April's not supposed to be this cold, except it is, and it's fucking snowing, and Chuckie's ass is half frozen to the damned bench. It's miserable out, or it would be if the Red Sox weren't up 5-2 in the bottom of the 9th against the fucking Yankees and besides Chuckie's had enough beers that his cheeks are hot and probably as red as Will's are, next to him. And Will's warm, too, where he touches Chuckie, sides pressed tight together because they're not the only crazy shitheads out here today even though it's a Thursday afternoon, even though the sky's about as dark as the inside of a theater, even though every now and then a piece of snow will drift down wet and freezing, leaving a little dark circle behind on whatever it touches.
"Unfucking believable, man," Will crows next to him, taking another deep swig off the beers they snuck in. "Seriously - the ball must've been going like, a hundred miles an hour, maybe more," and Chuckie doesn't really know what Will's talking about, because he's been more looking at the sky and Will and his own pink fingers on his beer which is half ice now anyway, but he nods anyway.
The tickets weren't cheap, so Chuckie told Will he won them in a bet, because otherwise Will would've stonewalled him, the stubborn bastard, and besides it's not like Chuckie got the tickets for himself, so what the hell point would there be in going alone? Sure he could have asked Morgan or Billy, but he'd bought the tickets because of Will, because it's two months since Will's birthday and back then Chuckie hadn't had the cash to scrape together anything more than a pitcher of beer, and Will's more than a pitcher of beer. Besides, Morgan would've probably pussied out when he saw how cold it was outside, and Billy would have just been fucking annoying, so here he is with Will, and it's just as good as he planned. Maybe even better, and sometimes Chuckie wishes it could be this easy with girls -- sitting together, watching a game, because yeah, some girls you can do that with, but it's never this simple.
There's always this "Will we? Won't we? Do I kiss her? Shit, did I just sound like an asshole?" thing going on, and then Chuckie's got to think about where to put his hands, where to look, where not to look, because he gets that sometimes you're supposed to look, to notice, and sometimes your not, and with Will, he doesn't have to remember that kind of shit. He can sling an arm over the back of Will's chair, he can thump Will hard on the back, he can put the guy in a headlock if he wants to, and nobody's going to say shit about it, and either way when they get home, Will's probably going to be drunk enough to want to blow him. And that's not the reason they're out here, it's not like Chuckie's dreamed up this whole plan for a blowjob, he could get one of those wherever he wanted to, it's not *about* that. It's just how things go.
It's not like this is a date, it's not like they're in a *relationship*, and it sure as hell isn't a queer thing, because a mouth is a mouth is a mouth, right? And if the mouth is attached to soembody you like, then it's better, and if it's attached to somebody you like and can trust, and if that person also knows you so well they can make you come by practically looking at you, then who the fuck is going to say no to that, right?
And it's not even like Chuckie sometimes wishes Will was a chick, because if Will was a chick, then the whole easy thing, it'd be gone. If Will had breasts, Chuckie wouldn't give a shit about the stupid ass dreams Will has sometimes which Will insists on telling him about and which go on for fucking years. Chuckie wouldn't know that the only food Will won't eat is yogurt, since it's still alive when you eat it, which Chuckie still can't really figure out because what the fucking hell, you know? Chuckie wouldn't have bothered to figure out that Will won't wear sweaters because they're itchy. He'd know other stuff, like Will's birthday, his Ma's maiden name, the kind of flowers to get, but he'd only know that becuase he'd be thinking about sex. That's the thing about girls, that's why you can't be friends with girls; every little fucking thing is about sex, even if you pretend it isn't, even if you say shit like, "She's like my sister", because what that means is, "Yeah, I'd feel bad about it if we fucked, but I'd probably do her anyway." If Will was a girl, the whole fucking thing would be ruined.
And Chuckie thinks most guys could relate to that, but he isn't so stupid that he thinks most guys do the kind of things that he and Will do together, but that's just because Will's a fucking genius and Will's smarter than the rest of the world, and really, Chuckie probably wouldn't have thought of it on his own. He was hurting bad when he first started waking up with morning wood, back when *cereal* made him hard, and he'd probably have been just like the rest of his friends who spent maybe more time jacking off than breathing, except Will -- Will figured it out perfect. See, the thing about the blowjobs is that they don't count. This thing with him and Will in bed together -- it's not like regular time. It's a special extra inning, just for the two of them, and none of the rest of it matters. Not what anyone would say, because it's not like anybody's going to find out, that's what makes it okay.
On top of that, it's like this thing, this extra innings thing, this sex thing, it's like it makes sure that he and Will are going to have each other, no matter what. And not in some kind of queer Hallmark way, but if they can do this together, if Chuckie can suck Will's dick, if Will can put up with Chuckie ripping at his hair when he goes down, then it doesn't matter when Will makes it big. It doesn't matter if he moves across the fucking country, or world, or whatever. It doesn't matter if Chuckie never moves out of his ma's --if they can do this, Will's never going to go so far away that Chuckie can't reach him. It makes it so Will will always know he can trust Chuckie, no matter what, that Chuckie'll always be there --- which the fucker should know anyway, but probably doesn't because he always fucking thinks that if he just takes one step too far he's going to get hit somehow, which *does* make Chuckie want to hit him, just a little.
Snow lands on Chuckie's nose, which is enough to startle him back into watching Will watch the game. Will's hunched over, his hands on his knees, his cheeks bright red, yelling at the ump, and he has to laugh at himself, because it's stupid to be thinking about anything else right now than this: He's at the last game of the season with his best friend, and the Red Sox are winning. It doesn't get better than that.
Not by a fucking mile.
I'll have you know writing so favorably about the Red Sox does not come easily to me, and furthermore, I need me a Chuckie Sullivan icon. God, I love that guy.