Chapter 1: Banging Chicks is the Norm. I’m the Norm.
Notes:
Ayeeee chapter 1😛Posted something light so my freaking draft deadline wouldn’t get me😩
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chris has been on his midnight jerkothalon for a good two hours now. It was his best way to clear his mind of any sick and twisted thoughts. Like how the steaminess of the locker room created an atmosphere that made his teammates look extra glistened and ripped. The curve of their muscles, the rippling of skin as they flexed. The range from hairless to full on bear. The trail that definitely led to something happy—
He came again. The post nut clarity followed less than a second after. He didn’t even nut to the sexy ebony lesbian porn playing on his school Chromebook. That seriously pissed him off. Those were some really pretty girls. Not as beautiful as his girlfriend, of course.
He reached for the framed picture on his nightstand of him and his gorgeous girlfriend sharing an ice cream together. She’d been the main character of his wet dreams from eighth grade all the way to sophomore year when he finally got promoted to be Varsity quarterback for his pretty big deal school of 5500 students. They were state champs six years in a row. That position gave him a boost in popularity—though he was already pretty known for being a bag of dicks—and a boost of courage to ask out the girl of his fantasies.
He caressed the frozen expression on her face before putting the picture back in its rightful spot. The erotic fake moans of the porn stars began to annoy him so he shut his laptop. He pued his boxers on and slid out of bed. It was Saturday morning. Precisely, two in the morning. It’d been week five of junior year and Chris was already drained. He trudged into the kitchen and drank himself stupid of the carton of orange juice that was halfway to empty anyways.
Chris slammed the fridge door shut, wiping orange juice from his upper lip with the back of his hand. It was two in the morning, but sleep wasn’t in the cards. His brain was buzzing, full of thoughts he couldn’t pin down, like TV static mixed with explosions.
He paced the kitchen in his socks, muttering to himself. “Why the hell am I thinking about Kevin ‘Meat Truck’ Alvarez flexing in the locker room?“
The house was dead silent, except for the faint hum of the fridge and his own heavy breathing. His dad—Mr. Smith, the kind of guy who yelled at the TV during History Channel documentaries—was snoring upstairs. Chris knew if he woke him, he’d get a lecture about “mental toughness” and “not being a pansy.”
He wandered back to his room and stared at the framed photo of his girlfriend again. He liked her. Really. But lately, every time they were together, his brain felt like someone had switched the channel to static.
Lying down, he tried to convince himself tomorrow would be better. He’d wake up, throw a football, maybe punch a kid in the hallway who looked at him funny. That was life, right? Varsity quarterback. Big man on campus.
Morning came way too soon. Chris woke up with his face pressed against the carpet. He didn’t even remember getting out of bed. His alarm clock screamed, and he slapped it so hard the batteries flew out.
His phone buzzed with a text from Adrian Chase. “Yo bro. U think Mr. Whitaker is a vampire? I’m like 90% sure. Also I stole three highlighters from the art room. Wanna hang?”
Chris groaned. Adrian, his annoying next door neighbor since middle school, when he unfortunately moved to Evergreen, had the energy of a sugar-high raccoon and the intelligence of one too. He was forced to play with him occasionally because he’s best friends with his older brother, and by play, he meant excessive and unnecessary bullying. Adrian, Chris believed, was a freak.
He never got upset at anything and only got upset at the wrong things. He was confused about everything but was highly knowledgeable in stupidly niche things. He was all around a freak.
How he got Chris’s number? Well, last year he kind of went missing. He actually just went to the city with his DnD friends for some kind of nerdy nerd convention and told literally nobody. Out of concern and worry for the next time he’ll randomly disappear, Mrs. Chase made Chris get his number so more people will be stored in his contact for emergency.
Now Adrian just harasses him with spider facts, bird facts, facts facts, and other stupid shit that Chris leaves on read a lot.
Chris shoved his backpack into the passenger seat of his truck and climbed in after it. The engine roared to life with a deep, throaty growl that could be heard across the cul-de-sac. It was the sound of suburban masculinity—his RAM 1500, the stereotypical whip for a white dude who thought horsepower could solve depression.
He tapped the steering wheel, waiting for the heat to kick in. His mind was foggy from a night of restless thoughts, but at least the truck made him feel grounded. It was loud, heavy, reliable. Unlike him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of motion. The screen door of the house next to his slammed open, and there he was—Adrian Chase, hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, clutching a backpack that looked like it was about to explode with loose papers.
Adrian jogged across the yard and up to the truck. He rapped his knuckles against the window like a kid knocking on a fish tank. Chris rolled it down halfway, already bracing himself.
“Morning, Chris!” Adrian beamed, completely oblivious to the scowl on Chris’s face. “Can I get a ride?”
Chris tilted his head back and groaned. “No. Absolutely not. Do I look like your personal chauffeur?”
Adrian leaned closer, grinning. “C’mon, man. We live right next door. It’s literally one driveway to the other. You’re going to the exact same place.”
Chris jabbed a finger at him. “And that’s exactly why I can’t. Pulling into Evergreen High with a nerd in my passenger seat? That’s social suicide. Everyone would think it’s charity work—or worse, that we’re friends.”
Adrian blinked, feigning offense. “Wow. You wound me. Deeply. What about loyalty? Brotherhood? We’ve been neighbors since diapers, dude.”
Chris sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Then ask your brother. Gut can drop you.”
Adrian shrugged. “Dorian already left. Took the Civic like twenty minutes ago. Said he had ‘business.’ Which probably means buying Funyuns from the gas station before first period.”
Chris ran a hand down his face. He could already imagine the whispers, the snickers, the memes waiting to happen if he rolled up with Adrian sitting shotgun. No way. Not happening.
“Truck bed,” Chris said finally, jerking a thumb toward the back. “That’s your only option.”
Adrian’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Heck yeah! I’ve always wanted to ride in the back like a cowboy! Do I get to yell ‘Yeehaw’?”
Chris muttered under his breath. “If you yell anything, I’m flooring it and leaving you in a ditch.”
Adrian sprinted to the back, tossing his backpack in and climbing over the side. He crouched like a kid about to play laser tag, gripping the rail with both hands. “This is the coolest day of my life already!”
Chris shook his head and pulled out of the driveway. The truck rumbled down the street, and in the rearview mirror, he saw Adrian standing like he was on the bow of the Titanic, arms stretched wide.
“Sit down, you psycho!” Chris barked through the open back window.
Chris groaned and turned up the radio. Some country rock song about beer, trucks, and heartbreak blared through the speakers. It fit the morning too well, which only annoyed him further.
The neighborhood blurred by—neatly trimmed hedges, mailboxes with faded numbers, the smell of freshly cut grass. The perfect picture of normality, except for the maniac screaming from the back of his truck.
As he hit the stoplight before Evergreen High, Chris felt his stomach twist. Students were already arriving. Cars packed the lot, kids swarming like ants. His heart sank.
Chris pulled into the lot, headlights cutting through groups of kids. Eyes turned toward the truck immediately. Jocks nudged each other, goths rolled their eyes, and someone already had their phone out, filming.
He parked, trying to pretend he wasn’t about to have a meltdown. He kept his gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge Adrian hopping out of the truck bed like he’d just returned from a war zone.
“Made it alive!” Adrian cheered. “Ten out of ten ride. Would recommend. Five stars on Uber, baby!”
Chris slammed the door shut and rounded on him. “You seriously can’t just exist like a normal human for once? Now everyone thinks I roll up with a circus act.”
Adrian adjusted his glasses, unfazed. “Nah, man. You roll up with entertainment. You’re welcome. Half this school is already bored out of their minds. You just gave them a show.”
Chris’s girlfriend, Harcourt, appeared in the crowd, watching with a mix of confusion and concern. Chris swallowed hard. Great. Just great.
“Morning,” she said slowly, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Uh… Adrian, right?”
Adrian grinned, giving her a double finger-gun. “That’s me! The neighbor. The legend.”
Chris wanted to sink into the pavement. “Ignore him,” he muttered, grabbing her hand. “He’s not important.”
“Not important?” Adrian gasped dramatically. “Bro, I literally saved your ass last summer when you almost set your lawn on fire with fireworks!”
Chris hissed, eyes darting around at the kids clearly eavesdropping. “Shut. Up.”
But Adrian wasn’t shutting up. He launched into a story about Chris running from sparklers gone wrong, his voice carrying across the lot like an open mic comedian. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Chris’s cheeks burned. His carefully maintained image as Evergreen’s untouchable quarterback was cracking, thanks to the loudmouth idiot next door.
Still, somewhere deep inside, a tiny part of him almost—almost—wanted to laugh too.
He clenched his jaw instead, dragging his girlfriend toward the doors. Adrian skipped along behind them, humming loudly like a soundtrack to Chris’s humiliation.
The day hadn’t even started yet, and Chris already felt like he was gonna go home.
Chris leaned back in the squeaky red leather booth, flipping the paper straw wrapper between his fingers. The diner was nearly empty this time of day—just a trucker at the counter and a couple of teachers grading papers in the corner. The hum of the milkshake machine blended with the old rock song playing faintly through the speakers.
Across from him, Amelia Harcourt sipped her Diet Coke through a bendy straw. She had that way of making even a diner booth look like a photo shoot, posture straight, blond hair perfectly in place, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
“So…” she said, tilting her head. “Our one-year anniversary is next week.”
Chris blinked. His brain scrambled. Right—one year. Somehow, he’d pulled it off. Quarterback lands the girl of his dreams, keeps her for twelve months straight. On paper, it was perfect.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s, uh, pretty crazy.”
“Crazy good or crazy bad?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Crazy… impressive?” Chris forced a smile, trying not to look like his insides were tied in knots.
Harcourt smirked faintly. “So the question is—do we celebrate it? Dinner? Something casual? Or do we not make a big deal about it?”
Chris twirled the straw wrapper tighter, tighter, until it almost snapped. His mind wasn’t on anniversaries. It was still stuck on the night before. On the images in his head when he’d been alone, restless. His teammates, sweat shining under locker room lights. The shapes of bodies he wasn’t supposed to notice.
He pushed the thought away like shoving something under a bed. Harcourt was here. His girlfriend. The perfect girlfriend. The girl everyone envied him for dating.
“Yeah, dinner sounds cool,” he said quickly. “We should, uh, go big. Steakhouse or something.”
Harcourt tilted her soda, watching the ice swirl. “Or maybe something low-key. We don’t have to perform for anyone else, you know?”
Chris’s throat went dry. Perform. That word hit too close.
Before he could answer, the diner door jingled open. A blast of cool air followed, and Chris’s stomach dropped. It was Fleury, wide receiver, walking in like he owned the place.
Fleury spotted him instantly. “Yo, Smith!” He swaggered over, letterman jacket slung over one shoulder. His grin was easy, confident, the kind of grin that drew eyes without even trying.
Chris straightened in his seat, plastering on a grin that felt too wide. “Fleury. What’s up, man?”
Fleury slid into the booth next to Harcourt without asking, bumping her shoulder like they’d been friends forever. She gave him a look, but he ignored it.
“Didn’t know you two were regulars here,” Fleury said, snatching a fry from Chris’s plate. “Coach let you off the leash during free period?”
Chris tensed. Harcourt rolled her eyes. “We’re just talking, Fleury. You always this nosy?”
“Depends on the company,” Fleury shot back, popping the fry into his mouth. He turned to Chris, eyes sharp in a way that made Chris’s chest twist. “You ready for Friday? Gonna need that golden arm.”
Chris nodded, trying to match his energy. “Always ready. You know me.”
Fleury smirked. “Yeah, I do.”
Something about the way he said it made Chris’s pulse stutter. He forced himself to look at Harcourt instead, who was now scrolling through her phone like she was above all of it.
“So,” she said flatly, “about our anniversary—”
“Anniversary?” Fleury cut in, raising his eyebrows. “Damn, one year already? Didn’t think Chris had the attention span for that.”
Chris laughed too loud, too fake. “Yeah, well, surprise. Guess I’m full of ‘em.”
Fleury leaned back, stretching an arm along the booth. His eyes lingered on Chris a moment too long. “Good for you, man. Real commitment.”
Chris looked away quickly, staring at the salt shaker. His mind betrayed him—flashes of last night, the way his thoughts had twisted, the way his brain refused to stay in one lane.
Harcourt noticed his silence. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Chris said instantly, voice sharp. “Fine. Great. Perfect.”
Fleury grinned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Shut up,” Chris muttered.
The tension hung heavy. Harcourt finally put her phone down. “Maybe we should just go,” she suggested, clearly irritated by Fleury’s presence.
Chris nodded quickly. “Yeah. Good idea.”
But Fleury wasn’t done. He leaned in, close enough that Chris could smell the faint cologne on his jacket. “Don’t choke Friday, Smith. Whole school’s watching.”
Chris’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t tell if it was a threat, encouragement, or something else entirely.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Chris muttered back.
Harcourt slid out of the booth, grabbing her bag. “I’ll see you later, Chris. Text me about the anniversary.” Her voice was clipped, annoyed.
“Yeah,” Chris said weakly, watching her leave.
That left him with Fleury, who leaned forward on the table now, grin fading into something unreadable.
“You’re wound tight, man,” Fleury said softly. “Loosen up. Nobody’s judging you but yourself.”
Chris froze. The words hit harder than they should have.
He forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “What are you, my therapist?”
“Just a teammate.” Fleury slid out of the booth, tossing a few bills on the table for the fry he stole. “See you at practice.”
And then he was gone, leaving Chris staring at the door, heart pounding.
He slumped back against the booth, hand dragging over his face. His food was cold now, his soda flat.
All he could think about was how right Fleury was, and how dangerous that was to admit.
The diner buzzed around him like nothing happened, but inside, Chris was unraveling.
He thought about Harcourt’s words, about “performing.” He thought about Fleury’s grin, his voice, his presence. He thought about the things he couldn’t say out loud.
His chest felt tight, like the air in the diner wasn’t enough. He needed space. He needed silence.
But most of all, he needed to figure out why he couldn’t stop thinking about the wrong things at the wrong times.
Chris shoved his uneaten food aside, tossing a bill on the table. His hands shook as he grabbed his jacket.
He pushed out the diner door, the bell jingling behind him, sunlight hitting his face like a spotlight.
The parking lot was half-empty, but his RAM sat waiting, heavy and solid. He slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel like it could anchor him.
For a long moment, he just sat there, forehead pressed against the leather. His breath came in short bursts.
Images of Harcourt. Images of Fleury. Images of locker rooms, of shadows, of thoughts he couldn’t stop.
“Get it together, Smith,” he muttered to himself.
Chris sprawled on the old sagging couch in Gut’s basement, arms hanging off the sides like a dead body. The TV in front of them flickered with some low-rent action movie, but neither of them was watching. His head was too busy chewing itself apart over the upcoming week.
Homecoming. Hocopose. The one thing worse than finals.
He drummed his fingers on his thigh, trying to shake the nerves. Gut was lounging across from him in his desk chair, leaning back like he owned the place, a bag of Cheetos balanced on his chest.
“So,” Gut said, orange dust on his fingers, “you gonna hocopose or what?”
Chris groaned, covering his face. “Don’t start.”
“You gotta do it,” Gut pressed, grinning. “It’s tradition. You’re quarterback. You’re supposed to go big. Like, ‘Will you go to homecoming with me?’ spelled out in fire on the football field big.”
“That’s arson,” Chris muttered.
“Yeah,” Gut said, like that was the point.
Chris let his hands drop. “I can’t do some cheesy-ass public spectacle. It’s humiliating.”
Gut laughed. “No, what’s humiliating is showing up without asking Harcourt properly and making her look like she got pity-invited. Girls eat that hocopose shit up.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “You sound like a Buzzfeed quiz written by a drunk frat guy.”
“I’m just telling you how it is,” Gut said, smirking. “Women don’t want romance. They want a man who tells them what’s up, makes them laugh, and doesn’t cry unless his truck breaks down.”
Chris stared. “You’re such a misogynistic asshole.”
Gut shrugged, unapologetic. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just ignore ‘em.”
Chris laughed despite himself. Gut had a way of saying things so bluntly stupid they looped back around to funny.
Still, the pressure gnawed at him. Harcourt deserved something big. But he didn’t know if he had it in him.
Before he could spiral further, the basement door creaked open.
“Gut?” Adrian’s voice floated down the stairs.
Chris stiffened instantly.
Adrian appeared in the doorway, squinting into the dim light. He was only wearing a pair of old-school checkered boxers, his pale skin catching the glow of the TV.
Chris felt his throat close up.
Adrian padded inside like it was nothing, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “You got a T-shirt I can borrow?”
Gut groaned. “For what? You already wear my shit all the time.”
Adrian shrugged. “Laundry day. Unless you want me walking around the house like this.”
Chris tried not to look, but his eyes betrayed him. Adrian wasn’t the scrawny kid he remembered. Still lean, sure, but his arms had definition now, his chest notched with faint muscle.
Heat surged through Chris before he could stop it. Panic clawed up his throat.
He sat straighter, forcing his face into a neutral mask. Don’t react. Don’t think. Don’t feel.
Gut threw a Cheeto at Adrian. “Fuck off. Go buy your own clothes.”
Adrian caught the snack midair and ate it. “Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“Hell no.”
Adrian clasped his hands dramatically. “C’mon, man. Best bro move. I’ll owe you one.”
Gut groaned again, tipping his chair back dangerously far. “Fine. Top drawer. Take one and then fuck off again.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Adrian grinned, jogging over to the dresser. He rifled through, yanking out a faded band tee and pulling it over his head.
When the shirt settled, he finally looked at Chris. “Oh hey, didn’t see you there.”
Chris’s mouth was dry. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Adrian beamed. “Gut, did I tell you? Chris gave me a ride to school today. Let me ride in the truck bed and everything. It was like—peak freedom.”
Gut turned his head slowly, locking eyes with Chris.
Chris winced, already bracing for it.
Gut cracked up. “Oh my god. You actually let him? Dude. The optics.”
Chris groaned. “Don’t start.”
Gut shook his head, still laughing. “Quarterback rolls up with his nerd neighbor riding shotgun in the trunk. Legendary. You’re supposed to be setting standards, man.”
Adrian tilted his head. “What? It was awesome.”
“Awesome for you,” Gut said, smirking. “For him, it’s like rolling up to prom in a clown car.”
Chris buried his face in his hands.
Gut clapped him on the shoulder, still chuckling. “Hey, respect though. Big heart move. You’re practically a saint.”
Adrian didn’t look offended in the slightest. He just grinned wider. “See? He gets it. I think.”
Chris forced a laugh, but his stomach was still twisting. That moment earlier, when Adrian came in half-dressed—he couldn’t stop replaying it.
The muscle definition. The casual way Adrian carried himself. The way his chest tightened before he shoved the thought away.
He needed to get a grip.
Gut tossed another Cheeto into his mouth, leaning back. “So, back to hocopose. I’m telling you, man—you need fireworks, flash mobs, or at least a banner. Minimum.”
Chris groaned. “I can’t even get my own head straight, and you want me to organize a marching band?”
“Exactly.” Gut grinned. “That’s why it’ll work. Chaos equals charm.”
Adrian, now fully dressed, flopped onto the couch next to Chris. “I vote for flash mob. But like, ironic. You know, all interpretive dance and kazoo solos.”
Chris shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m always helping,” Adrian said earnestly.
Gut barked a laugh. “You’re helping me laugh, that’s for damn sure.”
Chris shoved his hands into his pockets, forcing a smirk. “Yeah, glad I could be everyone’s entertainment.”
Adrian elbowed him lightly. “Hey, it’s better than being boring.”
Chris’s chest tightened again. He forced himself to lean back, focusing on the ceiling.
Gut launched into another round of crass jokes, something about how homecoming was really just “who gets laid after the dance.” Chris groaned, throwing a pillow at him.
Adrian clapped once. “See? That’s the energy. You gotta keep it unpredictable. Harcourt will love it.”
Chris wasn’t sure if Harcourt would love anything he came up with. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted out of homecoming anymore.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the first time Chris had looked at Adrian that way. During their sophomore year of high school, when Adrian was still a freshman, Chris and Dorian would go to the lake with Dorian‘s new girlfriend at the time, Chelsea. Being the annoying little brother he was, Adrian would tag along which always pissed off Chris and Dorian, but they couldn’t really do much about it.
Even when Adrian was still lanky, Chris always caught himself staring at him. Chris felt like a total perv and dick, even though they only had a year of age difference. So it didn’t help now that Adrian looked like he lifted weights at least four times a week.
He wasn’t even that big. He looked like a beginner at best. Nothing to ogle at. Chris had better things to think about. Like the epic ass homecoming poster he was going to make for his epic ass girlfriend!
Creativity wasn’t one of Chris’s strongest feats. In fact, it was one of the many lacking qualities of Christopher Smith. He’d sat before the poster board he’d gotten from Michael’s arts and crafts, wondering what the hell it was gonna say.
He’d originally thought of just writing ‘Hoco?’ But he remembered when Guy did that in his sophomore more year for his girlfriend and got doused in the large Dunkin’ drink he’d gotten her. In her defense, Hoco was misspelled, written in crappy drying out sharpie, and one third of the drink was missing.
Chris went all out for Emilia. He’d even gotten fat colorful markers, a basket of all the sweets and candies Emilia swears in front of the soccer team she hates but devours when she’s with just Chris. As well as a small bouquet he picked up from the flower shop in the towns plaza. Harcourt swears she hates flowers, but when Chris was invited to her house for the first time during their second month together, she had a big vase with flowers on her desk, and those really cool long plant things that hang from their ceilings in their pots.
It was honestly fitting that a girl like her had secret girly interests. It kind of made sense actually. Chris felt real special being one of the few people who were in on her niche hobbies and interests.
2008 was honestly the perfect time to be alive if you ever had creative block. Computers were the shit! Most especially if you had one in your own home. Which is exactly what they had. It sat in the living room, on a work desk in the corner.
They'd originally gotten it two years ago to make Keith’s college process easier. Now, it just sits there sometimes collecting dust because Auggies to old to give a damn about a robot box and Chris is to occupied with football, his woman, and parties. Notice how school wasn’t mentioned. Like at all? Yeah. Chris chooses not to concern himself with things he feels he can’t control. Like his teachers minds so they’d give him passing grades just for being top dawg.
Chris slouched in the living room chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The glow from the CRT monitor lit his face in sharp angles.
He had created a folder and labeled it “Homecoming_Harco_Shit” because, of course, he couldn’t just type it into the search bar like a normal person.
The forum threads loaded slowly, the old internet hum a background companion to his nerves.
“Will you go to homecoming with me?” he muttered aloud, tapping the search button for the third time.
A forum popped up called “HCProposals.com” and Chris blinked at the cheesy graphics. Pink hearts bounced across the screen, the words “MAKE IT LEGENDARY” flashing in Comic Sans.
He groaned. This was peak embarrassment territory.
Scrolling through posts, he saw ideas ranging from banners hung from rooftops to flash mobs in the cafeteria.
Scrolling down the comments section of someone named “ProposalKing42.”
Chris clicked a thread called “Creative Ideas for the Girl Who Pretends Not to Care.”
It was exactly what he needed, even if it was written in all caps and sprinkled with emojis.
“Step one: Know what she secretly likes. Don’t be lame.” Chris nodded. Step one: check. He knew she liked her little hanging plants, the weird candles, and apparently watching documentaries about obscure wildlife.
Step two: personalize. That was tricky. He wasn't the brightest gem in the bunch. Like stated prior, creativity wasn’t his strongest thing, hence why he was in his current position.
Step three: don’t be lame. Chris blinked at that one. He was quarterback. “Lame” wasn’t exactly his default mode, but there was a fine line between confident and full-on clown.
He opened another tab: “Homecoming Proposal Ideas 2008.” The top post was a girl ranting about how all the proposals she got were “embarrassing as hell.”
Chris read carefully, making mental notes. “So… don’t overdo it. Got it.”
Another suggestion: poster boards with puns. He typed “football pun hc proposal” into Google just to see what came up.
The results were… terrible. You + Me = Touchdown?
Chris laughed, groaning at the cheesiness. He jotted down a mental note: maybe just slightly cheesy.
Scrolling further, someone suggested “bring a basket of her favorite things.”
Chris froze. He is literally the GOAT. He already had all that crap. So why was this so damn difficult?
He eventually settled for a cheesy football hoco-proposal phrase. ‘I know you have a nice catch, cheer but can I be your quarterback at hoco?’ Not his most creative but he tried.
He would’ve used a lyric from Hanoi Rock but NO ONE in school knew he liked alternative music except Emilia. She tells him that no one would even care but Chris never fails to let her know, ‘Em. It’s 2008, I’m supposed to be listening to people like Big Sean and Pitbull and shit.’ Plus, he was star quarterback. Evergreens population of teenagers is fucking ridiculous for some god damn reason. They’ve got six thousand students to account for that are at least enrolled in the school. Not considering homeschooled kids and dropouts. So known was an understatement when it came to Christopher ‘dickhead’ Smith.
Walking awkwardly into the building with some of his teammates crowding him and obnoxiously hitting his shoulders a little too damn hard, Chris held the poster board firmly with one hand and the basket of goodies in the other.
”You got this bro!”
”Yeah, this is all you big dawg!”
”Word!”
In a way, Chris felt a bit better that they were there. He’d look and feel like a loser if they weren’t. What kind of cool guy has to ask a girl to homecoming anyway? It should just be expected that bitches flock to him. Emilia, however, is no bitch. That woman’s got spunk and Chris respects her.
Chris stood there in the middle of the hallway, trying to look confident but mostly just looking like a linebacker who’d lost his helmet and wandered into a calculus test.
The poster board felt heavier than it should’ve. It was just cardboard and glitter glue, but somehow it had the weight of his entire fragile ego.
The words — “Can I be your quarterback at hoco?” — looked like a cry for help written by a dude who’d never said the word “feelings” out loud in his life.
His teammates lingered like a bunch of overgrown hype men, shoving him, grinning, filming on their flip phones like this was the biggest moment in high school history.
“Dude, she’s right there,” one of them hissed, like Chris was about to perform open-heart surgery instead of ask a girl to a dance.
Emilia was by the lockers, talking to her friends, hair pulled back in that easy, no-effort way that made Chris’s brain go static for a full five seconds.
He hated that about her — how she didn’t even try to look cool, and somehow that made her cooler than anyone else in this godforsaken school.
He started walking, the crowd behind him chanting softly like a football cult. “Let’s go Smith. Let’s go Smith.”
The words echoed through the hallway. He wanted to punch every one of them and also hug them for moral support.
Emilia turned. Her eyes found his, then the sign, then the basket of candy. The look on her face was that mix of amusement and concern, like she was watching a toddler juggle knives.
“Oh my god,” one of her friends whispered. “He’s actually doing it.”
Chris cleared his throat.
“Uh— hey, Em,” he started, flashing that lopsided grin that worked on everyone except the one girl he actually wanted it to.
The hallway went dead silent. Even the freshmen knew better than to talk over a public humiliation.
“So, like… I know you got a nice catch, cheer,” he said, trying to sound smooth but landing somewhere between corny and tragic. “But, uh— can I be your quarterback at hoco?”
The silence stretched. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. He could also feel the dumb grin still plastered on his face like a sticker he couldn’t peel off.
Emilia blinked, once. Twice. Then she actually laughed — not a cruel laugh, but one of those genuine ones that punched him in the stomach in the best possible way.
“Chris,” she said, “you’re such a dork.”
His brain immediately went to DEFCON 1. Dork. DORK. He’d rather be called a loser.
But then she smiled, like really smiled, and his neurons just gave up trying to form words.
“Yeah,” she said finally, “I’ll go with you.”
The hallway exploded. Guys yelling, girls squealing, someone actually threw a Gatorade bottle in celebration.
Chris just stood there, stunned, trying to process that he’d actually pulled it off. For a second, he swore he heard the opening riff of a Hanoi Rocks song in his head — something triumphant and a little tragic.
Emilia rolled her eyes at the chaos, grabbed the candy basket out of his hand, and said, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but you said yes,” he shot back, the confidence coming back like a floodgate opening.
She smirked, biting back a laugh. “Don’t make me regret it, quarterback.”
“Too late, Cheer.” one of his teammates yelled, shoving him so hard he nearly dropped the poster.
He looked at Emilia one more time. She was already walking off with the basket, tossing a piece of candy to a kid who’d been watching the whole thing. Totally unbothered. Totally her.
“Dammit she’s so cool.”
Practice was a real fucking drag. But what the biggest drag of all was Adrian Chase wandering a little too damn close to the field and absolutely eating the stitching of the football after it got fired in his direction by Dorian on accident. Chris stood there as he watched Gut begrudgingly walk over to his brother who was laid out flat on the red track, most likely concussed.
All he heard were some faint ‘you good? You can stand,’ and ‘don’t be such a pussy dude.’ It took a few minutes but Adrian wobbled to his feet. After a bit, Dorian walked back over to Chris and the group he was running drills with. One of the guys asked if the random kid was okay and Gut genuinely just shrugged.
No one besides Chris, Emilia, and probably a few other people in school knew that Adrian and Dorian were actually related. Whenever somebody brings up the fact that they have the same last name, Dorian just says it’s a coincidence. Chris sometimes thinks that Dorian is a bit too mean to Adrian, but then Adrian does something really fucking annoying and embarrassing and Chris gets annoyed and embarrassed.
He was still giddy about Emilia saying yes to his corny bullcrap proposal but tried his best to be nonchalant about the whole thing.
After their coach absolutely fucked them in the asses with suicides the remaining thirty minutes of practice, Chris and Gut were planning on where to go get food. Adrian, being the little brother he was, waited for practice to end so he could tag along with them because if he didn’t, he’d basically be stranded at school.
They walked to the senior parking lot, hiking their football gear and duffel bags with Adrian trailing behind them. He was uncharacteristically quiet but Chris knew it was probably because he was hungry. That was one of the three things that got Adrian to shut up. He had to be seriously starving, Asleep, or someone had to out weird his weird. Which was rarely the case.
When Chris first met Adrian, he thought that ignoring him would make him take a hint and stop running his mouth. It did quite the opposite. In fact, it encouraged him to ask more questions thinking on the off chance that his prior five gazillion questions weren’t heard the first time so he asks them again and again with different phrasing. At some point, if your resolve wasn't strong, you just gotta answer him.
Gut threw all his stuff in the backseat of the Sebring. “Alright, Adrian. You gotta ride with Chris.”
They both gave him a confused look. “Dude. Your passenger seat is literally wide open.” Chris spat. Gut scoffed. “Yo. You don’t understand the absolute horror of trying to check both ways and having the misfortune of Adrian staring at you with his fucking bug eyes.”
Adrian’s expression didn’t shift an inch. Either he was used to Dorian’s bullying, which in a way was kind of depressing, or he genuinely didn’t know he was being made fun of. Chris could never tell.
Gut went on. “One time, I decided to do my good brother deed for the year and take this loser to his little DnD groupie shit and almost crashed because just the sight of him scared me when I was checking to turn into the road.”
Chris’s face dropped a bit. “Okay he’s got an off looking mug but lay off on the poor kid. He’s literally right here.” Adrian simply shrugged. “I could always run behind you guys.”
The two older boys just looked at him. “Just get in the damn truck dude.” Chris said flatly. Gut got into the Sebring and led the way to chipotle.
The sound of the Sebring’s muffler coughing itself to death filled the air as it rolled out of the parking lot.
Chris tossed his bag into the back of the truck and started it up, the engine groaning like it hated existing.
Adrian slid into the passenger seat, still a little dazed. He buckled his seatbelt like it was a complex ritual.
Chris threw him a quick side glance. “You gonna puke?”
Adrian blinked. “Probably not.”
“Good. Don’t.”
They followed Gut’s car out of the lot. His busted Sebring rattled every time it hit a crack. Which was a lot.
The sun was setting, the sky that sick orange color that makes everything look like it’s been left out too long.
Adrian stared out the window. “Practice looked rough.”
Chris shrugged. “Coach was in one of his moods.”
“Like, homicidal?”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence for a bit, the kind that wasn’t really comfortable but wasn’t bad either.
Adrian finally said, “I think my brain’s still vibrating from that football.”
“Yeah, Dorian’s got a hell of an arm when he’s not using it to be an asshole.”
Adrian half-smiled. “He’s consistent though. Always an asshole.”
Chris smirked, eyes on the road. “True.”
They hit the highway, the truck humming under them. Adrian kept glancing at the side mirror like he expected someone to follow.
Chris noticed. “You good?”
Adrian nodded, then shook his head. “I just don’t like cars behind us. Feels like I’m about to get tail-ended and decapitated or something.”
Chris frowned. “That’s specific.”
“I’ve seen videos.”
“Stop watching whatever the hell you’re watching.”
Adrian grinned. “You ever watch people crash on YouTube?”
“No.”
“You should. Makes you appreciate driving in a straight line.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass.”
The radio fizzled through static until some late 2000s rock song came on.
Adrian tapped the dashboard in rhythm. “Nickelback?”
“Yeah.”
“Unironically?”
Chris glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Adrian shrugged. “Nothing. Just… brave of you.”
Chris sighed. “Jesus Christ.”
They rode in silence for a minute. Adrian fidgeted with his seatbelt, clicking it in and out, in and out.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Chris’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “You do that one more time and I’m throwing you into oncoming traffic.”
Adrian froze, his hands up. “Sorry. Nervous habit.”
“About what? The burrito bowl?”
Adrian hesitated. “About life?”
Chris glanced over, unsure if he was serious. “You ever just… not talk?”
Adrian smiled faintly. “Sometimes when I’m asleep.”
Chris huffed out a laugh despite himself. “Guess that’s when you’re the most tolerable.”
The Sebring ahead of them suddenly swerved slightly, Gut’s arm sticking out the window flipping someone off.
“Bet you five bucks Gut’s yelling about how that Prius ‘cut him off’ even though he’s the one tailgating,” Chris said.
Adrian chuckled. “Gut’s like a raccoon that learned to drive through pure hatred.”
“That’s the most accurate thing anyone’s said about him.”
They drove a while longer. The town rolled past — strip malls, gas stations, a random billboard for a mattress sale.
Adrian leaned forward, squinting at the horizon. “You ever think about how everything we do is just… temporary?”
Chris blinked. “Bro. We’re literally on the way to Chipotle. Can we not get existential before I’ve had carbs?”
Adrian nodded solemnly. “Fair.”
Then, softer: “I just mean… people forget you, y’know? Even your brother acts like you’re an inconvenience.”
That made Chris glance over. For once, Adrian wasn’t smiling.
“Yeah, Gut’s kind of a dick sometimes,” Chris admitted. “But he doesn’t actually hate you. He’s just—”
“Incapable of showing affection unless it’s through insults?”
“Exactly.”
Adrian leaned back, watching the trees blur past. “I get it. Still kinda sucks.”
Chris didn’t respond. He just drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.
The radio switched tracks. Some heavy guitar riff kicked in. Adrian perked up.
“Yo, this is in Peacemaker! The intro song!”
Chris gave him a side-eye. “You watch that show?”
“Religiously.”
Chris smirked. “Figures.”
Adrian grinned. “You’re like him a little.”
“Peacemaker?”
“Yeah. Big guy, buff, athletic, strong, muscular, violent tendencies, daddy issues.”
Chris cringed. “Are you fucking hitting on me or something?”
Adrian looked out the window innocently. “Just saying. You even got the haircut.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “I’m telling Dorian his brothers a fag.”
Adrian furrowed his brows. “How can I be an f-slur if I don’t like guys that way?”
Chris briefly looked at him. “You look like you do so it’s shocking you don’t.” Adrian scoffed. The same kind of scoff Gut lets out whenever he hears something ridiculous. Geez, they were hero there through and through. “Sexual orientation and physical appearance has no correlation at all.”
”It literally fucking does dude. Look at all the fairies in our school.”
”Last I checked, this isn’t the 70s Chris. I don’t know why you say stuff like that.”
”Adrian, maybe if you grew some hair on your chest, you’d realize that’s the kind of jokes guys make these days.”
”Homophobic, offensive, and dangerous jokes?”
”Yes.”
They pulled into Chipotle fifteen minutes later. Parking lot was half-empty except for a few trucks and a dude vaping near the entrance like it was his job.
Gut was already out of his car, stretching like he just ran a marathon.
Adrian climbed out slow, clutching his side. “You drive like you’re trying to dodge sniper fire.”
Gut ignored him, pointing at Chris. “So what’s the move? Burritos? Bowls? Or are you doing your boring-ass salad thing again?”
Chris shut his door. “Dude, one time I get lettuce and you act like I burned an American flag.”
“Because it’s unpatriotic, man. Chipotle ain’t for dieting. It’s for suffering.”
Adrian piped up. “I like the kids’ quesadilla.”
Both of them stared.
Chris rubbed his face. “You’re a grown man, Adrian.”
“It comes with juice!”
Gut snorted. “Of course it does.”
They went inside. The smell hit instantly — cilantro, grilled meat, and faint despair from the employees. Inside, the place was dead quiet except for the sound of someone mopping.
The kid behind the counter looked like he wanted to die. Chris got in line behind Gut, Adrian cutting ahead both of them.
Adrian went first, holding up the line because he couldn’t decide between black beans or pinto.
Chris leaned against the counter. “You realize they both taste the same, right?”
When they finally sat down, the parking lot’s sunset glare cut through the window, making the foil on their burritos shimmer like trophies for surviving practice.
Chris dug in. “So, Chase, you thinking about joining football next year? You seem to like hanging around.”
Adrian perked up mid-bite. “You think I could?”
Gut snorted into his drink. “Bro, you tripped walking in here.”
Adrian frowned. “That was the floor’s fault.”
For a brief moment, the tension eased.
Then Adrian spilled his entire drink onto the table.
“Goddammit, Adrian!” Gut barked.
Adrian jumped. “It was gravity’s fault!”
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re eating with a fucking toddler.”
Adrian sheepishly stated, “A toddler with impeccable reflexes.”
Gut irritatedly tossed a napkin at him. “Clean up your impeccable reflexes, then.”
Adrian begrudgingly cleaned the spill, wiping a little extra hard and causing the table to shake which led Gut to let out an array of curses at his brother. He laid it on him pretty serious and all Chris could do was watch. They all sat in silence afterwards, eating their food.
Adrian looked at them both, quiet again. “Hey… thanks for letting me tag along guys.”
Gut didn’t look up. “Whatever.”
Chris smirked. “Don’t mention it. Literally. Ever. To anyone.”
Adrian nodded. “Got it.”
The truck rumbled back to life, headlights cutting through the dark.
The Chipotle sign disappeared behind them as Chris pulled onto the road.
Neither of them said anything at first. Just the hum of tires and the occasional rattle from the glovebox.
Adrian leaned his head against the window. “I think that burrito gave me internal bleeding.”
Chris grunted. “That’s not how food poisoning works.”
“You ever think your organs just give up sometimes?”
“Not really. I don’t think about my organs much.”
“Probably healthy,” Adrian muttered.
Streetlights came and went. Each one flashed across Adrian’s face for half a second — pale, bruised from earlier, but still somehow content.
Chris caught it in his periphery and hated that he noticed.
The air between them sat heavy. Not bad heavy. Just quiet.
Adrian broke it. “Hey, thanks for driving me.”
Chris shrugged. “You’d still be at school otherwise.”
“Still. Appreciate it.”
Chris didn’t respond.
The turn into their neighborhood crept up. Rows of the same tired houses, same cracked driveways.
Chris slowed down near Adrian’s place.
The porch light was on, flickering like always.
Adrian hesitated, looking at his hands. “You sure you don’t want to come in? Mom made—”
“Get out,” Chris said, too quickly.
Adrian blinked. “What?”
“Just—” Chris exhaled hard through his nose. “We’re both dead tired. Go in, man.”
Adrian nodded slowly. “Right. Okay.”
Adrian grabbed his backpack and got out of the truck. Chris rolled his window down to stick his head out and yell at Gut who was on the porch fumbling with his keys.
”Night man! And fuck you for making me a chauffeur!”
Adrian walked up the path, tripping once on the same uneven step he always did.
Chris waited until he disappeared inside before pulling away.
His house was only a few doors down, same boring siding, same dead lawn.
He parked crooked, too tired to care.
The truck engine wheezed as it shut off.
He didn’t bother grabbing his backpack or the pile of sweaty football gear in the backseat.
He just wanted the day to end.
Inside, the house was dark except for the kitchen light his mom always left on.
He kicked off his shoes, let them land wherever.
The floor creaked like it was sighing.
He went straight to the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and stepped into the shower.
The water pressure sucked. Just a half-hearted stream of lukewarm spray.
Still, it felt decent against the layer of grime and sweat.
He braced a hand against the tile, eyes closed, breathing slow.
The image of Adrian sitting in his passenger seat slipped into his head.
He tried to ignore it.
The way the kid talked too much, then got quiet at weird times.
The way he didn’t flinch when Gut made fun of him — just kind of absorbed it.
Chris hated that he respected it.
He turned the water hotter until it stung his shoulders.
Didn’t help.
He got out, toweled off, and didn’t even look in the mirror.
His reflection always looked like someone he didn’t want to argue with.
He threw on a t-shirt and boxers, collapsed into bed without turning the light off.
The ceiling fan squeaked every few seconds like a metronome for insomnia.
He stared at it, brain refusing to shut up.
He thought about how weirdly easy it had been talking to Adrian.
Not the annoying parts — those were always there — but the small moments where the kid actually made sense.
The silence that wasn’t awkward. The kind of quiet he didn’t get with most people.
Then he got mad at himself for even thinking about it.
It was Gut’s brother. That’s all.
That’s the only reason they talked.
He told himself that twice. Then three times.
Still didn’t feel true.
He rolled over, punched the pillow once like that’d fix it.
His chest felt tight — not in a sad way, just in a way that pissed him off.
He forced himself to think of Emilia instead.
Her laugh, the dumb poster he made for the hocoposal, the glitter that wouldn’t come off his fingers.
She’d smiled when he asked. That should’ve been enough.
It was good. It went well.
He should’ve been proud.
He tried replaying it in his head, like looping a movie scene.
The crowd watching. Her saying yes. Everyone cheering.
But it got boring halfway through.
Felt fake somehow.
He rolled onto his back again, staring at the cracks in his ceiling paint.
He could still hear Adrian saying, “Night, Chris,” like an echo that wouldn’t fade.
He clenched his jaw.
“Shut up,” he muttered to no one.
He flipped his pillow to the cold side.
Closed his eyes hard enough to see colors.
Forced his breathing to slow.
Counted backwards from fifty.
By the time he hit twenty, his brain was still talking.
By ten, he gave up.
Sleep eventually came, but it felt more like shutting down than resting.
Notes:
Oh Dorian Chase. You’ll only get meaner from here.
Chapter 2: Homecoming? More like coming home…
Notes:
As a senior in high school, I know EXACTLY how these relationships be moving yo 😭💔
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
I feel like I’m mischaracterizing Adrian and it pmo
Jemisard on Chapter 1 Sun 19 Oct 2025 11:27AM UTC
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