I.

            This is Nick’s first memory of Tyson: a chubby kid with an easy smile who somehow ends up working the door at a party. Nick writes him off the first time he sees him because he’s a little busy. He and the guys are unpacking all of their instruments and Nick’s got an entire drumkit to set up. He’s not really paying attention to anything but putting one foot in front of the other and making sure he doesn’t overbalance. Some kid holds the door open for all of them and Nick accidentally catches his eye.

            “Hey,” the kid says. “Need some help?”

            Nick’s arms are wrapped around his bass drum and this is only his first trip. He could probably use help, yeah, but he just smiles and shakes his head.

            “Thanks,” he says, “but I’ve got it.”

            Nick passes the boy at the door so many times he loses count. The journey from the living room past a crowded kitchen and increasingly drunk teenagers always begins or ends with the same boy (whose smile grows increasingly more impish with every time Nick walks by). Nick is carrying his cymbals up the walkway when the boy props the door open with his foot and says, “I’m Tyson, by the way.”

            Nick pauses and raises his eyebrows before smiling a little. “Nick.”

            “Drummer,” Tyson adds and Nick nods.

            “Yeah, how’d you figure that one out?”

            He’s brushing past Tyson when the other boy says, “I have incredible powers of deduction. It’s like a sixth sense.”

            Nick laughs and when he comes by again he has to stand next to Tyson to let Matt and Danny by with the amps.

            “So, you gonna watch us play?” Nick asks.

            Tyson shrugs. “I mean, if I can be persuaded to leave my post, why not?”

            Nick peers at him and decides Tyson can’t be much older than twelve. He’s probably seen him around; it’s not like Stillwater is the kind of place where you can skate under the radar for long. He doesn’t remember him, though, and Nick’s got a pretty good memory. Tyson seems pretty comfortable with himself. He’s probably the youngest person at the party and Nick’s been watching him flirt ridiculously with older girls who think he’s just so adorable and Nick doesn’t know many kids who would be able to pull that off without looking creepy.

            “Well, I don’t know how watching us could possibly compare to all the excitement going on right here,” Nick teases, “but we’ll do our best to entertain you.”

            Tyson smiles and even though he waves his hand vaguely, Nick spots him later in the group of kids that have gathered around to listen and dance (but mostly dance; people didn’t book a covers band to watch a rock show, after all). Nick counts them off and then they’re launching into their first song and it feels good. Nick’s always shocked by how right it feels whenever he picks up an instrument and this is no exception. Kids are dancing and Nick catches Tyson staring at them raptly a couple of times and it’s just awesome, doing what they do.

            They play their planned thirty minute set and then take a few requests. By the time they finish up, the party’s gone from somewhat under control to complete chaos. Nick hears someone mention something about a keg out back which would explain the sudden explosion of crazy. He shares a rueful smile with Matt and then stands up. He’s stretching (and dreading the prospect of breaking his drumkit down), when someone taps on his shoulder.

            “Hey,” Tyson says.

            Nick grins and Danny wanders over. “Hey. Tyson, this is Danny. Danny, this is Tyson.”

            “What’s up?” Danny says, giving Tyson an appraising look and then shifting his stance to the one he thinks makes him look cool, all cocked hip and crossed arms and rockstar pout. He really just looks like an asshole.

            “So, that was pretty good,” Tyson tells them with a grin.

            “Yeah? You liked it?” Nick says with a flash of pride.

            Tyson nods eagerly. “Yeah, it was cool.”

            Danny gives up trying to look aloof and grumbles, “it would be cooler if we had a fucking bassist. I’m tired of filling in for that shit. I can’t play.”

            Nick laughs. “Well, I’d do it but then who would play drums?”

            Danny rolls his eyes and Nick punches him in the arm because they all know the only guy in the band who can play drums is also the only guy in the band who can play bass. It kind of sucks but they make do.

            “Well,” Tyson says. “I can play bass.”

            They both turn to look at him. “Seriously?” Nick asks and Tyson nods again.

            “Yeah, sure. I mean, I haven’t been playing long or anything but if you really need a bassist, I can do it.”

            Nick shares a look with Danny who nods once and then looks at Tyson again. “Okay,” he says. “I have to talk to the other guys but yeah. That would be awesome. We’ll give you call, probably after break or something. That cool?”

            “Yeah,” Tyson says and it’s obvious he’s trying not to sound too excited.

            Nick grins and then they’re exchanging phone numbers.

            “I’ve gotta pack all this up, but I’ll talk to you later,” Nick says.

            After that they go their separate ways, Nick to hang out with his friends and Tyson back to his post at the door. And that is how they first meet.

II.

            This is Nick’s second memory of Tyson: on a biting cold day in January, Nick’s doing homework at the flower shop when the small bell above the door rings. He looks up from his math book, preparing to help a customer, and sees Tyson instead. They haven’t spoken since that party a couple of months ago. Nick’s tried getting a hold of him once or twice but the band isn’t doing much anyway, and Nick wasn’t counting on him or anything. But there he is and Nick can tell from the way Tyson’s face lights up when he spots him that the younger boy’s appearance isn’t a coincidence.

            “Dude,” Tyson says, unwinding a scarf from around his neck, “I was really hoping that I could find you here.”

            “How did you-” Nick starts and Tyson cuts him off, saying, “I tried calling you back but I got your answering machine and, you know, Wheeler residence. I figured Wheeler’s Flowers might be you or at least someone who knows you.”

            “You’re a regular PI,” Nick teases and Tyson laughs.

            “So, here’s the thing,” he says, walking forward and hopping up onto the counter. “Are you still in that band?”

            Nick nods. “Yeah, I tried calling you about that.”

            Tyson sighs and runs a hand nervously through his hair (Nick can tell he’s nervous because his eyes are darting all over the room and that’s making Nick nervous, too). “About that . . . so you know how I said I could play bass? I lied.”

            Finally Tyson looks at him, his shoulders hunched in a wince like he expects Nick to freak out. Nick just blinks and when he doesn’t say anything, Tyson keeps talking.

            “I’m learning. I mean, I’ve taught myself some stuff. I really want to do this. I quit football and everything. I just. I don’t know much.”

            Nick’s inner music teacher sits straight up at this and he says, “I can teach you,” before he can even think about it. Tyson lights up and Nick figures that he’s taught less enthusiastic and more annoying kids before, this should be a cinch. Besides, he honestly likes Tyson. Yeah he barely knows him, but Nick likes to think he’s a pretty good judge of character. Tyson, as his mom would say, seems like good people.

            “Oh my God, seriously?” Tyson says, jumping off of the counter and spinning to lean over it, his face right up in Nick’s space. “You will? You’re not pissed?”

            Nick laughs and shakes his head. “Nah. It’s cool. You really want this, right?”

            Tyson nods and that’s different, too, teaching somebody whose eyes shine with the same fire Nick feels every time he picks up a guitar or sits at his drums.

            “Then I’ll teach you.”

            Tyson’s a quick learner on bass, but Nick doesn’t realize he’s a singer until their third practice. They’re in Nick’s basement, soundproofed long ago to spare his parents from being woken up at all hours of the night or morning by their son’s playing, and Tyson’s just learned a new song, something he knows the words to. He starts off humming lightly and Nick’s used to that, used to the soft sound of it, but then Tyson starts actually singing. He’s strumming along a little clumsily but with quiet confidence and he’s singing like he was born to do it.

            Nick stops what he’s doing and stares until Tyson cuts himself off mid-word and looks up.

            “What?” he asks self-consciously.

            “I didn’t know you could sing,” Nick says, and he sounds a little awed to his own ears.

            Tyson shrugs and says, “I’ve been singing pretty much all my life. It’s kind of a thing at my house.”

            He starts plucking out another melody but Nick finds it hard to concentrate the rest of their time together. Tyson’s dad picks him up after dinner (Tyson’s become a regular at the Wheeler dinner table and Nick’s parents don’t seem to mind) and all night Nick finds himself thinking about Tyson’s voice and his charisma. The first impression he made on Nick should have been the first clue, but this just solidifies it in Nick’s mind.

            The next day Tyson comes over and Nick says, “I think you should sing more.” When Tyson just looks at him, Nick sighs and sits next to him on the couch. “I’m serious. You sound good and I really think you’d make a good frontman for a band.”

            Tyson shakes his head. “I’m just here to play bass. I don’t want to, like, be a rock star or anything.”

            But Nick can see in his eyes that the idea appeals to him and for the next two weeks Nick keeps bringing up the idea, waiting for Tyson to tell him to stop. If he does, Nick promises himself, he’ll drop it. But Tyson doesn’t and finally, at the end of February, he agrees to it, to singing and fronting the band and everything that Nick’s offering. So Nick tries his hand at helping Tyson train his voice. It’s weird, nothing like teaching kids how to play the guitar. Nick isn’t much of a singer himself; he’s not bad but he’s not great either. He does understand the quality of sound, though, and Tyson does what he can to help, putting in a strong effort all the time.

            By summer, Tyson sounds really good and he likes singing, Nick can tell. Nick likes listening to him, that’s for sure, and playing with him. The band is pretty much defunct by that point but it’s alright. Nick hasn’t mentioned leaving Tyson and Tyson hasn’t mentioned leaving Nick and they really only need each other. Nick isn’t sure how that happened, he just likes that it has.

III.

            This is Nick’s third clear memory of Tyson, but it’s really part of a series of images impressed on his mind, always the same: the sight of him jogging up the sidewalk, sweaty and still a little lost in the world he creates whenever he sets off from his own house. It’s nearly September, the month of August already settled thickly over town and giving the impression of having no intention of moving. Nick doesn’t mind the heat so much but every time he sees Tyson running toward his house, he has to wonder how the other boy doesn’t pass out or melt on the way there.

            Tyson’s been doing this for months, now, though; a few weeks ago he went from wearing baggy t-shirts to no shirt at all and now he’s got the scrawny build of a future track athlete. Nick eyes Tyson’s damp torso when he stops on his doorstep and rolls his eyes.

            “You’re going to get my mom’s couch all sweaty,” he says in greeting.

            “I’m gonna get you all sweaty first,” Tyson crows, launching himself at Nick and hauling him into a strong hug.

            Nick groans and tries to shove him off but Tyson doesn’t budge; he’s a curiously strong motherfucker (probably from all of that football playing during his formative years). Eventually Tyson lets him go, smiling smug and wide. Nick makes a face, his skin sticky and smelling like Tyson, a combination of not-so-bad and possible B.O. Tyson just laughs at him, walking inside and leaving his shoes outside of the hall closet.

            “I wrote something on the way over,” Tyson says, and Nick’s used to those words, lives for them nowadays.

            They’ve been writing songs together for a while. Before they were just playing around, still mostly focused on Tyson learning to sing, but now Tyson seems pretty serious about it and Nick likes that.

            “Okay,” Nick says. “Play it for me.”

            They rush into the basement and Tyson slings a guitar strap over his shoulder. He’s still a little sweaty but before Nick can say anything, he starts playing. It sounds good. Nick notices a few places where maybe a different chord would work better, but that’s his area of expertise anyway. He’s learned that Tyson’s best with words and melodies. When Tyson’s finished, he smiles and looks at Nick a little breathlessly.

            “I like it,” Nick tells him with a grin, picking up his own guitar and nodding at Tyson. “Play it again?”

            Tyson does.

IV.

            This is not Nick’s fourth memory of Tyson because even after only three years his whole life feels like memories of Tyson, but it’s an important memory nonetheless: Nick is eighteen and Tyson is fifteen and it’s raining outside, a steady patter-patter against the panes of Nick’s windows. They’re sitting on Nick’s bed, quiet for once, just thinking. Tyson taps his fingers against Nick’s knee and says, “you graduate soon.”

            It’s not something they’ve talked about, not since the summer when they were both still excited about Nick finally being a senior. The shine wore off of that pretty fast, though, and they realized that Nick would be going to college, leaving Tyson behind. This is the first time that Tyson’s acknowledged the fact out loud.

            “Yep,” Nick says, and feels the usual squirm of anticipation in his stomach, followed quickly by a sharp ache at the thought of not seeing Tyson every day.

            Tyson hums and then rolls up onto one elbow and leans over Nick. “You have to tell me all about college. It’s going to be awesome.”

            He sounds a little like he believes it, but mostly like he’s trying to convince the both of them. Nick nods and smiles and doesn’t say anything. Tyson’s lips turn down a little at the corners and he looks away.

            “You’re not gonna like . . . I don’t know, forget about me, right?” Tyson winces like he knows how lame and girly that sounds but he doesn’t take it back. “I mean, you’ll be making cool college friends and going to college parties and there are going to be college women. You’ll finally be out of Stillwater.”

            And the thing is, there are a lot of reasons for Nick to want to get the hell out of Stillwater. There are a lot of reasons for anyone to want to get out. But . . . there are a few good reasons for Nick to want to stay, too, and they kind of outweigh the other ones. Nick looks up at Tyson who still won’t meet his eye and thinks I wish I could just take you with me. And that’s just as lame and girly a thing to think as what Tyson just said, but he can’t help it. It would solve a lot of problems.

            “You’ll be out there with me before you know it,” he says finally.

            Tyson rolls his eyes and finally moves away from Nick, falling onto his back again. “I don’t even want to go to college,” he says.

            “What?” Nick says because, yeah, it’s not like he’s looking forward to more school either, but it’s college. It’s kind of necessary. “Why not?”

            Tyson shrugs and then looks up, catches Nick’s gaze and says, “I was thinking about how maybe I just want to do the music thing for the rest of my life, you know? Like, you don’t need a degree to be in a band.”

            Nick raises his eyebrows and swallows around a suddenly dry throat. “And what band are you going to be in instead?”

            Tyson’s own eyebrows go up in an expression of ‘don’t be an idiot’. “Ours,” he says calmly, like there was never any doubt. “It kind of won’t work if you forget all about me in college, though, so. Don’t.”

            It would be an easy thing to joke about, being in a band after high school instead of going to a university. It would be an easy thing to take lightly. But what Nick knows about Tyson is that the younger boy doesn’t consider the music anything but important, vital. He never has, not since he went to Nick about learning the bass just so he could be in the band. When Nick looks at Tyson he doesn’t see a dream that’s going to die a merciless death at the hands of the real world; he sees a dream that has the potential to make it all the way. And Nick, he feels the same thing inside of himself. He’s been ignoring it because he thought it would just get in the way of his plans for college and a life after, but maybe. Maybe it won’t.

            “I won’t forget about you,” Nick says with a small grin.

            Tyson curls up against his side. “Promise?”

            “Yeah, shit, want me to sign it in blood?” Tyson looks up at him, eyes shining, and Nick laughs. “I was kidding.”

            “You ruin all my fun,” Tyson tells him.

            Nick rolls his eyes and flicks him on the shoulder. “Do not. I am the definition of fun.”

            “Uh-huh,” Tyson says skeptically, resting his hand on Nick’s stomach and tapping his fingers idly.

            The rain remains a steady patter-patter against Nick’s windows and they don’t move for another hour. 

V.

            This is how Nick remembers Tyson during the endlessly long month and a half spent at college: through snatches of phone conversations and emails, all of it overlayed with a chronic feeling of loneliness (when it’s not saturated in cheap beer). It’s pretty much nothing like Nick expected college to be and, at the same time, not surprising in the least.

            The ringing of his cellphone jerks Nick out of a deep sleep. His head is killing him and his mouth feels like it’s stuffed full of foul-tasting cotton and Nick’s so used to the feeling of being hung-over by now that he just squeezes his eyes shut and fumbles around for his phone.

            “Hello?” he says blearily.

            “Dude,” Tyson says, “you sound like shit.”

            Nick huffs out a laugh. “I probably look like shit.”

            “Long night?”

            Nick thinks back to yet another party at the frat house. There had been a keg and girls. Lots of girls, each one more wasted than the last, none of them all that good looking or interesting. At some point, Nick remembers, one of the girls had her hand down his pants and he can’t remember whether or not he got off. Everything after that point is fuzzy and thinking hurts so he just says, “Yeah, pretty much.”

            Tyson laughs softly, the way he always does when Nick’s recovering from a ‘long night’. “And just think,” he says. “You’ve only got three more months of this before Christmas break, and then another three and a half years after that.”

            Just the thought makes Nick’s stomach turn. Not that he doesn’t like partying. It’s fun. He likes getting drunk and letting go and having a good time, but it’s not as fun here as it was back in high school and the idea of four years of this, of partying and school and more partying, is more than a little daunting.

            “God I hate college,” he says with relish.

            Tyson laughs again and the sound settles Nick’s stomach just a little. He has decided in the time he’s spent away from Stillwater, that a little dose of Tyson Ritter is enough to cure all of the world’s ills.

            “You do not,” Tyson tells him. “It’s the best four years of your life.”

            Nick groans and says, “No, I do. I really, really do.”

            And Tyson may not believe him, but it’s the truth. This isn’t where Nick’s supposed to be. That place is all the way on the other end of the telephone call.

VI.

            Some nights the only memory Nick has of Tyson is of flashes of skin and the length of his fingers and the look he gets sometimes when he thinks Nick isn’t looking: a little knowing, a little yearning, like Nick’s the music that he needs and believes in so much. It’s late and Nick’s just a little buzzed and he failed another test and all he can think of is Tyson and he wants, wants.

            Nick’s mind chants wrong, wrong, wrong.

            It doesn’t stop him from sliding his hand under the waistband of his boxers.

VII.

            This is one of Nick’s favorite memories of Tyson: the way he reacts when Nick comes home and tells him he’s not leaving again. Nick goes to his parents first, of course, tells them he doesn’t think he’s cut out for the college thing. They’re surprised and Nick can understand why. He’s always been really motivated and responsible but that was different. He can’t explain how, but he knows it and when they look at him, they know it too.

            “So, what are you going to do instead?” his dad asks.

            Nick’s not sure but he’s got a friend who has an idea and it might work out. The band, them together, Nick and Tyson. They might work. Nick tells his parents he’ll figure something out, he promises, and they aren’t happy but they don’t kick him out or threaten him. His mom even gives him a hug and says something about being happy to have her baby boy back in the house (it’s actually kind of embarrassing, but better than what Nick had been expecting).

            He doesn’t even bother unpacking his shit from his car before heading over to Tyson’s. When he gets there, he’s a little nervous for no apparent reason, but he’s barely parked before the front door bangs open and Tyson’s sprinting down the walkway.

            “What the hell are you doing here?” he yells as Nick gets out of the car.

            “Well,” Nick says, walking over to Tyson and bumping their shoulders together. “I dropped out.”

            Tyson looks up at him, wide-eyed, and says, “Wow. You’re a really great example for impressionable young boys like me.”

            Nick laughs and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

            For a moment they don’t do anything but stare at each other, Tyson looking like he expects Nick to disappear any minute, Nick enjoying the fact that Tyson’s right here instead of just a voice over the phone. Finally Tyson grins, his smile wider than Nick’s seen it, and Nick can’t help but grin back.

            “Okay so, I kind of need to figure out what to do with my life now,” he says.

            “You’re going to be in our band, dumbass,” Tyson tells him. “Duh.”

            Nick nods, still smiling. “Yeah, okay.”

VIII.

            Of all of the memories Nick has of Tyson, of recording albums and writing songs together, of playing shows and getting record deals, of weekend-long parties and early mornings, it’s hard to narrow his favorite down. Sometimes, when it’s late and he can’t stop himself from getting introspective, it’s the little things that pile up to make a favorite memory. But if he had to pick, if someone held a gun to his head and asked him to choose, he knows which one it would be: the look on Tyson’s face the first time Nick kisses him.

            By the time things start to take off for them, they’ve been writing songs together for so long Nick can’t imagine doing anything else. It’s different now that they have a purpose, now that they’re being signed to a label, now that this is really happening. They’re going to record an album, just the two of them, and Nick knows that they’ll need an actual band if this goes well but he wants to enjoy this for a little while longer, just him and Tyson.

            “So, I’ve been thinking,” Tyson says one afternoon.

            They’re sprawled out in Nick’s room, Tyson on Nick’s bed and Nick on the floor, taking a break from writing.

            “Yeah?” Nick says a bit absently, toying around on his guitar with one of the melodies Tyson came up with a few days ago.

            “Yep,” Tyson says, and in one giant flurry of movement, he’s hanging over the edge of the bed, his face just inches from Nick’s. “I think we should get away to do some writing. Like at a cabin or some place.”

            Nick sets his guitar aside and turns his head, his raised eyebrows about level with Tyson’s upside-down nose. “That would be cool if either of us had a cabin.”

            “My grandma does,” Tyson tells him, breaking out in a smile. “And I maybe told her I wanted to head up there for a week or so.”

            “And she said yes?” Nick asks, getting a little excited at the thought.

            Tyson nods. “Yeah. I mean, she never uses it except in the summer and she said we can have it for a couple weeks in the fall.”

            “What about school?” Nick feels like he has to be at least a little responsible for the pair of them, but Tyson just rolls his eyes.

            “I’ve got it covered. I talked to my dad and he said I can work on graduating early so I’m in this program thing. I don’t really have to go to classes unless I want to or to, like, turn in papers.”

            Nick blinks and then grins so hard it fucking hurts. “I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” he says.

            Tyson shakes his head, says, “I can.”

            And yeah, Nick knows that because Tyson’s never had any doubt about this. Not that Nick has, but he’s never had Tyson’s blind faith in the pair of them making this work like it is. He’s surprised and at the same time he’s not and in the meantime, Tyson’s staring at him like he’s always known this, like this is just exactly what he’d always planned for.

            “It’s still really fucking awesome though,” Tyson tells him, smiling wide and happy.

            Nick looks at him, really looks, and everything just sort of lines up. Not in any special way, but Nick thinks about his life and where he’s been and where he’s going and all he sees, all he can remember, is Tyson and maybe it’s weird, maybe he’s a freak or a fag or whatever, but that’s all Nick ever wants to see. For the first time in his life it’s not just instinct that prompts him forward, it’s that same soul-deep knowledge that he’s always seen in Tyson.

            “Hey,” Nick says and Tyson raises his eyebrows a fraction.

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” Nick says, and then he’s leaning forward and brushing a kiss over Tyson’s still-smiling mouth.

            It’s chaste as far as first kisses go, and a little awkward because Tyson’s still hanging upside down, but Nick feels a little shock of sensation at the brief touch. He looks at Tyson and Tyson just blinks back. His lips are parted and he’s staring at Nick like he didn’t expect that at all and that’s a little bit of a first. And then Tyson’s expression shifts into one of fucking finally and he sits up, pulling Nick onto the bed next to him.

            “Hi,” he says breathlessly, “I’ve been wanting to do this for years.”

            He pulls Nick into him, sealing their lips together in a kiss that’s thorough and unhurried. Nick’s arms wrap around Tyson’s thin waist and Tyson’s hands are buried in Nick’s hair and Nick’s tongue is in Tyson’s mouth and Tyson’s groan is a delicate buzz against Nick’s lips and they’re NickandTyson, TysonandNick, just like always but better. It’s better because all of the ways that Nick has ever felt right and with Tyson are suddenly united in one giant hum of yes in Nick’s brain and this is perfect, this is it.

            Nick clings to Tyson and he can feel Tyson clinging back and it’s like they know this is where they belong. Nick knows that it is. This is it.