“Did you—Do you like him or something?” Damon asked, pressing his tongue into his upper lip.
Elliot shook his head, not bothering to play dumb. “We’ve messed around, but it didn’t mean anything. I don’t like him that way.”
Damon exhaled. “Good. Yeah, he’s a dick.”
“Yeah.”
Damon test swung his putter a few times, his intense focus on his ball. “So do you like anyone you’ve messed around with?”
Just you.
“Nothing, like, serious,” he said. “No more serious than you and Chelsea.”
“Right.” Damon swung, but the ball went way off course. Elliot catalogued his every movement, hoping Damon would confirm what Elliot had suggested: that he didn’t want anything serious with Chelsea.
Or correct him that he did want to get serious with Chelsea, and Elliot could squash the delusional hope blooming in his chest that what they did last night meant anything.
He didn’t give Elliot any inclination of his thoughts, and Damon’s teammates interrupted their game and recruited them to their skee ball tournament before Elliot could figure out how to interpret his nonanswer.
Elliot volunteered to finish the rest of their flask. He snuck it into the bathroom, alone this time. As he downed the vodka, he forced himself to stop obsessing. He was just going to enjoy the rest of prom with his best friend.
With the alcohol in his system, Elliot managed to relax around Damon’s teammates. He was pretty sure he was only like fifty percent as awkward as usual.
It was a quarter till midnight when Madison and Chelsea dragged Elliot and Damon back into the gym to dance.
Elliot sucked it up because Madison had been an easy-going date and didn’t expect much out of him. Even Chelsea, other than her pictures, hadn’t been demanding of Damon’s time. Overall, prom went well. He got to spend most of it with Damon, which was the whole point anyway.
He tried his best to keep his attention on Madison, not letting his eyes wander, but the song was only a minute in when Chelsea said, “Oh, my strap!”
She bent down and held her ankle. “My strap broke. Madison, can you help me?”
“I can help you,” Damon said, bending forward.
“No, you stay here,” Chelsea said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let the cheerleaders encroach. This is the prime dancing spot.”
Elliot scrunched up his face. Prime dancing spot?
Madison tugged Elliot to Damon and put his hand on Damon’s shoulder. “You two dance together. We’ll be right back.”
Damon opened his mouth. A protesting noise that wasn’t fully formed words escaped, but it didn’t matter because Madison was helping a hopping Chelsea off the dance floor.
Elliot glanced around. The cheerleaderswereeyeing them. So maybe there was such a thing as a prime dancing spot?
Damon sighed, and as Elliot was about to pull away—because they could hold the spot without dancing—Damon’s hands scooped around Elliot’s hips and pulled him in.
“Well, we can’t lose their spot, right?”
“Right,” Elliot said, breathless. His hands slid up Damon’s arms and held the back of his neck.
They swayed together, but it was entirely different from dancing with Madison.
Elliot wasn’t as awkward and mechanical anymore. His body melted under Damon’s touch. They were dancing much closer to one another than either of them had with Madison or Chelsea. The space between their bodies, electric. Charged with something vibrant. Magic created between the two of them.
“This is kinda nice,” Damon said; his eyes hadn’t left Elliot’s.
Elliot nodded, his throat too tight to speak. His brain chose that moment to remind him that Damon had said he was beautiful. That he purposefully hurt himself just to get Elliot to use his magic on him.
“It’s much better than dancing with Chelsea,” Damon said.
