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The night that Scott Pilgrim met Wallace Wells, he had planned on Wallace Wells being a one night stand. His first one night stand, actually. A one night stand of a surprising gender, but maybe that would help him stay unattached, he had reasoned. If Scott Pilgrim’s life had a face, even Scott Pilgrim would punch it sometimes.
The night they had met, Scott and Wallace had both ended up at The Little Jerry, both somewhat drunk and buzzing with the kind of electricity that comes along with being young and alive and searching for something.
The Little Jerry had horrible red vinyl booths, cheap beer on tap and everything was sticky. There were about three lights in the entire place and Scott remembers that he reasoned the dark would make it easy to find strangers beautiful.
But Scott thinks Wallace is beautiful in the dark when they go to sleep and every morning when he wakes up to see Wallace’s face lit by sunlight, hovering over the stove and making breakfast.
Scott certainly remembers thinking Wallace was beautiful when he first saw Wallace on the dance floor. He remembers that Baby One More Time by Brittany came on and Wallace shouted over the music “This is my song!” and his face was shockingly radiant and Scott ached to trace the lines of Wallace’s smile with his fingers first, and then his tongue.
Scott doesn’t remember if this sudden attraction outside his usual spectrum of women sent any chaos roiling through his mind and gut. But he remembers with clarity, laughing at Wallace’s unbridled joy, pleased by this bright stranger’s enthusiasm. He doesn’t remember getting onto the dance floor but he remembers Wallace was grinding on him. The roughness of his skinny jeans and the soft pull of Wallace’s hands on Scott’s hips. He remembers the feeling of Wallace’s excitement pressing into the curve of his ass, remembers liking the edge of the sensation. He remembers every single eyelash against Wallace’s cheek before he leaned in to kiss him.
“I’m not gay.” Scott murmured into the kiss, hands twinning in the stranger’s dark hair to pull him closer.
“I am,” Wallace had said, kissing him deeper.
And then Like a Prayer by Madonna had come on and Wallace had broken the kiss to scream, “This is my song!”
And Scott said, “I thought the last one was your song.
And Wallace had looked offended, “I can have more than one song.” And then he cut off any potential venues for further discussion by kissing Scott breathless. His mouth was hot and tasted like gin and citrus and his hands were hot and they felt like the answer to a question Scott had been asking for a while.
Scott followed Wallace home that very night, pulled by Wallace’s answering hands and Wallace’s teeth on his lower lip. Everything was so loud and electric that Scott still remembers the air as though it was crackling with shocks. He’s not sure how they made it up the stairs to Wallace’s shitty attic studio apartment and he’s not sure when he lost his clothes but he remembers with perfect clarity the way that Wallace fucked him, gently at first, face soft and asking, are you sure? I thought you weren’t gay. And then, when Scott said he was sure, when he kissed yes and more into Wallace’s lips, his neck, his shoulders, how Wallace fucked him so hard the walls the studio shook.
Scott doesn’t remember falling asleep that first night, tangled up with Wallace and the sheets and the moonlight, doesn’t remember the decision to stay, but he remembers waking up the next morning, sunlight streaming in the window, and the smell of bacon and eggs sizzling through the air. So Scott stayed for breakfast.
And he never quite got around to leaving.
Panur Tue 01 Mar 2022 05:26PM UTC
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