Again, Until It's Perfect

“Arlow, I got something to ask you. Wait, maybe I shouldn’t ask you. What do you think, Arlow? Should I ask you?”

“I don’t know, Lance.” Arlow locked the club room, tucking the key into his bag. 

The season had turned fairly cold, and the few students milling around the university campus were bundled in woolen hats and thick coats, a few with twined hands and smitten expressions. 

Every year Arlow would often ignore the fact that it was Valentine's day. It was a sickly sweet holiday that often had him gagging as soon as he stepped out the door to red colourful billboards.

But this year, gazing at the couples made him feel even colder. He knew he’d be staying late for practice, but had still forgotten to bring his scarf. The harsh chill bit into his neck. Even he could be a bit of an idiot sometimes.

Then again, the reason he was always staying late for practice was the idiot standing in front of him, hemming and hawing loudly. 

“I guess it’s okay,” Lance said finally, two decibels too loud, “Because I always ask you things. Say, Arlow, what’s the coolest way to confess to someone?”

“Confess what?”

“You know! That you like someone.”

Arlow stared politely at him, letting his breath fog in a thin stream, and then walked off towards the school gates. 

Perhaps Lance had accidentally watched a romantic movie. Or one of their friends had set him off in some vindictive text. It was the season of course. 

Not that Arlow followed Lance’s love life closely. Though, recently he did have a personal interest.

“It should be exciting, right?” Lance hummed to himself in deep thought, arms crossed. Even in his winter jacket, his sleeves were still slightly pushed up. His obnoxious resolution to the chill only made Arlow feel colder.

“In what way, Lance,” he said politely.

“Like what if I was in a volleyball game! Nationals! And I was smashing down this killer straight! Then I yell out, I like you!” Lance imitated the straight a few times, as if he hadn’t already practiced for an hour.

“I don’t know who would hate you more,” Arlow said thoughtfully, “Our team or the other team.”

“What?” Lance staggered back, shocked, but quickly jogged to catch up. “What if it was a killer cross?”

“The move isn’t the problem, Lance.”

“Killer feint?”

“Why would you think that’s different?”

They walked in almost silence for a while, broken occasionally by Lance’s groans at some thought or another. He wondered if Lance actually did have something in mind. 

No, that would be absurd. Lance only had volleyball on his mind. But perhaps Arlow had been conceited in this assurance. He had always let his feelings rest within him, quiet and unbidden.

“What about a killer cut shot?” Lance said, thumping his fist into his hand triumphantly.

“Perhaps,” Arlow said, reluctant, “you should consider the classics.”

Lance tilted his head to the side.

“What makes a good confession.” Arlow rubbed the joint of his index finger. “The purpose of a confession”.

“You’re right, Arlow!” Lance’s yell attracted some stares of passing students. Arlow tucked his head down further into his collar, the material bunching up black curls around the nape of his neck.

They moved steadily towards the station. Flyers with hearts stared back at him with their crossed T’s and dotted I’s. Arlow’s nose scrunched and his eyes crinkled at the sides. It felt like everything about today was mocking him. 

There were more pedestrians now, though he didn’t fear losing Lance in a crowd. The twin tufts of his ochre hair stuck out from the crowd, but he could always follow Lance’s outraged hollering if need be. 

“I think the coolest confession would make their hearts skip a beat,” Lance decided.

“Heart palpitations are a serious medical occurrence.”

“Arlow! Listen, what if it’s not about how loud you yell it, but what you say.” Lance’s forehead knitted itself into knots. “A clever way of saying it!”

“For example?”

“Like if I said to you, give me all your tosses.” Lance grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. He was practically sparkling under the station lights, enamored by his own genius.

“That would be very annoying. For another thing, it’s impractical. Have you forgotten about your teammates? Think about the other team, as well. They would—”

“I get it! Geez!” Lance closed his eyes, grimacing. Even the ends of his spiky hair seemed to be drooping. Arlow withheld a sigh, a mixture of annoyance and a little bit, just the tiniest bit, of exasperated affection.

“But it’s not a bad idea,” he finally said. “Speaking about something only the two of you know is romantic.”

“Right? Right?” Lance opened his eyes, grin returned. “A secret code! Like a cool confession in Latin!”

“Well,” Arlow said, ignoring the stupider parts of the statement, “A love letter is also classic.”

“Love letter!” This time, the yell certainly did attract the attention of the people on the platform. But the train pulled up in a loud grumble, leaving Lance to mull as they entered. There was only one seat left, which Arlow took. This already happened once or twice, and Lance always vehemently insisted that Arlow take it. Given how loudly Lance squabbled, Arlow conceded without much resistance.

Besides, he did like their quiet times. Lance stood in front of him, withstanding the train’s lull. When Lance was quiet, he could be quite handsome. He had a somber silhouette and a serious composure, face strict lines and eyes bright on an unmovable point.

Annoyingly, though, Arlow also missed the loud Lance at these times. It was strange not to see him yelling, his eyebrows quirking. He was someone always in motion. Arlow looked down, tracing the line of his pinky finger. It was all Lance’s fault, him and his strange conversation, which made him think about these things. He should stop thinking about it.

He wondered if this hypothetical person who deserved all these confessions even knew about this side of Lance.

“A love letter,” Lance said somberly, “is like a gift, isn’t it? Then isn’t the more the better? Wouldn’t your heart skip a beat if someone confessed to you with a love letter and ten dozen roses and a coupon to the sports store and maybe that cool t-shirt in that store we saw the other day?”

“That’s called a bribe, Lance.”

“That’s fine, isn’t it?”

His annoyed sigh must have convinced Lance back into grumbling thought.

 Night had already touched down on the outside world, brushing over the buildings. The lights in the buildings flickered on, though they were only vague pulses from the faster train. In the opposite window’s reflection, he could see Lance’s broad back and his own face, subtle with an expression he couldn’t place. He lowered his eyes to the bag in his lap, following where the strap dangled over the seat.

When they exited the train, the air had only gotten colder and Arlow blew on his fingers, mildly annoyed. Under the station lights, he could see the redness over his pale fingertips. A sudden warmth wrapped around his neck, and when he looked up, Lance was draping his gray scarf on Arlow’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance tied the scarf. 

“You’re choking me, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance untied the scarf.

“I guess,” Lance said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I could say what I liked about them! During the confession. What do you think?”

Arlow thought the scarf smelled like Lance, and that he didn’t dislike that. He allowed himself to touch at the fringes, guilty for some reason he couldn’t compose.

“What would you say?” he asked instead.

“I don’t know! I guess I’d say, you know. You know. With the you know!”

“Ah.”

“Don’t sound so judgmental, Arlow! You know I’m not good at this stuff!” Lance ruffled his hair in anguish. He was making some gibberish noises with his throat.

“It’d be nice,” Lance said, “if after you confessed your super cool confession, they’d go out with you. Right?”

“You’re not expecting that?”.

“I didn’t realize it until now! I mean, it makes things a lot easier if you think about it that way. That a confession is just the start of something new.” Lance grinned, eyes glinting under the street lamp.

“So you have someone in mind,” Arlow finally hedged. He turned slightly away, almost like he examining the concrete walls along the street. Lance always had good night vision. He might be able to see any suspicious flush on his face.

“Hey, what’s your idea of the best confession?” Lance asked, completely ignoring him. Arlow sighed, curling his fingers around each other.

“I don’t have a preference.”

“Really? What would you want the person to say?”

They stopped in front of Arlow’s house. Lance’s bright eyes peered at him, watching intently. It was quiet around them. Lance’s house was further away. There was a shortcut from the station, but Lance always insisted to walk together. Arlow ran his fingers along the bumps of his knuckles. He could imagine himself saying it in the heat of the moment. He could be bold and say something charming.

It doesn’t matter as long as it was you, Lance.

The thought made a sick feeling rise from stomach to throat. It sounded just like something those valentines flyers at the station would have written across them. 

Confessions were heavy. They weighed like stones on his heart, and it would be a burden on Lance. They were constantly together, a part of each other's daily routine. It would be irresponsible and irrational for him to confess. 

He ran simulations in his head, imagining his confession in a whisper to a shout, but the best outcomes were nothing but fragmented wishes. This was silly. Lance was just talking about a hypothetical situation. But the words still tingled on the tip of his tongue. At that moment, he could say it.

Instead, he tightened his grip on his shoulder strap.

“Isn’t it getting late?” he tried.

“Come on, Arlow. Come on, tell me. Arlow, tell me. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone else! Tell me—”

“It doesn’t have to be said,” Arlow finally muttered.

“You want someone to text it to you? Great idea! I found a great picture of a cat that’d fit perfectly.”

“Not exactly,” Arlow said, cutting off the cat picture speech, “But sometimes, you can tell someone loves you by the things they do, and not just the things they say.”

He pulled the scarf up higher against Lance’s gaze. Lance’s mouth had dropped open slightly, surprise written all over his face. He was obviously impressed by Arlow, and Arlow looked away to his house nameplate. His cheeks felt warm. 

“Well, a spoken confession is better,” Arlow said, straightening his shoulders. “If I really had to say, I’d like a confession that gave me time to respond.”

“I don’t get it,” Lance said with confidence.

“Sometimes I’m told my expressions are difficult to read.” Arlow shrugged. “I’d just like a chance to explain myself in return, so they don’t misunderstand my expression.”

“Really? But I like your expressions, Arlow. Every time you look at me, I fall in love with you all over again.”

Arlow stared at the wall.

“Jeez! It’s late! When did it get this late! Why didn’t you say it was this late!” Lance glared at the night sky, kicking at the pebbles in the road. “I was going to do stuff tonight, too.”

“I… did tell you. Lance.” His words sounded stiff, but Lance apparently didn’t notice, groaning to himself.

“What? Well, whatever. Get to bed early, that’s an order, Arlow!” Lance waved, walking off down the street.

Arlow opened his mouth, but he couldn’t even consider what he was trying to say. He hadn’t misheard. The words rang distinctly in his ears. He was having heart palpitations. He was an idiot. He was an absolute idiot to be so swept up in such stupid words. Lance hadn’t even realized it, but here he was, heart beating in his ears and face definitely redder than any reasonable excuse in the cold.

He leaned against the wall, pressing a cool hand against his forehead. But Lance had definitely said love. He said love. He was in love with him. This entire stupid time, he’d been trying to stupidly research the best way to say it. Lance was an idiot. He was an idiot. 

His thoughts were fluttering around him, and he wound the fringe of the scarf around his fingers tightly. The heat flamed up from inside him. He had buried something deep within himself with an impractical carelessness. Someday, he always told himself, but that someday was here, and he could feel it grow inside of him, warm and happy. Happy. He was happy.

He could indistinctly hear rapid footsteps approaching him. Someone in a remarkably fast run. Finally, he looked up to see Lance flying at him in a flurry of kicked-up snow, face a matching flush.

“Arlow!” he yelled. “I messed up! Wait, forget about that! It slipped out! Arlow! I was going to do it during a killer joust! Arlow! Let me do it again! Hold on! I’ll do a better confession! Arlow!”.

Arlow turned away, pressing the scarf to his face to hide his expression.

He supposed they could be idiots together.

“Hey,” he finally said, cutting off Lance’s frantic squawks, “What do you think is the coolest way of telling someone that you like them too?”.