Insert Witty, Inspirational Title Here, Chapter One

In which Blake chooses dare over truth.

"My dearest and darlingest Blakey-poo," the boy read silently, glancing down at the kitchen table with a faint smile. "Get the f**k over to my house as soon as you get home because you left your crappy chewed on sweatshirt at my house and it smells like spit. Also, you got an 87% on your geometry quiz. I'll show it to you when you get here which HAD BETTER BE SOON!!! IT SMELLS BAD. SERIOUSLY. Love and stuff, ELLIOT."

There are probably three facts we can set straight right here and now about Blake Holden Wheeler. One, he is so pale that he was dubbed ChalkBoy in elementary school, and the name still sticks. Two, he loves music and hates school; he is in his senior year of high school and has to somehow scrounge up enough points to graduate before his father kicks his sorry a*s, but his band is coming together smoothly. Three, there is one person above all that he would devote every second of his life to, whose voice he would want to hear for the rest of his life if he could only hear one, the peanut butter to his fluffernutter, if you will. Beautiful, isn't it? You would think that's the way every boy should feel about his girlfriend. Only, Blake wasn't feeling this way about his girlfriend. His peanut butter was a dirty blond haired, blue-eyed nearly eighteen-year-old boy named Elliot Daniel Harris.

Now, if you had asked Blake, he would have told you that the sun radiated off of Elliot's a*s. For years he had nearly worshiped his companion as some sort of short, awkwardly thin Jewish god. He practically lived with him and his family, and the Harrises were glad to have him. He loved the atmosphere of the cozy white house which some might have called small, though in his opinion it was just right. Elliot's room was filled with old records ("Janis Joplin?" "It's my mom's.  .  .  ." "No man, it's cool. She's cool.") and posters cut from magazines of Chich and Chong, Queen, and countless other controversial figures. He loves those posters, he loves that room, and he loves that person. The thing is, he can't tell anyone. It's sort of illegal. Sure, it hasn't really been illegal since the 70�™s, but it's still too taboo and scandalous for his white trash, beer-swilling, deer-hunting, nose-picking-and-proud-of-it small town. He couldn't even tell Elliot, and that was probably the worst part.

He'd always wanted to, secretly. Tell Elliot, that is. He'd even tried to keep it secret from himself in days before, but the thickening tenseness in his heart and the hammer in his head made it impossible for him to deny what felt most natural for him anymore. He had come to terms with the fact that he was gay almost half a year ago. (I don't feel gay, though. Being gay means you like men. You're attracted to men. I'm more like Elliotsexual.) Maybe the label didn't feel right to him because the "gay" he had grown up with was flowery, poufy, feminine. That was the gay his father had preached about, what the boys in middle school warned so darkly of. But Blake wasn't really any of those things. Sure, he had long hair, but it wasn't that long, and he liked his penis just fine. He liked getting dirty and he was perverted like all teenage boys are supposed to be. Sure he didn't like sports. So what? Throwing around the old pigskin just never interested him that much.

All of that aside, he knew one thing and one thing only, probably, and he would for a fact for the rest of his whole life that he loved Elliot, and that was his greatest downfall.

"Truth or dare." Blake turned his head sharply to view his companion who was below him sitting Indian-style on the floor. He snorted at the sight of his almost eighteen, almost high school graduated friend biting off chunks of Laffy Taffy in his dramatically oversized Superman t-shirt and sweats. "C'mon, hey. Truth or dare?"

"Hell no, f****r. We are not playing f*****g Truth or D****e," replied Elliot, a little grumpily. He actually almost snarled it, which caught Blake by surprise. He tapped, tapped, tapped his fingernails on the wall and hummed the chorus to a Bob Dylan song under his breath for a moment before choosing the proper way to respond.

"Jeez Louise Elli, keep your panties on. Or don't, if you're feeling fresh. Doesn't matter to me. What's wrong with you, anyway?" he said gently, the creases in his temples more defined than usual. He had known Elliot long enough now and basically lived under his roof like an adopted brother (an odd thought) to know how to handle his occasional moodiness.

Elliot sighed, throwing the Laffy Taffty aside ("Dude no, I wanted a piece.") and uncrossing legs, stretching all of his limbs with a resounding crack. Blake winced. "My mom is riding my a*s about college.  .  .  . she thinks I should go Brown. That's where Liz is right now and she's getting a degree in Psychology. Hey, maybe she can psychoanalyze you when she gets back, huh?" His smile was quiet as he look at his friend, whose eyes rolled and fingers ceased their tapping. Last year, this counselor at their school, a fat f**k with a shiny bald head and ring of black pube-like hair named Mr. Acheson had tried to psychoanalyze him. Blake, that is. It didn't go too well. Blake had ended up cussing the poor idiot's fat a*s off and storming out, running five blocks home in the pouring rain with no jacket. A great success.

"Well, where do you want to go?" he asked, truly curious. He figured Elliot wasn't the type to be settle for community college, though he secretly wished he was, of course. "That's all that matters, you know. It's your life."

Elliot sighed again, deeper this time, and it was starting to depress the hell out of Blake. "That's the thing. I have no idea where I want to go, and that kind of scares me. Sometimes I think I should just go to Brown, just to try it out. Then if I don't like it I'll drop out or whatever. I don't want to disappoint my family.  .  .  . they mean a lot to me. I don't wanna be a failure."

Blake nodded slowly. He briefly wondered if Elliot considered him a failure for having no plans on going to college. Far too chicken to voice his thoughts aloud, he said instead, "Well. To be honest, I dunno how much help I can be. I mean, I'm not exactly a college bound boy myself, and look at my relationship with my family." He saw Elliot's eyes turn soft at the mention of the others family, his stare sympathetic. "But I mean, you need to do what you want. Even if it takes you years to find what you're looking for, never stop looking. Even if your life seems meaningless, like you're a good for nothing, I mean. I feel that way all the time, but.  .  .  . you're too good to feel that way, man." He paused, shook his head. Elliot seemed presently frozen in time. "That's really corny. Jesus. I'm sorry, man. But you get what I mean."

He certainly seemed to. Elliot's previous quiet, almost sheepish grin had transformed into a full blown beaming smile. Pale blue eyes seemed ablaze. Nodding slightly, he said, "Yeah, I do. Definitely. But don't talk about yourself that way, y'know? Like I'm better than you. Because I'm not. We're both the same, no matter how many inches you have on me." Six and a half. "And your life isn't meaningless. A lot of people care about you, believe it or not. My whole family does."

Blake felt an odd rush of joy then, like a thick, heavy wave crashing to meet the land in his heart, and a pleasant warmth followed. He wondered if Elliot would ever speak this kindly  to him if he knew the truth. His best friend of nearly four years could never hate him just for being gay, he knew that. But if he knew his true feelings for this young man, this short, slightly underweight, pale skinned boy; how when he saw him smile his stomach tied itself into knots, the hundreds of seemingly endless, miserable nights of feeling so alone in his small, dirty bed at home, wishing he was there holding him, then maybe he could have slept. How some days, when Elliot spoke to him like this, when they got this intimate and comfortable with one another, how it literally almost made him cry. Right now, Blake felt contented to tears, though of course he fought them off. A year or so of loving this boy had turned him into a professional at hiding emotion. "So, are you going pick truth yet or what?" His voice was thick, hoarse. He cleared his throat.

Elliot sighed again, though this time differently. "Fine. Truth, you jackass."

Blake grinned, triumphant. He had a devilish little question up his sleeve indeed.