Friday.

Sigmund’s dad answered the door, which was about the worst possible way to start the evening. Sigmund could hear murmured introductions as he pulled on his shoes and hopped down the stairs half-in, half-out of his jacket, but by the time he reached the door he was pretty sure words like boyfriend and date hadn’t been uttered and—thank gods—Lain wasn’t carrying flowers or something equally humiliating.

(does that mean this isn’t a date?)

“—st go get, oh here he is.”

“Hey, Lain.” Lain gave a knowing grin and a nod, and Sigmund turned back to his dad. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay, Dad?”

David nodded. “You take care, boys,” he said, because apparently not even twenty-two was old enough for a parent to think of his son as anything other than a boy. It was kinda nice, Sigmund supposed, even if maybe a bit embarrassing in front of Lain. His boyfriend. Or something.

David closed the door behind them with a little wave, and Sigmund noticed Lain was trying hard not to laugh.

“What?”

“‘See you tomorrow’? I’m not sure what kind of boy you think I am, Sigmund Sussman.”

And, oh jeez. Sigmund was pretty sure his blush could be seen from space. “I, uh. Usually spend the night at Em and Wayne’s,” he said. Lain’s grin and raised eyebrow gave him the impression this wasn’t exactly the exonerating statement it’d sounded in his head. “Oh my god! I’ve known them since I was like . . . Holy shit, is that your car?”

There was . . . a thing in the driveway. It was huge and black and glimmered under the streetlights. The soft top was up against the light evening rain, and through the tinted windows Sigmund could just about make out a flash of red velvet and mirror-finished chrome.

“Uh, yes?” Lain almost sounded embarrassed. “It’s totally roadworthy,” he added, as if this was Sigmund’s main concern.

“I’m not sure I’m badass enough to be allowed to touch this car.” The hood ornament was a tiny chrome horse’s skull, but other than that it had no obvious maker’s badging. “Where on earth did you get this thing?”

Lain just shrugged. “I kinda inherited it,” he said and, oddly, this was exactly the truth.

Sigmund popped the door open. The inside was done entirely in bloodred velvet, black leather, and chrome. A skull motif dominated, and a tassel of black feathers hung from the rearview mirror.

It was, Sigmund thought, possibly the gothest car in the entire universe. Em and Wayne would die if they saw it.

Lain climbed into the driver’s seat, and the engine rumbled to life. He hadn’t used a key. Come to think of it, he hadn’t used one to open the doors, either.

The radio started pounding out OK Go as they left Sigmund’s driveway. He was just about to comment when Lain started driving like he meant it and talking was no longer Sigmund’s highest priority.

There were seven stoplights between Sigmund’s house and the mall. Not a single one was red tonight, which Sigmund knew only because he’d cracked his eyes open in terror, checking to make sure they weren’t just running them. He didn’t even dare to look at Lain. Was it bad manners to leap out of his date’s car in mortal fear? If his hands hadn’t been clamped around the edge of his seat, Sigmund might even have pulled out his phone and looked it up.

“We’re going into town, right?” Lain shouted above the music.

It took effort to answer “Yeah” and not Drive slower, you maniac, but somehow Sigmund managed it.

Fortunately, the Torr Mall parking lot slowed Lain down enough for Sigmund to uncurl his fingers and calm his breathing, as they got out of the car.

(right, okay. GTA driving. not a problem. do it all the time . . . in GTA. would it be rude to get a lift back with Wayne?)

Lain was grinning, though, and when he fell in step with Sigmund their hands brushed against each other.

“Do you mind?” Lain asked as he twined their fingers.

Sigmund did not, in fact, mind, but coming right on the tail end of the Car Ride from Hell, didn’t quite trust his voice enough to say so. So he just shook his head and hoped it looked coy and flirtatious instead of, like, terrified.

He’d never held hands with anyone before. Not since he’d been a kid, anyway, and he was pretty sure it didn’t count when it was your dad. This was nice. Better than nice, actually.

Sigmund took them up the escalators, through the mall, and across the street, all the while desperately trying to think of something to say. Anything. Preferably something witty and charming and, oh, god, he was the biggest loser in the entire universe. Also, holy crap, he was holding hands with another man in public.

No one seemed to notice. Sigmund wasn’t an expert or anything, but he got the impression that wasn’t exactly normal.

Friday night DnD was held upstairs in a store that was called Minotaur but which they all referred to as the Nerd Shop, due to both its stock and its clientele. It was outside the mall proper, fronting onto Diamond Square and located two doors down from Wayne’s comic store.

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Owner Guy Paul greeted them as they walked in, sizing Lain up in a glance. “New blood, hey?” he said.

Sigmund gave a noncommittal answer as they passed. Lain was dressed more for lattes and Instagram than for DnD, but that was just Lain. Sigmund figured embarrassing his date in front of the shop guy for his choice of clothing wasn’t a good first-date strategy.

Minotaur wasn’t huge, with a ground floor dominated by normal-people stuff like board games and executive puzzles. Sigmund took them past all that to where a narrow set of steps ascended to the second level.

Here was where they hid the nerds; walls lined with RPG books, Magic cards and Warhammer figurines, the center of the room dominated by four rows of tightly packed tables. The whole place smelled like sweat and awkwardness.

Em waved at them from the farthest table. Despite Lain’s creative approach to driving, they were late. The rest of the group looked up as they approached.

“Hey, guys,” Sigmund said. “This is Lain. Lain, Simon, Ben, Chris, Wayne, and Em.”

Lain greeted everyone as they took their seats at the table. The men were noncommittal, and Em was busy with her books and dice, but Wayne’s eyes went very, very round. The second Lain’s attentions were elsewhere, she mouthed Wow in Sigmund’s direction, making a little heart shape with her fingers. Sigmund tried not to blush. Or feel inadequate.

“You’ve got two choices,” Em said to Lain. “Dwarf Paladin or Tiefling Warlock.”

“Ugh, dwarves.” Lain’s repulsion seemed oddly authentic. “Give me the tiefthingie.”

It was Sigmund’s unspoken job to explain the game as they went along, which he did. Not that Lain needed many hints, and, after a while, he confessed to having studied up on the sourcebooks during the week. Sigmund felt warm inside at that, particularly when Lain’s knee bumped against his under the table and just sort of stayed there for the rest of the evening.

About an hour in, Paul came around and took money, returning some time later with pizza. Sigmund shared one with Wayne and Em, and they all watched Lain devour a whole three-sixty degrees by himself, followed by everyone else’s leftovers. Lain ate like it was going out of style, which Sigmund thought was totally unfair for a guy with not a single ounce of fat on his body. On the other hand, that was not a single ounce of fat on Sigmund’s boyfriend’s body they were talking about and, oh wow. Boyfriend. There was that word again.

For his part, Sigmund kept shooting glances at Lain throughout the evening. Checking for any signs of boredom, he supposed, but none appeared. As far as Sigmund could tell, Lain was having a great time. He’d taken to his warlock like a man born to wield the chaotic energies of the universe, and even ended up role-playing them all out of a bad situation with a local baron. Chris and Ben wanted to fight it out, Wayne suggested rolling Diplomacy. Lain just started talking, in character, and after ten minutes they’d waltzed out with new gear and a sack of treasure. Em looked a bit shell-shocked for a while afterward, as if not even she was exactly sure what had happened.

Sigmund thought he might just be in love.

“So you had fun, then?” he asked later, as they were making their way back to the car. They’d said their good-byes, and Lain’s tiefling had been filed into the characters box rather than returned to the pile of premades. Sigmund took it as a good sign.

“Man, I can’t believe I’ve never played that before.” Lain’s grin was like honey and razor blades.

“Well, we try and play at least once a month, barring emergencies.”

Lain stopped walking, and, thanks to their linked hands, Sigmund did too.

“Can I kiss you?”

Sigmund blinked. Pushed his glasses up his nose. Reran the last sentence over in his head. “Um. Okay.” Because, yes. Sigmund. Loser. World’s biggest.

Lain didn’t seem to mind, though, giving one of his rare, soft smiles. Not toilet-paper-ad soft, but not glass-cutter sharp, either. It was also, Sigmund realized when it started getting closer, slightly scarred.

Scars or not, Lain’s lips were gentle and his hand was warm where it came to rest against Sigmund’s hip. It occurred to Sigmund he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing here, exactly, so he closed his eyes—that seemed like a good start—and just kinda . . . tried to go with it. To feel. Warmth and longing and a smell like burnt forests and dark caves.

His toes tingled. So did his lips. And . . . other things.

When Lain pulled back, it wasn’t far. His face was very close and his eyes were very green, and Sigmund realized he could count the freckles across Lain’s nose. Neither of them could seem to stop smiling.

“That was okay?” Lain looked pleased with himself, but Sigmund couldn’t really mind. After all, they’d just had their first kiss at the bottom of the Torr Mall escalators. No tongue, no pressure. Just the flutter of Sigmund’s heart and the warmth settling somewhere beneath his belly.

Sigmund was grinning, because he couldn’t help it. He was grinning, and Lain was grinning, and Lain’s grin pulled at the scars that crossed his lips. Sigmund brought his fingers up to trace them before he’d really thought about it. There were eight little marks in total. Two marks on each side of the top lip, and two on each side of the bottom.

“What are these?” Sigmund asked. “I’ve never noticed them before . . .”

Lain gave a not-quite wince, running his tongue across the ridges. “A dumb bet,” he said. “When I was a kid.” It wasn’t a lie, but Sigmund got the impression it wasn’t even close to the truth.

They could’ve been piercings, Sigmund thought. The scars were kinda ragged, though, so maybe they’d gotten infected or . . . pulled out, or something. That seemed like the safest explanation. It certainly kept Sigmund’s mind off the other one, the one he didn’t want to think about. Because what the scars actually looked like were stitches, and that was just . . . not a thought he wanted to be having right now.

Lain seemed to read his hesitation. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “It’s fine.” The implication of now was quite loud, even to Sigmund.

“I had a really great time tonight,” Sigmund said, because it was true, and holding on to that feeling seemed more important than all the mysteries and old pain. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want Lain to go home. He wanted—

“We could go back to my place, if you want,” Lain said. Then, brighter, “I have Wii!”

Sigmund pretended to think it over. “Mario Kart?” he asked, mock scowling.

“Rainbow Road!” Lain said, gushing such overstated enthusiasm that Sigmund couldn’t help but giggle. He was glad for the excuse, even if it was silly. He was pretty sure, if he said yes, that the racetracks of the Mushroom Kingdom would be safe.

He was pretty sure his hands were shaking. He was pretty sure Lain was pretending not to notice.

“Yeah,” Sigmund said finally. “Let’s go . . . play Wii at your place.”

Lain squeezed his hand, before pulling away. Despite the evening heat, Sigmund still felt cold as they made their way through the parking garage. His heart was hammering. First date, first kiss, first . . . game of Mario Kart at Lain’s house and, wait a second. Lain’s house. The one Sigmund had, earlier in the week, been convinced Lain didn’t have.

Maybe he’d magicked one up in the days between then and now, just on the off chance that Sigmund might like to come back to it.

It had been a great night.

And then, when they got back to the car, a raven the size of a cat was sitting on the roof, waiting for them, and everything went to hell.