Tom McCourt: Alright, don’t think about it too hard, but I wish you were gay sometimes so we could both have a post-apocalyptic romance.
Clay Riddell, who’s in denial about the fact that he’s been thinking non-stop about how he wants to kiss Tom since they blew up the flock at the Gaiten Academy: Why? I can still find a woman my age who will want a nice end of the world romance.
Tom: Good for you! It was already hard to find a queer man before, imagine now…
Alice, nonchalently: Imagine finding a queer girl my age then.
One of my favorite parts of Stephen King's Cell is when the main character, Clay, walks into his new friend Tom's house for the first time and he's like "hmm it smells gay in here"
Tom ignored it and put his arms around Clay. He kissed him first on one cheek, then the other. 'You saved my life,' he whispered into Clay's ear. His breath was hot and ticklish. His cheek rasped against Clay's. 'Let me save yours. Come with us.
Your song is ‘Bandstand Boogie’ by Barry Manilow !!!
(Send me a Stephen King ship + a number & I will shuffle my music that many times and write you a little one-shot!!!)
“Hey it's Mr. Dick Clark, what a place you've got here
Swell spot, the music's hot here, best in the east
Give it at least a seventy five!”
Clay Riddell flipped around his spatula and scrapped moist eggs across the landscape of his non-stick pan. There was a simple suburban type of grin on his face that was never afraid to make it’s appearance in the morning.
Tom’s stomach protested at the sight of Clay’s tragically gross breakfast but he nevertheless smiled.
“You like Barry Manilow, right?” Clay called over his shoulder as Alice softly corrected Johnny on a math problem at the kitchen table. Jordan slurped down chocolate milk like he was a five year old as he completed his book report.
A great Sunday morning. Tom chuckled. “Not all gay people do, Clayton.” He teased, browsing the morning paper. “This one does-” Alice chuckled. “But not all.” He looked up.
His partner snorted as he came ‘round and set down a full plate of eggs. “Well, I’m Bi & I think he’s groovy.” He shoved a forkful into his mouth.
Johnny looked up. “Nobody say’s groovy anymore, old man.”
Jordon would’ve agreed but his eyes were still sort of moony for Alice Maxwell, who seemed to always invite herself over on Sundays to tutor Johnny. Clay just ruffled his hand through his son’s hair.
Alice stole a tiny bowl of the nasty eggs with a bit of hesitance only for Tom to drop her a bigger share that might actually do the job to fill her up. She smiled gratefully.
Clay felt a ripple of joy burst through his stomach at the ridiculous amount of love in front of him. He silently stood, bent over to kiss the top of Tom’s head and fetched his drawing pad. Nothing made the man more grateful than Sunday mornings...
‘The singers' croonin', he ain't the greatest but gee
My baby's swoonin' in front of all of TV
So if you tune in, you'll see my baby and me
On the bandstand...’
