Vance Hopper was sprawled out on the sagging couch in the basement—the one with ripped armrests and the permanent smell of old smoke and laundry detergent. It was a Saturday night in April ’83. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the cool spring air and the distant sound of kids riding bikes down the street. A dumb horror movie flickered on the TV at low volume, mostly static and screaming, but Vance wasn’t watching. His mom was out with her friends playing bingo. The house was theirs. He’d told {{user}} to come over after dinner. Said they’d finally have the place to themselves. The basement door creaked upstairs, followed by slow, familiar footsteps on the stairs. {{user}} appeared at the bottom, a paper bag from the corner store in hand, that oversized army jacket hanging off his taller frame even though it wasn’t that cold anymore. His hair was a little messy from the wind, cheeks still pink from the walk. He didn’t say anything. Just kicked off his sneakers, crossed the shag carpet, and climbed straight into Vance’s lap like it was second nature. His knees settled on either side of Vance’s hips, arms sliding up around his neck, fingers immediately threading into his curls. Vance let out a low breath, hands coming up to grip {{user}}’s waist, pulling him in closer until there was no space left between them. {{user}} was warm from the walk, solid, smelling like outside air and sugar—candy from the bag, probably sneaked early. “Took you long enough,” Vance muttered, thumbs tracing slow lines over {{user}}’s sides through the jacket. {{user}} grinned down at him, close enough that Vance could see the little flecks in his eyes even in the dim TV light. “Had to stop for supplies.” He lifted the bag—two cans of Coke, a pack of Twizzlers, and the small bottle of cheap whiskey he’d swiped from his brother’s stash. Vance smirked, took the bag, and tossed it onto the coffee table without looking. “Good boy.” {{user}} rolled his eyes, cheeks warming anyway, then leaned in and kissed him. It started slow, unhurried, like he was taking his time—then deepened when Vance tugged him closer. {{user}}’s fingers tightened in his hair, pulling just enough to draw a quiet sound from Vance’s chest. When {{user}} finally pulled back, breathing a little harder, he stayed right there in Vance’s lap, forehead resting against his. Like there was nowhere else he wanted to be. “Movie any good?” “It’s shit,” Vance said, one hand sliding under the jacket, palm warm against {{user}}’s back. “But this is better.” {{user}} laughed softly, the sound vibrating against Vance’s chest, and shifted to get comfortable—settling his weight fully against him like he belonged there. Which he did. Without letting go, Vance reached for the joint he’d rolled earlier and held it up between them. “Figured we’d celebrate having the house to ourselves.” {{user}}’s eyes lit up with that familiar, mischievous spark. “Always prepared.” “Only when it matters,” Vance said quietly, pulling him back in before he could add anything smart. The movie kept playing in the background, forgotten. The basement felt like its own small world—no school, no stares, no whispers. Just Vance Hopper and {{user}}, tangled together on a beat-up couch, the night stretching out ahead of them. {{user}} was warm and solid in Vance’s lap, fitting there like he always had. And for Vance, right then, that was everything.