#and because remember how easily Sumner did the thing with the grappling hook? he could definitely do this too

[letmebeallyours]

Casual

“You can’t wear that.” “Haha, very funny.” “I’m completely serious. You can’t go on this date dressed like that.” Charles looked down at his outfit, suddenly bewildered. He had thought he looked good. Unlike Sam, who had apparently not taken any care with his outfit. Not that it mattered; even in old jeans and a loose t-shirt he would turn heads tonight. “So,” Charles mused, “this is a casual place?” “Very.” “You know, if you just told me where we’re going—“ “It would spoil the fun. And you might say no.” “Why?” he tried to keep the suspicion from his voice, but with Sam acting like this it wasn’t easy. Still, if he noticed he gave no sign of it. Instead, he shook his head, grinning broadly, and shooed Charles back into the bedroom to change. Even after weeks of living here, Charles was still not quite used to New York. It was bigger than Boston, noisier, more crowded. The atmosphere was even less friendly, and on top of that, New York smelled. He hadn’t noticed it all so much on their quick visits to Julia and Annie, but he noticed it now. In spite of that, following Sam through the throngs of people had a charm of its own. He felt less noticeable than he had in Boston, less stared-at. And it was interesting to watch the individuals who made up the crowd, or at least catch glimpses of them—it was like an entirely different culture. And above all, Sam was here. Any place could feel like home as long as he had his Chevalier with him. While lost in this train of thought, he almost didn’t notice his Chevalier had come to a stop. Sam, however, noticed his abstraction, seized his arm, and dragged him through a door that did not strike Charles as being particularly inviting. There was a short hallway, in which Charles could hear muffled sounds that seemed like shouts and—thunder? The walls were tacky; the geometric shapes in dull primary colors seemed to have been there for decades. Before he had time to comment on this or to notice much more, they were through the heavy door on the other end of the hallway, and it all made sense. A bowling alley. Of course it was a bowling alley. How often had Sam mentioned this new-found passion in the last few months? And why else would he need to dress down? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been bowling, just that he had not particularly enjoyed it. But if this was what Sam wanted to do, he would grin and bear it. Sam pulled him over to the counter to wait in line for shoes. Charles was surprised that a bowling alley actually had a waiting line. He knew, in theory, this was something people did for fun, it was just hard to imagine so many people doing it for fun at the same time. But it was clear the place was busy—apparently Sam was far from the only one who enjoyed this pastime. He hated the bowling shoes rule. He knew it was to protect their floors, but just the idea of wearing these shoes which had been on so many different feet made his stomach churn. He was not a germaphobe exactly, but you had to draw the line somewhere. And yet, no matter how many lines he drew, how many boundaries he set, he knew a look from Sam could wipe them all away. He looked more excited than Charles had seen him all week. True, Charles didn’t see the appeal of this at all, but if it made Sam this happy, he could wear the shoes—just this once. Sam greeted the man with the scruffy beard behind the counter by name (how often was he here?). “Hey Omoo, how’s the novel coming?” “Not so well, at the moment, but it’ll get there. What size?” When they had laced their rented footwear, Charles asked, “Is his name really Omoo?” “No idea, but it’s what everyone calls him.” As they spoke, Sam led him over to the racks of bowling balls. He told Charles to pick one, then set about searching for himself. He watched Sam for a minute or two as he weighed the balls in his hand, spun them in place, tested the feel of the holes, before turning to look for his own. Why did everything to do with bowling have to look so tacky? Was this stuck-in-the-past look part of the alleged appeal? He wouldn’t know what to look for as far as weight or anything else went, so Charles set about looking for a ball that was more subdued than the bright neon or clashing stripes that seemed so popular. He found one that was a deep blue with admittedly too much glitter in the plastic, but it would have to do. “Are you ready?” he asked, several minutes later, wondering what on earth could make such a trivial decision take so long. It seemed Sam had narrowed it down to two options, and he was weighing and testing them both, one after the other, over and over again. Now he turned to Charles, holding them both, and asked, “Saturn or Mercury?” “What?” “Saturn,” he repeated, lifting a deep red ball with jagged black stripes, then lowering it and raising a bright blue one as he concluded, “or Mercury?” “Saturn,” he answered solemnly after a moment of contemplation. “Saturn it is,” Sam nodded, placing Mercury gently back on the rack.   Sam punched their names into the machine, and stepped up for his first frame. Watching him, Charles began to feel maybe this idea had its merits after all. There was a grace about him, a litheness in the way he stood, the way he took a step or two, the curve of his arm as he sent the ball flying down the alley. Charles didn’t notice where it hit, he was too absorbed in watching Sam grind his heel in impatience.  Then the ball returned to him and Charles got to watch it all again. This time the annoyed gesture of his foot was replaced with a subdued but triumphant twist of the wrist. Charles glanced past him to see what for; he had gotten a spare. “You’re up,” Sam grinned as he came to sit down. “So I just… roll it?” Charles was suddenly panicky. He knew he would not be nearly so graceful, not to mention he would probably be lucky to hit even one pin. “You really don’t know how to bowl?” “It’s been awhile.” “Just aim for the middle.” He picked up his ball and stepped forward, acutely self-conscious. When he went to let it go, it seemed to catch on his thumb and hooked sharply to the side. He didn’t even need to look to know it had gone straight into the gutter. He stepped back, ears burning. He could tell Sam was trying desperately not to laugh. As he waited for the ball to come back, Sam spoke up. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like either of us expected you to win anyway.” There was a self-assured glint in his eyes as he said this that was infuriating. It was true, certainly, but there had been no need to point it out. When the ball came back, Charles barely looked before he threw it angrily down the lane. He didn’t watch its progress, just turned to sit back down. The surprise on Sam’s face took him aback, and he turned to look after all. Apparently he had done something right—every pin was down. They both just stared at this small miracle for a moment, before Sam hopped up again. “Beginner’s luck,” he muttered as he took his ball and stepped past Charles. But Charles’s lucky shot must have thrown Sam off, because his ball went wide and he only hit two pins. He got most of the rest in the next try, but Charles did even better and was ahead at the end of the second frame. When they had finished the third frame and Charles had a distinct lead, Sam looked intensely at him and said, “If I didn’t know any better, I would say I’ve been hustled.” Charles sputtered indignantly, which only made Sam laugh. But then a run of luck for Sam and a series of unfortunate splits for Charles brought their scores neck and neck, as they stayed more or less throughout the game. Charles won by just a couple of points, and Sam immediately demanded a rematch. Charles was surprised to find that he was happy to comply.