is enough to calm Milo from all-out panic to merely roiling fear.

“You sound happy,” he manages. There’s noise in the background.

“You don’t. What’s up?” The noise fades.

“You’re busy, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I can call you later—” Milo checks the time. It’s already ten; later would be a bigger imposition. Or, knowing Andrew’s habits, an impossibility, because he’ll be partying.

“No, I’m not. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s dumb.” Milo looks down when he feels a sharp prick against his finger. It’s his own nail, digging in.

“Milo—” Andrew says, in that soft, homey way of his.

“Look, don’t worry about me. I’m having a bad day.” Milo bites his lip. It’s occurred to him more and more how incredibly dependent on Andrew he is. How little he gives back to him, how pathetic it makes him to need Andrew so much. How unhealthy it is.

“So talk to me about it,” Andrew says.

“No, you tell me about your day.”

“Well, hm. It’s Friday, so nothing much to tell. The usual.”

“Only two orgies so far?” Milo jokes.

“Nah, only one. Getting a mite bit old for those shenanigans.” Andrew’s laughter is like bells. Milo’s stomach unwinds.

“I didn’t pass a quiz,” he says after a moment, when it’s clear Andrew is waiting for him to speak again.

“How much is it worth?” Andrew asks.

“Um…” Milo looks over the syllabus again. “Ten quizzes in the semester worth twenty-five percent of the grade.”

“What score did you get?”

“A seventy-one.”

“Okay now,” Andrew say slowly, in that asshole tone he uses when he’s teasing a smile out of Milo, “you’re the numbers guy; I’m the pretty face. So I might have it wrong, but I think you’ll be fine.”

“You do have it wrong. I’m the pretty face.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Andrew says. Shane slams the door open suddenly, then shut again, making Milo startle.

“Shit.” He breathes shakily, trying very hard not to glare at Shane.

“What was that? Did an elephant break out of the zoo and collide with your room?”

“No, if only.”

“Oh, the roommate,” Andrew says.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry things are hard. You never sound like you’re having fun out there.” Andrew’s voice is soft.

“I’m not sure I know how to do that,” Milo confesses.

“Sure you do; I’ve seen you do it lots of times. I’m going to find some fun things for you to do, and you’re going to go do them and make a new friend.”

“Drew, you don’t have to mother me.”

“I’m not. I’m being your best friend. I know what’s best for you.”

“Shut up,” Milo says. Then takes a breath and lowers his voice, turning away from Shane so he won’t hear. “Is it wrong that I can’t do this without you?”

“You shut up. No. We’re supposed to support each other. Expect an email. I expect a full report tomorrow that involves you attempting something other than sleeping, exercising or reading that horrible book.”

“You don’t know what I’m reading!”

“I know your taste in books. It’s horrible,” Andrew says. He hangs up without saying goodbye.

“So,” Shane says from behind him.

Milo winces and forces himself not to startle again. “So?”

“You look like you’re having a bad day.”

Every day is a bad day
, Milo thinks. “I didn’t do well on that quiz.”

“Is that my bad?” Shane asks. He flops onto his bed, still wearing his shoes. His blanket is on the floor and the fitted sheet has pulled off the bottom corner of the bed.

“No, I’m just getting used to things here,” Milo lies. Shane was distracting him to no end last night. It’s not his fault, though, that Milo didn’t want to leave the room to find a more peaceful place to study.

“You should come out this weekend. I get that it’s not your thing. But you could meet people. Relax.”

Milo looks at the red crescent-shaped mark at the base of his thumb. “Yeah, maybe,” he says without meaning it. A ping from his computer notifies him he has an email. It’s from Andrew, holding his hand yet again. Milo’s bed looks much too comfortable, and next to it his book beckons. He’s been re-reading the
Game of Thrones
books. It would be so easy to turn everything off, to tune out. But he can’t keep expecting Andrew to hold him up, not when they’re supposed to be living separate lives. Not when his friendship is a weight around Andrew’s ankle.

He looks over the information Andrew sent. It’s easy to hide and buckle down on his studies and push and push himself the way his father trained. But this was supposed to be his escape and his new life, and he’s done nothing to break free. Fear is an ever-present weight that drags him down constantly. Andrew has a point. If Milo can’t do this, he’ll drown.

° ° °

By October,
Andrew has a whole new group of friends. It wasn’t as hard as he thought it might be; all it took was a resolve to open himself to new things and let go of small-town Andrew. One girl in their hall, Nat, has become a fast friend.

It’s sweltering in the small house they’ve jammed themselves into. Andrew lost sight of Damien an hour ago, and Nat’s in the corner with two girls he doesn’t know, laughing and whispering over something he’s sure he doesn’t care to know. Next to him on the sagging couch is a gorgeous boy whose eyes haven’t left Andrew’s for at least fifteen minutes. It only took five minutes of strained conversation for him to turn his body toward Andrew: invitation for a night of flirting. Testing the waters. Andrew’s not averse—when the boy is cute enough and appreciative like this one, he’s always game for a good time.

Andrew didn’t catch his name. He hopes that won’t be a problem.

“What’s your major?” the boy asks. He has engaging green eyes. Andrew shrugs and smiles in a way he’s practiced in the mirror. It’s acting, but it has a wonderful success rate.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe something creative, or something responsible, like journalism.”

“Are you a responsible guy?” The boy’s hand is on Andrew’s knee, sending heat through Andrew’s body. Invitation. Andrew’s eyes linger on his lips, which are full and pink and shining. He’s had enough beer to feel a wonderful buzzing that loosens him, but not too much.

“Not always.” He lifts a shoulder, and when the boy kisses him, he lets himself be swayed back against the arm of the couch. “Hold on—” He breaks out of the kiss when he feels a hand creeping along the inside seam of his jeans. “I’m definitely not into public shows, though.”

“Upstairs?”

“You live here?”

The boy laughs. “I told you that a few minutes ago.”

“Oh.” Andrew’s eyes are still on his lips.

“It’s like that?”

“Is that all right?”

“Definitely.” Andrew takes his hand and follows where he’s led. He passes Nat on their way to the stairs and winks, ignoring her frown. He’s remembered the lesson of disappearing without telling Milo where he was going in P-Town. Someone knows where he is, and he doesn’t much care what that frown means.

The room is dark; Andrew likes it, and between the breathless and sloppy kisses of new mouths adjusting to each other, he whispers that.

“Whatever you like. You should know, my name is Rob.”

“Oh?”

“I want you to say my name,” Rob says, then presses Andrew into the mattress, and the words send a flashing heat of arousal through Andrew’s skin.

“I can do that,” he says before pulling him back into another kiss.

°

“You know you’re kind of slutty, right? How many boys have you slept with since you got here?” Nat asks. She’s sitting cross-legged on his bed.

“Are you kidding?” Andrew looks up from the floor he’s sprawled on. He mutes the TV. Anger stains his cheeks. Damien spins his chair away from the TV and focuses too hard on his computer screen.

“No. I worry about you,” she says.

“No, you’re judging me. And you’re doing it in front of someone else. What I do with my body isn’t yours to judge and it’s not your business.”

“Come on, Andrew—”

“Nope. I think you need to leave.” Andrew says. He pushes himself up, tossing the pillows he’s been cushioned on back onto the bed. Nat stands, not looking at him, and he tries very hard not to slam the door behind her. The silence is incredibly heavy and awkward. Damien doesn’t look at Andrew. Damien sleeps around more than he does, but no one gives a shit how many girls’ names he’s notched into his headboard. A het Lothario is granted an invisibility built into the idea of masculinity. That’s a lesson he doesn’t have the energy to teach small minds.

He slams into the bathroom and starts the shower. Andrew stares at himself as he undresses. By the time he’s naked, the mirror is mostly steamed. His body isn’t perfect, but it’s desired—the hands and mouths of boys on it tells him that story. He’s never bothered that it’s just sex, and regardless of Nat’s word—slutty—Andrew isn’t. He is choosy and knows what he wants. He doesn’t want arms around him in the after and he doesn’t want sweet kisses or words. He craves touch, and he gets it. Anything else he craves he knows comes from a longing he can’t fill right now. But he saves it, keeps it close to his heart.

°

To: Andrew Witherell [drewithit7@---]

From: Miles Graham [milodgraham@---]

Subject: I cave

All right, you sort of win. I’ve been following the QuASA fb and am gonna take the plunge. They’re having a thai and movie thing at URC. It sounds low key enough that I might be able to handle it. If I can handle being the weirdest moose amongst strangers.

°

To: Miles Graham [milodgraham@---]

From: Andrew Witherell [drewithit7@---]

Subject: RE: I cave

I am so proud of you! Call me after and tell me everything.

I’m not sure I get the moose thing?

-A

°

Andrew answers on the first ring. “So how was it?”

“It was okay.” Milo hunches his shoulders. It’s not cold out, but it is dark and he feels very alone.

“Just okay?”

“No, well, I don’t know. They seemed nice. The food was good.”

“Oh well, I’m
so
glad you expanded your culinary horizons. I was really worried you weren’t liking the food out there.”

“Okay, okay.” Milo laughs and switches ears. “I’m…” Andrew waits him out. “I’m so weird. With people I don’t know. It’s like my mouth freezes and I have no idea how to talk normally.”

“You do fine. You always over-analyze.”

“How do people
do
small talk? I can never think of what I’m supposed to say next.”

“Some people are just gifted.”

“Oh, you’re gifted, all right,” Milo says, and Andrew’s laugh is delighted. It loosens him a little, after an uncomfortable night.

“Did you meet any nice people?” Andrew asks.

“Yeah, they all seemed nice. And I got the feeling…”

“That?”

“It’s probably not shocking, meeting freshmen who are lost or strange.”

“Yeah,” Andrew says slowly. “You’re not strange, Milo.”

“Not with you.” Andrew waits him out again. “They invited me to a get-together next weekend.”

“Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know.” Milo shoulders the front door open. “A part of me feels like it would be easier to stay home and read. Less stressful.”

“Maybe in a way, it will be. But it’s lonely. I know you’re lonely. And I know you’re far away. But change isn’t always easy, or everyone would do it. You went to USC for big changes, Milo.”

Milo leans against the closed door to his room. Andrew’s not wrong.

“You have to make those happen, Milo. All that awkwardness and anxiety when you meet new people… they don’t have to cripple you. They can be growing pains, and you’ll outgrow them soon.”

“Drew, do you really think I can do that?”

“I know,” Andrew says. His certainty roots inside Milo. Maybe he can do this. “I know you can.”

chapter six

A
ndrew can’t meet Milo at the airport when he comes home for Christmas. Milo’s parents will, and he knows that Andrew’s presence, something his father frowns upon, won’t help what is already going to be a hard enough trip. They text from the moment Milo lands until they can finally see each other. Milo manages to sneak out two days later with the excuse of meeting with Ted and the group.

At the door to Andrew’s home, Milo has to take a deep breath and calm himself. When Andrew throws the door open, Milo catches him in a crushing hug that lifts him from the ground.

“You’re covered in snow,” Andrew says. The scent of winter follows Milo in, but it’s Andrew’s cologne that permeates his senses. Andrew’s lips barely brush the skin of Milo’s neck and Milo has to suppress the shudder that runs through him.

“Well, then let me in,” Milo jokes. They disentangle and Milo stomps excess snow from his boots and brushes the fine dusting from his coat—outside lovely, fat clumps of snow obscure their view, blanketing everything in the calm a winter snowfall brings.

“Milo, honey,” Andrew’s mom says, coming in from the kitchen. “It’s so nice to see you; we’ve missed you.” She winks at Andrew. Her hair is darker than when he left in September, the natural highlights she passed on to her son are now almost brown and, for the first time, threaded with silvery grey. But her eyes are the same steady dark brown as always, and right now they look familiar and welcome. “Probably not as much as this guy.”

Andrew rolls his eyes and hangs Milo’s coat. “I’ve made snickerdoodles and hot chocolate,” Caroline continues.

“We’re not ten—”

“That sounds amazing,” Milo interrupts. Andrew’s face splits with a smile because even if he’s protesting, Milo knows he can’t resist snickerdoodles. Milo fits into the fabric of their home seamlessly; after more than ten years of friendship, Andrew’s home feels more his to Milo than his real home. Over the cookies, Milo fills them in on what he’s been up to in school. Most of it Andrew’s heard, but it’s cozy in the kitchen, and Caroline is so interested.

Once they’ve eaten their fill of cookies, Andrew leads Milo to his room. The first thing Milo does is flop onto his bed and sigh.

“God, I’ve missed this. Your bed has to be the most comfortable place in the world.”

Andrew hesitates, and Milo pushes past the moment of uncertainty. What he wants is to have Andrew crawl onto the bed with him as they’ve done a million times.

“Come here, you asshole; let’s talk,” he says. He props himself on the pillows and arranges himself, creating a careful space between them, and then turns to Andrew. His face is beautiful, with a wide smile and bright eyes. His hair has remained bright, with unpredictable strands of lemon yellow and warm brown woven throughout. His eyes, in the dim room and against the green of his comforter, are almost hazel. Milo hopes they can find time to go down to the beach, even if it’s freezing, because the way the sun teases out the flecks of green in Andrew’s eyes always makes it seem as if his whole face has transformed.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Andrew says without thinking. Milo takes his hand and threads their fingers together.

“Me too.” Milo shifts down and rests his head on Andrew’s shoulder, and they both squirm until it works comfortably. He tries hard not to feel the nearness of Andrew’s body in a way he shouldn’t.

“How’s home?” Andrew asks.

“Harder than I thought.” Their voices are little more than whispers, as if the topic and admission would be too much spoken any louder. “I’ve been so lonely and lost at school, I thought there wasn’t a difference—”

“What? It can’t possibly be the same, Milo.”

“It’s not. But being unhappy…”

“God, that sucks.” Andrew pulls Milo closer.

“It’s nothing like being here. Being lonely and unhappy are so much easier. I guess I didn’t realize that independence really meant something, even though I hate it there. What is it about him that makes me feel like this when he hasn’t even really started in on me?”

“I don’t know. Because he’s been fucking with your head for years?”

“I’d rather he do it from afar.”

“Yeah.”

Milo closes his eyes and tries so hard to put the longing in his heart, which is flooding his body, into a box. “But it’s worth it,” he says. He twists the material of Andrew’s shirt in his fist. “To see you.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be hurt to do so.”

Milo doesn’t reply. The early dark of winter begins to dim the room. After a while, Andrew’s breath begins to deepen and slow, a rhythm Milo hasn’t heard in months, but knows means he’s slipping into sleep. He moves away and they settle side by side on the bed, and the last thing Milo remembers is how their hands draw together like magnets between their bodies.

°

When Andrew wakes, Milo isn’t in bed with him. Andrew tries to blink the gritty leftovers of sleep from his eyes. The clock on his nightstand reads late—almost midnight. There’s a note on his desk.

Had to go. Didn’t want to wake you. Call me later.

Milo’s jagged and nearly unreadable handwriting covers the slip of torn paper he must have gotten from Andrew’s journal. For a gut-churning moment, Andrew’s stress levels spike. There’s a whole lot in that journal he doesn’t need Milo reading. The things they don’t say are spilled with brutal honesty in those pages.

Milo wouldn’t violate that privacy though.

Despite the late hour, he texts Milo.

Should have woken me. I’ll never get to sleep now.

You looked way too peaceful

When did you leave?

About eight? Early enough not to get the third degree. Helped mom with pies.

Thrilling. When are we hanging next?

I think after Christmas

, dad being a jerk

Andrew bites his lip and pulls back a frown. He was hoping to see more of Milo over break. He understands, but it still hurts.

Remember to delete that before he checks your phone.

All right. Later.

Night.

Sleep won’t be coming soon. Andrew feels too alert for it, too buzzed on Milo’s nearness and his smell, which lingers on the pillow. Andrew buries his face in it and inhales. He doesn’t feel guilty; needing Milo is visceral. He’s enjoying college, but missing Milo is a constant, like the star-strewn sky. Even with a blanket of clouds obscuring it, it’s always there.

Milo is the same as always. Andrew knows he himself has changed—his body finally seems to be letting him grow into it, and what was left of his gangly, coltish and too thin body has stretched into something slim and filled out in good ways. Andrew wonders if Milo noticed that, then shakes his head. Why would he?

It’s dark out, and, when Andrew touches the pane of the window, cold. Too cold for a walk, and cloudy too, so that the night sky blinds his view of the stars. Andrew picks up his journal, rolls off his bed, away from the tempting smell on his pillow, and goes downstairs. The fire his parents built is nothing but glowing embers, but he enjoys them nonetheless. His journal falls open to his last entry, and he takes a few moments to clear his mind before starting the next.

° ° °

Waltham feels
less familiar after Christmas than Andrew expected. He has to work harder to lose himself in the moment. The nights he walks back to his dorm alone, so late sometimes it’s really morning, the air is so stifling, despite the cold, that he imagines the press of the full campus closing in on him. In his bed, skin still painted with the scent and buzz of whatever party he’s left, he’ll ease into sleep, not with the memories of a few hours ago, but of the way the moon paints itself, distorted and quivering in endless motion, on the water of Chickopee, his favorite beach. His heart is always the most open there. Home whispers in a language of familiar longing. Here, in this school skin, he is a different person.

°

Milo is on his way home one night in February, thinking of the email he’ll compose to Andrew, reporting what he’s done and sharing semi-good news, when he decides he’d rather call. It’s late, so he knows the call will be hit-or-miss, but he misses Andrew’s voice.

“Hey,” he says when Andrew picks up. “Is this an okay time?”

“It’s always a good time to call me.”

“Well, no, not really,” Milo says, thinking of the nights Andrew answers drunk, or nights when he doesn’t text back until hours later. Sometimes he over-shares why he’s taken so long. Milo doesn’t much like that, but he can’t tell Andrew what to do, or even
why
he’s uncomfortable. He isn’t sure why he is, which makes articulating it impossible.

“What’s up?” Andrew asks. He yawns.

“I went to another thing.”

“Oh, awesome! Another movie night?”

“No, more like a mixer thing?”

“That sounds like something straight out of the fifties,” Andrew says, laughing. Milo looks up at his dorm building. It’s so nice out; he’s still getting used to the mildness when he could be home, mired in winter. He doesn’t want to go inside. It’s dark; early nightfalls still press on them.

“Yes, but it wasn’t,” Milo says. “The kids told me about this thing called the Rainbow Floor. A few of them live there.”

“Oh yeah! I remember seeing that on the website. Didn’t I tell you about it?”

“Maybe? I don’t remember, but if it was early last semester, you might have and I forgot. I wasn’t absorbing much.”

“Yeah,” Andrew says softly. “Do you want to live there? Would your father know?”

“No, this is the great part,” Milo says. “They, like, disguise the floor for parent and family weekends as a multicultural floor. Housing Contracts won’t say anything. It’s in the Century dorm, which is nice. There are four-person apartments, a pool, volleyball courts and all sorts of stuff.”

“Wow, that’s swanky. I’m planning on shitty student apartments, houses or crowded dorms. Can I come live with you?”

“Please,” Milo says with feeling, “That would be great.”

“If only.”

Neither speaks for a long moment.

“So do you think you’ll do it?”

“I’m definitely going to check it out.”

“Good,” Andrew says. “Milo?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you. For going out tonight and everything else.”

Milo watches the stars and treasures the warmth in his stomach and the familiarity of Andrew’s voice. “Thank you.”

° ° °

Andrew’s summer
break ends sooner than Milo’s. Andrew’s worried over it, and tells Milo he hates the thought of leaving him even for a little bit. The months at home have worn Milo by degrees until the carriage and confidence he brought from school have been stripped by his father’s control and words. Occasionally, his father grants Milo nights away from home, no curfew or rules, as a reward for doing so well during his first year of college.

The night before Andrew has to leave, Milo is granted one of these stays. He asked his father with a gut-churning worry over the lie he was telling—a night with other friends—and also because he so badly needed to be with Andrew before he left. His father smiled and clapped him on the back.

They watch movies late into the night. Andrew’s bought all of Milo’s guilty pleasure snacks and planned the order of movies. Milo laughs at some of his choices, but goes along when he sees
Juno
, which is his favorite.

“How do you possibly think we’ll stay awake for all this? Or that your attention will last that long?”

“Hope springs eternal,” Andrew replies, voice dry, rolling his eyes.

°

Halfway through
The
Order of the Phoenix
, Andrew turns to Milo. “What’s your plan when you go back?”

Milo turns the volume down and looks up to the ceiling. “Deprogram?”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” Andrew turns toward him, head flat on the pillow. His face is sad. The flickering lights of the movie cast strange shadows. “I still suck at making good friends.”

“God, I wish we weren’t so far from each other,” Andrew says.

Milo takes his hands and folds their arms together until Andrew is on his side, close enough to his body to feel the heat radiating from him. He’s always been so much warmer than Andrew’s near-permanent cold state. They’re both comfortable in silence. It speaks to them and for them.

But there aren’t words for the look in Milo’s eyes when Andrew meets them. It’s too dark to see the color, but bright enough for the intensity of his gaze to spark an electric connection they’ve only shared once, when they kissed.

Neither of them move, and Andrew holds that look, and his breath, for too long. Milo presses his lips together and then licks them and Andrew
knows
, knows that if he wanted, he could tip into the last layer of space between them and kiss him.

Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to breathe and force his mind into a rational frame. Milo is vulnerable now, and so softly open, and he wants,
oh
, Andrew wants too badly what he knows he can’t have.

“Drew.” Milo’s whisper is barely audible and so different from his usual voice. Andrew feels the breath of the words and opens his eyes to see Milo closing that space between them; everything else slips away then, when Milo’s damp lips and hot breath touch him. He kisses back by instinct, pushing closer, as close as he can, and when the tenor of the kiss changes —when Milo’s lips tremble from hesitant to passionate—Andrew opens his mouth, sucks lightly at Milo’s bottom lip and then welcomes his tongue. He scarcely dares to breathe, terrified to break whatever spell has been cast on this moment.

It’s only when hunger comes over them, when Milo pushes in roughly and Andrew rolls easily onto his back to accept it, that Milo pulls back. He tightens his hold on Andrew’s hands, but when Andrew opens his eyes, Milo’s eyes are closed and his breathing is rough and uneven. “I can’t,” he says in a graveled voice. His eyelids tremble, and he radiates fear and aching longing.

°

When disappointment sags through Andrew’s body, Milo’s disgust with himself swamps every muscle and bone. His body, so close to Andrew’s, and his lips still savoring the taste of that kiss, wants and wants to keep Andrew on his back, roll over him and surround him with the call of his heart and body.