#she knows that dyke drama is PIPING HOT

[fictiongods]

Most unrealistic thing about Alex in season two is that she was actively pushing Mon el and Kara together because no lesbian would want that if they were fighting they’d immediately go “idk just break up with him…or hit him with a car idc which either is fine”

Then most realistic thing in season five is Alex constantly being like “okay yeah whatever how did it go with Lena last night I’ve been DYING to know” like she needed the gay drama and that’s what we call character development.

[lids-flutter-open]

James orsino -goth gay YA ch 5

“Hey,” Orsino said. He was smiling at me. “Nice to see you. James, right?”

“And you’re Orsino.”

“I’m Robin,” said a girl with good skin and short hair in a flat-top. She looked like a panel from a 1980s lesbian comic. “I’m Orsino’s sister.”

“Hi,” I said. “Does anyone want weed?”

They did. We smoked and January talked to Ian. I didn’t get all of what they said, but Ian was glowing. Overhead the trees dropped a few leaves and some of the pine needles from the scrubby little pine tree by the house blew over the yard and into the bonfire, sparking as they went. There were at least fifty people at the show. Probably more, inside the house and around in front where they weren’t meant to be. People were slowly trickling back around the edges of the show space in the garage, waiting for the temperature inside to finally get cool enough to repopulate. 

“So are you from around here?” I asked Orsino. “Or where?” I had given him a joint I’d rolled earlier and been carrying around in my cigarette case. He coughed a lot as he smoked.

“Down south about an hour,” Orsino said. “Near Centralia, kind of. But most of the time lately I live up in Tacoma with Robin and January. My dad owns some cows and a chicken farm and my mom is always fighting with him and it’s bad to be around. You?”

“I’m from here,” I said. “I’m in high school. One of the ones near the farms. It’s all rednecks. No gays really.”

“You go to that Compton House thing?” Orsino asked. “I know that’s like, a big thing for gay kids here. My therapist was trying to get me to go since I didn’t like the trans group in Tacoma.”

“I go,” I said. “I’m on the Speakers’ Bureau doing sex education at schools and public organizations and stuff.”

“Oh,” Orsino said. He waggled his eyebrows. “You know a lot about sex then?” He exhaled some of the smoke from his joint into my face and smiled.

“In the public health sense, anyway,” I said. “I know where to get condoms and free dental dams.” I paused. I really wanted to say something flirtatious, but wasn’t sure what to start with. “And I know from Delaney and Genet and White for the rest, though who knows what I’m missing in that sense.” I could feel my hands reach up and touch the bad little patch of stubble on my neck. I wished there was a mirror or a dark window around I could glance into to make sure I didn’t look like a fool. I crossed my legs and turned more towards Orsino.

“Don’t know who those guys are,” Orsino smirked. His eyes were really dark brown and the firelight was sort of reflected there. I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me for the references or making fun of me for doing sex education as a teenager like some kind of Young Democrat. I didn’t know his vibe enough to tell.

“They’re all older. Delaney’s the one you’re supposed to read, I’m pretty sure,” I said. “Or at least, he’s the one most likely to have been read by hot people, from what I can tell.”

“Oh, it’s a book,” said Orsino. 

“He’s an author,” I said. “Samuel Delaney. Chip Delaney. Time Square Red, Time Square Blue. Science fiction and sexy gay memoir. Never mind. I’m stoned. I’m sorry.”

“He writes about sex and taught you sex, is what you’re saying.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he write about like specific kinks you were trying to communicate to me or something?”

I felt my face grow hot. “Public bathrooms,” I said. “Is one thing he’s very into. Not that I am. Unless you are. But that’s not—it’s just his prose.”

“Do you always give a … what’s it called. A bibliography. Do you always do that when someone asks you about sex?”

“Do you always ask boys about sex two seconds after meeting them?”

“Only when they’re hot,” Orsino said. “Then yeah, I do. Sorry, I can’t read social cues well. Was that out of line?”

“No.”

“You didn’t answer the question. You go around give out bibliographies about sex? Like that pink hair lady who draws that weird comic about sex toys online?”

“You’re the one named fucking Orsino,” I said. “Literary references are something you signed up for.” I took a hit from my pipe. I was starting to feel slightly more comfortable, but it wasn’t happening fast enough. I glanced at Orsino’s hands. The nails were short. His pinky nail on his left hand was painted black but none of the other fingernails were. There was a little stick-and-poke of a rabbit on the back of his right hand.

“Maybe I should change it,” he said. “To something butch. I can be Harry. Or Brandon.”

“A trade name,” I said. 

“A farm boy name.”

“Brandon is a G.O.P candidate name.”

“Now that’s trade.”

“What music do you like, Brandon?”

“Well, I’m here. OVID’s good. January can be a bitch a little bit, but it’s good music. And I like Dyke Drama and G.L.O.S.S, obviously. And LOONE. But also Mitski. And Blood Kennel and Limp Wrist and Dick Binge. But I also like The Shins.”

“My dad likes The Shins,” I said. “I have like a gag reflex about The Shins.” I could hear my voice, catty and faggy. “They’re such a dad band. How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” Orsino said.

“Okay. Well, for an eighteen-year-old you sure like dad bands.”

“It’s good music,” Orsino said. “You gotta listen to the lyrics. What about you?”

“I only listen to Ariana Grande,” I said, smirking at him stupidly and fluttering my eyelashes. I might have been being dumb, but he was still smiling at me, so I wanted to try being bolder. “And Gaga. I literally only listen to Just Dance by Lady Gaga and Pete Davidson by Ariana Grande every single day of my life. On repeat. I hate punk music.”

“Oh, really,” Orsino said in a flat-affect kind of voice. “You must be having a really interesting time here tonight then.”

“It’s really funny music,” I said. “And nobody is wearing platform boots or a rainbow pin or jewels or teal hair or anything.”

“I saw someone with teal hair,” Orsino said.

“That was me, actually. Earlier. I came with teal hair and an Ariana Grande tour shirt and changed.”

“Oh really,” Orsino said. He made eye contact with me and then slowly reached out and pulled at one of my curls. “I like what you’ve done with your hair since then. Insta-dye job to black. Insta-goth. It’s a really cute haircut on you, actually.”

“Thanks. I did it in the bathroom sink,” I said. “Just now. Using charcoal from the fire. I thought, oh no, everyone has dark hair or bad orangey dry bleach jobs. I have to fit in.”

“You’re doing good and blending in,” Orsino said. He finished the joint and ground out the end in the dirt under the stump. “Wait. Did you just neg me for my bleach job?” 

I felt my face fall. “What?”

“You said bad bleach jobs and looked at my hair. Were you making fun of me for my bleach job? You know, negging me? I know it’s all dry forest fire thatch up here.”

“I guess I did,” I said. I looked at his hair and back at his eyes. 

“Didn’t expect you to be acting like a straight English major goth at a sorority party over here,” Orsino said. “Calling all the girls ugly cause you think it’ll make them like you.”

I swallowed. “You’re right. That was cruel of me. I made fun of your name, earlier, too, and that was wrong. I shouldn’t be mean to cute boys.” 

“And my music taste.”

“That’s just a difference of opinion.”

Orsino looked at me like a cat playing with a mouse, but in a friendly way. “You were very cruel about my hair, though. I feel so small.”

“Sorry. It’s a bad habit. You can do two negs for me now. Tell me I’m ugly so you can hit on me better.”

“Hm,” Orsino said. He swung one hairy leg over the stump so half of him was in shadow under the trees and his right foot was nestled in the ivy and broken glass that lay all along the perimeter of the Goat Mansion yard. “Well, you aren’t ugly, so I can’t do exactly that. Maybe I want to save my negs. Find your weak spots and then go in for the kill.”

“I’m shaking,” I said. 

“Okay. I have one. My first one is that your mustache sucks. It’s like really cute that you’re trying it and I know what you’re going for, and the concept is attractive to me, and I like your philtrum, but it’s a bad mustache.”

“Ooh. Ouch. That stings,” I said. “I think it stings more because of all the compliments you threw in with it to cushion it.” But I scooted closer to him.

“I can do more.” He looked at me hard. “If you consent. I can be meaner about it.”

“About my mustache? Okay,” I said. “But I might be hurt and never speak to you again.”

“You’re trying to look like Freddie Mercury or something, right? You look like a summer camp counselor from the 1980s.”

“Ouch! You sure snatched my wig.” I put on a faggy voice. It kind of did sting to hear him say that, though also I knew that my mustache amounted to about twenty-four downy bad little hairs. But I guess I deserved it.

“See how it feels?” Orsino scooted a little closer. I found myself appreciating how broad his shoulders and torso were compared to mine. I looked at his smile. His canines were a little crooked.

“I actually am a summer camp counselor,” I said. “During the summer.”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“I can give you another weak spot,” I said. “I’m a nerd and I used to be a horse girl. Got any horse related disses?”

“It doesn’t count if you give them to me. That’s a self defense maneuver. Also I don’t know if you’re even telling the truth. It’s gotta be something you’re sensitive about.”

“Are you sensitive about your hair and your name?”

“Yes! I’m a punk. My image is very important to me. Talking shit on my hair was mean. You started this whole battle.”

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry already. But give me time to recover from your first cutting remark before you do any more to me.” I put away my pipe. I glanced briefly over at Ian. Jukebox had left and now he was talking to Opal and Robin a few feet away. I felt like socially I was obligated to join their shit instead of sitting here talking to this boy I didn’t really know yet. At least so I could be up on the whole deal with Miss San Juan and the Dusties or whatever the new band was called. “Do you want to meet my friends?” I asked Orsino, standing. 

“Sure,” he said. He pulled himself up. “Hey, you’re not really hurt about the mustache thing, right?” He wasn’t smiling as much any more.  “I was just playing around. Your mustache is fine. It looks like every other high school punk’s mustache. Better than some. Better than mine. And you’re cute. You pull it off pretty good.”

I realized he thought he had misstepped and now I’d lost interest. I felt a flutter in my stomach. 

“It’s a really sensitive topic for me because of my gender dysphoria,” I said in a deadpan voice. I walked over to Ian and Opal and Robin.

Orsino followed me, squinting a little as if he couldn’t tell if I was joking. He put his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants.“Are you serious?” He asked.  "I’m sorry, I…”

“I won’t ever forgive you. Hey, meet my friends. Here are my friends Opal and Ian, who I guess have a band now.”

Ian paused. He had been saying something to Robin about some music stuff. I wasn’t sure what equipment they were talking about but it had hertz. He looked over to Orsino and then me and raised his eyebrows. 

“Hey,” he said. “I’m Miss San Juan, otherwise known as Ian. You saw me set up and then saw my set just now. You were jumping. Didn’t get your name.”

“I was indeed jumping,” Orsino said. “It was a pretty good show for how messy it seemed like things were before it started. You did good. You have a great stage presence. I’m Orsino.” He held out his hand, arcing his arm out for a man-handshake. 

Ian placed his delicate little hand in Orsino’s big one like a princess greeting her security guard. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Orsino,” Orsino said again to Opal, holding out his hand again. For the first time I realized he was maybe kind of too stoned.

“I’m Opal,” said Opal. “I’m a drummer and use they/them pronouns and I’m really hungry for some trash food right now. Does anyone else want food?” They looked at me and then at Orsino. “You both look like you want some trash food.”

“Fuck yeah,” Orsino said. “Do we know when the next show starts, though?”

“There’s the gas station that doesn’t sell beer around the corner that way,” Opal said. “They have chips and sometimes hot dogs and pizza. We’ll be quick.”

“Let’s go,” Orsino said. He put his arm around my shoulders and set off toward the edge of the yard as if we had been walking together like that everywhere for years, as if he had touched me before.

“I don’t think I want food right now,” Ian said. “I’ll stay here.” He had a sort of quiet, wan tone in his voice that made me pause.

“Oh,” I said, and dug my feet into the ground to stop and pulled away from Orsino’s arm. I looked from Orsino to Ian. I didn’t want to leave Ian standing here alone right after his big set. “Ian, are you sure? You’ll need calories in a little bit.”

“I just feel like standing and smoking for a second in the quiet over here by the fence,” Ian said. 

“Quieter out by the gas station,” I said.

“I don’t feel like walking.”

“I’ll stay here too then,” I said. 

“I’m still going,” Orsino said. “I’m genuinely hungry.”

“Come on, then, big papa,” Opal said. “Let’s get some cheese fuel.” They turned their chair and wheeled fairly rapidly across the grass.