|Got You (Where I Want
oh hey, what's your favorite song?
maybe we could hum along
well, I think you're smart, you sweet thing
tell me your name
I'm dying here
Frank sees the kid standing against the wall in the far corner of the club. It's the same place that the kid always stands if no one is there before him, and he's wearing the same thing he always wears, an over-sized and beaten-up leather jacket and a black concert t- shirt and tight black jeans. The t-shirt changes, rotates between Anthrax and Metallica and a couple of other heavy metal bands, but it's never Black Flag. If it had ever been Black Flag, Frank would already be in love instead of just interested in nailing the kid.
He's not playing tonight, but the first time Frank saw the kid had been from the stage. He'd looked up from the microphone and caught the flash of light off the kid's glasses and been momentarily blinded. Tonight, though, he's just in a audience, supporting the local scene and all that good stuff, so he's drifted through the crowd until he's standing pretty close to the kid, not quite next to him, but close.
He's tall and thin and his glasses are old-fashioned ones, thick black plastic frames that overwhelm his entire face. He's wearing the Anthrax t-shirt. He's got his hands in the pockets of the leather jacket; his pants are so tight that Frank wonders if he's cut the pockets out so that he can squeeze into them. He wonders if he tried to put his hands in those pockets would his fingers slide against naked skin. There's no way that the kid is wearing underwear under those pants. He wonders if the kid would let him.
He sidesteps one of the cocktail waitresses, Jenna, with a smile and suddenly he's standing next to the kid and a little in front of him. He glances over his shoulder, but the kid doesn't seem to notice him. It's hard to tell, really -- the glasses are blank reflections of stage light and hide his eyes -- but Frank notices that the kid's mouth is soft and curved like a girl's mouth, very pretty. He couldn't tell that from a distance. Another band takes the stage, a local hard rock act called Destruction (very original, Frank thinks, but hey, it's not his fucking band, right?) and the crowd shifts and surges and Frank ends up taking a step back and bumping into the kid.
"Sorry," he says, loud enough to be heard over the roar of electric guitar.
The kid smiles and shrugs, the concert-sign language for "it's cool," and Frank smiles back and wishes the kid had said something. He wants to hear his voice.
He doesn't know why the kid has such fascination for him. He's cute, sure, but not the best looking kid in the club, not by a long shot. It could be the way he shows up every night, almost always alone, standing in the corner with his hands in his pockets and his hair combed into an artful pompadour that obviously took some time to create. He comes almost every night, he spends time on his hair, and he talks to no one. Well, once or twice he showed up with a fat kid with long hair, but that guy hasn't been back in weeks so Frank figures he's out of the picture. And Frank's a lot hotter than the fat kid anyway, if it comes to that.
He leans over when Destruction finishes its first song. "You like these guys?" he shouts.
The kid shrugs. "They're okay," he shouts back and his voice is deeper than Frank expected it to be. He keeps his eyes on the stage. "They're not exactly my thing."
"No?" Frank thought that Destruction would be this kid's thing, since they're basically a Metallica rip-off without the melodies. Judging from the crowd, not many people can tell the difference.
The kid shrugs again and his jacket is so big that the whole thing moves like it's an empty shell. Frank has the sudden and chilling thought that this is the fat kid's jacket, that this guy is wearing his fat boyfriend's jacket and Frank is wasting his time. "I'm more into British stuff right now," he says loudly. He says some names of bands, but Frank can't really hear in the din.
"Oh yeah?" he says. "That's cool."
They stand in silence for a while, watching the band thrash against one another. "So," Frank says, turning a little so that his body's curved in toward the kid's. "Why are you here, then? You know, if you don't like them?"
The kid looks at him, turning his head, and in the darkness of the club Frank still can't make out more than dark shadows where his eyes lurk behind his lenses. He smiles and leans down, his mouth close to Frank's cheek. "Why are you?" he asks, his voice vibrating in Frank's ear.
Frank laughs. "I didn't have anything better to do," he answers. He could tell the truth and say that he'd shown up just to see if the kid came to every show or only to shows where Frank's band was playing, but that's just stupid so he doesn't.
The kid leans back against the wall and holds his hands out as if to say "me neither." They watch the band some more, and Frank is so focused on pretending that he's interested in what's happening onstage that he's startled when the kid's voice manifests in his ear again.
"You're from Pencey, aren't you?" the kid asks.
Frank turns and smiles and they're so close that they're almost kissing already, and months from now when he's lying in bed, he'll think of this moment and it will make him smile up into the dark. "Yeah," he says. "I'm Frank."
He holds out his hand and the kid looks at it for a second. Then he takes it and his own hand is smooth and not rough with the calluses of a guitar player and Frank wonders if the kid's whole body is this smooth and hopes that he'll have the chance to find out. He tugs the hand he's been proffered a little and the kid steps forward, his shoulders blocking out the light from the stage. He puts his mouth right next to Frank's ear, so close that Frank can feel the cool plastic of the kid's glasses against his cheek. "I'm Mikey," the kid says, and Frank shivers.