The Solace house is a two-story, white picket affair complete with an immaculate front yard and a tire swing. And it's all for show. I think our whole life is; my mom spends more time worrying about what the neighbors think than anything else.  

She pretends to be friends with all of the other women on the street. They get together once a week for what's meant to be a book club, but I don't think any of them have ever touched a book during the time they set aside. Instead, it's a gossip hour; a space filled with silent competition and insults overlaid with pretty smiles and tittering laughter. My mother always sighs heavily when she closes the door behind them.

I think it must get pretty lonely.

We go to church every Sunday, all eight of us. We sit in a neat row, six kids and a parent on either side, each one of us with our clothes pressed and our hair slicked back, and keep our mouths firmly shut while the minister drawls on about God and the proper family, about commandments. Sometimes it makes me sick.

My father (not my biological one, he ran off a long time ago. I barely remember him) is a businessman. He only ever wears dull colors. Things like beige and white and grey and black. And he smokes a pipe, not because he enjoys it, but because he thinks it makes him look classy. Which might be true, but he's hardly home enough for me to have really decided. And anyway, when he is, he's got his nose so far into a newspaper that I couldn't see even if I really cared to.

Being in that house is suffocating. The air is too thick, filled with synthetic smiles and false pretenses; it makes it hard to breathe. And you're not allowed to touch anything, can barely move for fear of knocking over a vase or putting a ding in the wall. Every single one of us is too scared to death of breaking something to try and have any fun.

I have to get out of there as much as possible.

The best way to do this is picking up as many work hours at the parlor as I can. That, combined with school assures that I spend a minimum amount of time under that roof every week.

In some ways, I'm lucky. If my family wasn't so superficial, they might try and look past my skin. They might not like what they see. Being queer is frowned upon, like leaving dirty dishes in the sink or bringing store-bought brownies to a bake sale.

The word itself says it all. One of the definitions of queer is to spoil or ruin.

I hate that.

I hate that someone slapped that label on me. That they think I'm ruined.

-

I can remember the very first time I heard it, whispered like something dirty, coming from the mouth of a girl in my algebra class. She liked to pop her gum. She smacked it between her bright red lips, narrowed her eyes across the room at him. I hadn't even known his name back then. (Now I do. Nico di Angelo. It's carved into the back of my ribcage. All six syllables of it.)

"He's gay you know," and then she'd snorted disdainfully, "maybe he's not so tough as he'd like us to think."

I'd tuned her out, focused instead on the guy she was sneering at. As if he'd done her the greatest offense by being himself.

He was a greaser, all sleek leather and tough denim. A livid bruise stretched its way across his jaw, the glare on his face was enough to convince anyone that he was dangerous. I'd never met a person who was openly gay before.

A week later, I learned his name from the headlines of one of my dad's newspapers-- the local one, produced in and solely distributed to our town. He'd puffed a cloud of smoke into the air, his lips curling into a snarl in the moments before he spoke. "Damn hooligans. They're going to rip our city apart."

Nico had swiped a can of soup from a corner store.

-

When I'd told Lou Ellen, she'd just looked away and nodded. I'd been afraid that she was bottling away her disgust, but she never looked at me differently afterward.

Cecil had taken a day or two to come around, and he'd apologized.

"You're not any different. I get that, I get it."

I never told anyone else.

-

"My God, Will," Lou exclaims, and I jerk my face toward her so fast that it's a miracle my head and neck stay firmly attached. "Please tell me no."

I blush, look away. Scoff. "What?" It's a little bit too obvious that I'm only pretending to be ignorant.

She rolls her eyes, smooths her hands down her plaid skirt impatiently. "You've been staring at that hoodlum for at least five minutes."

I meet her gaze stubbornly. "So?"

"So?" She looks scandalized, like I've just stripped in public. "He's a delinquent, Will. He's no good."

I just fold my arms stubbornly, casting a quick glance back over at him. He's leaning against a wall, one foot up against it and the other firmly planted on the earth. He's sleek, like the motorbike parked next to him, and his fingers are long and tough. I like studying them. I also like studying his face. He's got small lips and eyes that are dark and tangled, like the woods at night.

He's a definite presence, a solid force.

I lock eyes with Lou again. "Sure. But what's that got to do with me?"

"We both know the real reason you're gawking at 'im." She's raising her eyebrows at me, all challenge.

I just huff. "No way, Lou. You've got it all wrong."

"Oh, come on. You're completely snowed, Solace."

I gape at her, but my cheeks are burning. "I am not–"

"Oh, shush your mouth and listen to me. I know he's pretty and into guys, but that doesn't mean he's any good for you. Just do me a favor and keep your distance."

I look down at the ground, scuff the toe of my loafer against the dirt, "Yeah, yeah. Alright."

It's difficult, though. Difficult to stop staring, to stop wondering. He fascinates me.

"He swears like a sailor," Cecil tells me, and swats my shoulder for emphasis, "That right there should tell you enough about him for you to stay away." But it's not. I don't really mind the cursing, actually.

"He has new bruises every day. He's downright dangerous," Lou says, and frowns at me worriedly."You don't need to get caught up in that." But I don't think that he's dangerous. No one else seems to try and look past his tough skin.

"He carries a switchblade, doesn't that scare you, just a little bit?" I haven't even heard of him really using the thing. I've only ever seen him twirling it fancily, all show.

"You only like him because he's the only other gay guy you know of." That one just ticks me off.

"Have you seen his smile?" I'd asked once, and Lou Ellen had stared at me like I'd gone and sprouted wings, "Yeah. And he looks like he's ready to drag you to hell and back and have a good laugh about it too."

They just don't see. Don't even care to look.

But I see.

I look at him when he doesn't expect anyone to. When he's just bent over his desk, doodling onto his paper. When he's all smiles, clapping a friend on the shoulder, lifting his little sister onto his shoulders.

Nico di Angelo isn't half as bad as everyone makes him out to be. He isn't half as bad as he makes himself out to be.

-

At some point during the summer, I convinced Cecil to apply at Bernie's so that we could work together. Now, whenever the shop is running low on customers, we invent stupid games to keep ourselves company.

Today, we've set up four cups at varying distances along the counter and are tearing away small sections of paper towel to roll into balls and shoot in. Cecil is ahead by six points and he isn't going to let me forget it anytime soon, dancing around and taunting me. To say he's competitive is an enormous understatement.

I'm preparing my next projectile when the bell above the door chimes.

We both turn in the same instant. Cecil swears softly and promptly takes a step back, I just catch at the lip of the counter to keep from letting my knees from collapsing under me.

Nico practically stalks forward, heavy boots thudding loudly against the checkered tile and tracking mud in their wake. He's eyeing me like he's considering me for his next meal (there's a large part of me that really wouldn't mind being his next meal) and when he reaches the counter, he plops his elbows down, leaning forward just enough for it to be slightly intimidating, and, without taking his eyes off of me for a moment, plucks a toothpick from the dispenser on the counter and places it between his teeth. Carefully, like there's an exact notch that it has to fit into.

I can't breathe.

He laughs at me and the toothpick tips forward, dangerously close to slipping out of his mouth. His teeth clamp back down on it before it gets the chance to escape. "Hey, Sugar." His voice is the edge of a razor, glinting and pretty, sharp enough to cut. The word sugar has a bite to it, a kind of subtle jeer that's distinctly accentuated by the way he's scrutinizing me. "Mind if I get some pralines and caramel?"

I just gulp. And then gulp again when the movement makes Nico's eyes fall down to my neck and then slowly, slowly make their way back up. He's all eyelashes. He stares me down for several seconds–my mind is spitting static–and then reaches out and snaps in front of my face. Smirking. "You alright?"

I feel heat rush into my face in a wave and knock my gaze back down, fumble for the ice cream scoop. "Pralines and caramel, right?" It's a rush, a frantic tumble, my heart won't slow down, "D'you want that in a bowl or–"

"Cone," Nico cuts me off, and I jerk my focus back up, blink and feel my mouth stutter wordlessly for so long that it's embarrassing. Nico looks for a moment like he wants to sink into the floor, so I let my expression loosen up, give him my softest smile. His eyes are wide enough to chart stars in.

"Good choice," I tell him, and set to work dishing the ice cream into a waffle cone. When I finish, I present it to him with a tiny smile, "That'll be a nickel."

Nico nods; it's jerky, makes him look like a robot with stripped wires, and digs around in the pockets of his jeans. He takes the ice cream and holds out five pennies to me. Doesn't drop them on the counter, just stands there with his hand out.

I have to reach out and scoop them from his palm. My fingertips push into his skin–brushing along his lifeline–and I can't stop myself from blushing, can't stop my heart from trying to thrash its way out of my ribcage. When I look back up, a slow smirk is appearing on his face. I freeze, hand fisted around the coins, and Nico laughs. Crinkles his nose and lets his shoulders jerk exactly once before he turns and waltzes out of the shop.

He's just as pretty from behind as he is from the front.

"I'm telling you, man, he's trouble," Cecil scolds. I don't need to turn around to know that he has his arms folded.

I just lean forward over the counter, trying to catch another glimpse of Nico before he rounds the corner. The blue jeans he's wearing hug his waist tightly, his leather jacket fits him excruciatingly well, outlines his shoulders. I bite my lip. "Maybe I need a little trouble..."

Cecil makes a gagging gesture as he walks into the back.

-

I don't really expect him to come back. Greasers don't hang out in ice cream parlors. (They fill up all of the places that no one else does: empty car lots and back alleyways and vacant streets in the earliest hours of the morning.)

But he does. He comes back every single Wednesday at four o'clock sharp. Slices smiles from his face and barks laughter into the air, something like a chilled winter day.

I can hardly believe it, find myself trying to stretch out the visits as long as possible. Nico doesn't seem to mind. He answers most of my questions, deflects one or two on occasion, watches in amusement as I carefully count and recount his change. I tell him one day that, for him, I've got to be exact, that he's special, he deserves nothing less.

After that, he starts getting more bold, but less stark. Bold, as in daring, but stark as in cutting.

His smiles loosen up, they're not so close to snarls anymore. I realize one day that the word for those smiles is 'feral.' Like a wild dog. And then it occurs to me that dogs are ferocious because they have to be, it's self-defense, it's a matter of survival.

He always, always calls me Sugar. Says it's because I work in an ice cream parlor, but it still makes my heart stutter.

Nico likes to tell me to surprise him. He's not good at making decisions, he says, and besides, I work at the place so obviously I know what's good better than he does. It makes me laugh; he says it like I'm some kind of expert.

The days he decides to hang around at one of our tables are the days I go home grinning, unable to stop. I wipe and rewipe the tables around him or sweep the floor in his vicinity. And we just talk.

Sometimes Nico's ice cream starts melting and he doesn't even notice it.

And he still looks surprised when I wave to him at school. He still starts when I walk right up to him, still fumbles over his words and stares down at me like I'm crazy.

It takes him a while to realize that I'm not ashamed of him, but when he does, it's like stepping outside for the first time. He's an endless tirade of shocking energy. He's all action, he wants and wants and gets. (Charges straight into everything with a firm set to his jaw and swipes his tongue across his teeth in a way that makes me shiver. Not once does he let himself believe that there is an opportunity for failure whether it's an impossible motorcycle stunt or the last record in stock that he craves.)

He raps his knuckles against my jaw softly and throws his head back and laughs at my stupid jokes and kicks dirt up behind his motorcycle when he pulls up in front of my house. My mother is horrified, my father is outraged. I'm technically banned from seeing him after that.

Technically.

-

I'm the last one left in the parlor tonight. It feels improbably still, the way places tend to when they're empty. The freezers hum loudly and the lights reflect oddly off the polished tiles. Outside, the rest of the world is black.

I tug off my apron and set my hat on top of it, ready for tomorrow, and then slip out the back door, kicking it closed behind me. My chin is tilted upward, so my eyes catch on the moon first. It's peaking just above the line of the trees behind the fence, and I let out a tiny sigh. It's gorgeous, makes the leaves into abrupt silhouettes and surrounds them with its soft grace–a kind of otherworldly glow.

And then let my gaze slide down and yelp, start stumbling backward. (There's a figure, not three feet away. His features are shrouded where he stands–close enough to the fence that he's in its shadow–and he's barely more than a silhouette himself. I can't believe that I didn't notice him first, it seems illogical. And now I'm going to be jumped, but at least the last thing I'll have seen is the moon and the stars.)

"WOAH!" The voice is startled, sharp. Strong hands grip my shoulders. I have my eyes tightly screwed shut. "Woah, woah, woah. It's alright, it's okay, Sugar, it's me." It's softer now, soothing. Easily familiar.

I feel the tension drain out of me, open my eyes and gulp, breathe, "Oh." (It occurs to me for a second that most people would not relax upon finding themselves alone in a narrow alleyway with Nico– he's tall and broad in the shoulders, but lean just about everywhere else. His cheekbones and jawline carve his face into something sharp. He's intimidating without really trying.)

Nico releases me and steps backward, ducking his head like he just got caught stealing. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his beat-up jacket. It's endearing, him standing there with his shoulders hunched and his face tilted downward when he's usually so bold and unafraid.

But I frown worriedly after a few seconds; Nico is hardly ever here this late, and when he is, he always comes straight through the front, whether he has to stand outside and knock until I let him in or not. "Is something wrong? Did I count your change wrong earlier? Because I can definitely open back up and fix that."

Nico laughs and lifts his head to look at me straight on again. "Nah..." He shifts uncomfortably, looks off to the side. He's got a scar on his jaw, it's something I haven't noticed before despite how much time I've spent staring at him. It's something about the lighting. It makes the shadows around the vaguely raised flesh more blunt. "This is probably a dumb question, but I've got nothing to lose."

I feel the left side of my mouth tilt upward. "Then, shoot."

"Alright, Sugar, if you insist." The word 'sugar' sounds sweet coming from him. It's all soft and round, the consonants polished, their rough edges worn away. He's made it into a caress. And he's smiling, but his eyes are worried, his brows are crinkled. "Look, I guess... I think you're really something special, Solace." He says it softly, staring at me with the moonlight brightening up his irises, "I mean, I dig you a lot," His voice quakes a little there, he has to take moment to compose himself, "and I... I guess I was just wondering if you'd consider going on a date with a low-life like me?"

I almost want to ask him to repeat himself. I don't know if it's because I don't quite believe it or if I just want to hear him say it again. My face is creeping its way into a smile and I'm finding it a little bit harder to breathe correctly. Pretty soon I'm grinning, giddy. "Just someone like you? I'd rather have the real thing, if that's alright?"

Nico laughs and it's relief, it's joy, it's complete and utter surprise. It's beautiful. He steps toward me, just stands and looks. And I look back.

"That's definitely okay with me." It's faint, faint enough that I would've missed it if the night weren't so quiet. It feels like it's just us and the stars, like everything else has receded into the background just for this moment, just so I don't miss a single second of it.

I watch his head tilt to the side slowly, his hand cautiously making its way upward until he can brush a strand of hair behind my ear, fingertips grazing against my cheekbone. I let my eyes flutter shut, lean into the touch, and he leaves his hand there, brushes his thumb against my skin.

Nico moves just a bit closer; I know this because I hear his jacket rustling, can feel his warmth and his breath. His hand closes into a loose fist, and his knuckles graze downward, over my cheek, against my jaw, and fall to skim over my ribs. My breath clogs up in my throat and I blink my eyes back open to see him leaning forward. My mind reels, short-circuits, weakened fingers catching at the lapels of his jacket just to keep myself anchored.

When Nico smiles at me at me, it's blurry. Eyes don't focus this close-up.

His nose pushes into my cheek, drags upward until he's breathing right up against the shell of my ear, "I bet you taste just like candy, Sugar."

I grasp at the back of his neck with one hand, knees slowly giving out beneath me, and push my cheek against his, just because I don't know how else to respond to that. I take a moment to collect it all into solid thoughts, to commit it to memory: his skin against my skin, his hands at my hips, his breath on my jaw, my fingers slipping upward to his hair, and our chests, our hips, our toes. "D'you want to find out?"

Nico pulls back a bit, just enough that he can look me in the eye. His fingers are brushing over my sides hesitantly, "Have you ever kissed a boy before, Will?" His eyes fall down to my lips at kissed and stay locked there for the rest of the sentence.

My whole chest hitches, falters. I touch my nose to his. I want to tell him that one time I kissed a girl and couldn't stop thinking about it afterward. Not because it was amazing, not because it made me feel like I was in a movie, like the floor was spinning, but because it just left me empty. "I'd like to." (I've thought about kissing him enough times to have decided that he would be all of the things that she was not.)

"Good..." Nico's eyes are half-closed, his mouth is soft and relaxed, "because I think I'd really like to kiss you, Sugar." He doesn't stress the word kiss like I'd expect him to, like I've heard so many other guys do before. Like they're hungry. He stresses the word you, like he's witnessing a meteor shower or standing under a waterfall; as if he's undergoing something marvelous. He says it like he's been waiting for me, like the only reason the kiss is going to be special in the first place is because it is me.

It makes me dizzy.

I wonder if he's pictured kissing me the way I've pictured kissing him. I wonder if he'd care if I wasn't so good at it. I worry that if I'm not, he'll change his mind, stop saying you (me, Will) like it's a miracle.

The longer we stand here, the more tiny little details I notice about Nico's face. He's got minuscule flecks of gold in his eyes, they're barely even there, more of an idea than an actual substance. You have to search for them; they're buried enough that his eyes still feel like a bottomless pit. And there are freckles on his cheeks, only a few, so slight I can barely even see them, even this close. "Then why haven't you?"

"Because I'm nervous." And I notice how his breath shudders, how his fingers tremble and slip against my sides.

"Then I'll kiss you."

"Alright."

So we stand here, Nico's fingertips slowly moving from my ribs to my hips and back again, and my fingers pushing upward through his hair. I lean my forehead against his. His once carefully-styled ducktail hairdo is a complete disaster now and I'm still combing my hands through it, running my fingertips over his scalp, loving the way he sighs and presses in closer.

My hands are coated in pomade and when I brush my thumb over his cheek, it leaves a light sheen of it in its wake. It gleams in the moonlight, reminds me, suddenly, of the disdain of so many people. Their sneering faces and the word greaser dropping from their lips. And that reminds me of the minister, of the girl in my algebra class, of my parents, all of them cringing and sneering and shaking their heads at two boys, two girls, in love. My lips tremble, my breath shudders.

"I thought you were going to kiss me," Nico says. It's quiet.

"So did I," My heart is tripping over itself, quaking, "but I think I'm nervous too."

"Okay," Nico says, and reaches up to cup my cheek, "Then I guess we'll start out with a date and wait it out until we're not nervous anymore."

"Alright."

-

Our first date is on a Tuesday right after school and I don't find out about it until Nico tells me to get on his bike. He doesn't tell me where we're going, just that it's a date. I expect him to take me to dinner or the movies and it makes me nervous. I want to bury my face in his shoulder while we ride, but there are too many people who could see, who could tell my parents. I can't afford that.

He doesn't take me to a diner or a theater or even a bowling alley. He drives and drives until we're on the outskirts of town, until we're nowhere. Until there's no buildings, no houses.

"Out here," he whispers to me, and tries to fix my hair. It's horrendously messed up from the helmet, "we don't have to pretend. We can just talk... like we should be able to anyway."

He's right, too. I don't have to be afraid of touching his hands or his cheeks. I don't have to be afraid of even being seen with him. But I still am and I don't want to be. I don't want to have to be scared of this. I know that Nico sees my nervousness.

Dating him is a lot different than just flirting. It's a lot more serious, comes with a greater consequence, and I know that. But we go on dates anyway. I'm not going to give him up just because I'm afraid.

He does take me to the usual places, too. Kicks my ankles lightly under the table at restaurants and rests his hand next to mine on the armrest at theaters, just near enough that our pinkies touch. Says we don't always have to hide, but I know that he sees that I don't touch him then; when we're in public. I know that he wants to hold my hand when we walk down the street and I know that it probably hurts him that I don't. And I hate that.

"I get it," he says one day, picking at the skin around his fingernail, "I know that the stakes are high, Will. I know it's scary. It's okay."

When I decide where we go, it's usually somewhere secluded.

Being alone with him is heart-stopping. I feel like I can tell him anything because he's seen enough not to judge. Nico di Angelo is not superficial; he does not set people to too-high standards or sneer at their imperfections. He does not look at me and frown and straighten out my tie.

He's like being set free.

We decide to go to the drive-in movies one night. I take him in my father's convertible, but we keep the top up and park far enough away from the rest of the crowd that it's harder for us to be seen. We don't even have a speaker.

By now, I'm tired of being cautious, but I'm still not brave enough to stop.

The front seat is one long bench and Nico wraps his arm around me and pulls me close. I just lean my head against his and stare at the screen. They're playing a flick from a couple years back; a sci-fi. The soundlessness makes the whole thing feel disembodied, not quite right. It's harder to follow the plot without dialogue, easier to get distracted by outside activity.

Nico starts turning his head slowly, like he's trying not to startle me, like if he does it careful enough I might not notice. I shift, just enough that I'm not leaning on him so much anymore, and he faces me completely. My fingers twitch, I let out a small, unsteady breath, but keep my focus on the screen. As if I don't notice how Nico is studying my face now, his nose a sigh away from my cheekbone and his breath soft against my face.

We stay like that for an eternity, my insides turning to mush, until Nico reaches up and touches my chin, feather-light. It feels like a question.

I turn my face toward him, swallowing thickly. His eyes are dark enough to get hopelessly lost in. Terrifyingly lost in. But they're not frightening.

He touches our noses together. It's honest. "Are you still nervous, Sugar?"

"Not because of you." Everything seems immeasurably important. The quiet, the glare of the movie reflecting off of the car window, Nico's hand pressing into my shoulder blade.

Nico's eyes fall shut, a smile breaking loose over his expression. He looks like he's found bliss. When he speaks, his voice is delicate, maybe a little breathless. "Neither am I. I feel more at ease around you than almost anyone else."

I pull my lip in between my teeth, worry away at it for a few seconds. "Have you ever kissed a boy, Nico?"

His hand, the one that's resting on my shoulder, slips upward over my neck. He brushes his fingers through the hair there, at the base of my skull. It's soothing, sweet. "Not when it really meant something."

"And this does?" I'm staring now. Disbelief and awe coursing through me in torrents.

He's quiet for a moment. His eyes open back up slowly. "I think... I think that's why I was nervous. And I also think it's why I'm so calm now."

I press in closer to him, a smile tugging at my mouth, "That doesn't make much sense to me."

Nico moves in closer as well. Now we're near enough to each other that our lips are almost brushing when he speaks. "Some of the best things don't."

A breathless laugh escapes me. I push my forehead more firmly against his, lift my hands to cup his cheeks and brush my thumbs across his jaw, "That explains why I have no idea why I'm doing this..." I take my time, tilting my head and nudging at his cheek with my nose, listening to Nico's breath hitch, and then press in, capture his lips with mine.

The best part of the kiss is Nico's reaction to it. His tiny gasp, his fingers curling in, his shoulders slowly tensing up and then unraveling when I jut my chin forward slightly. And then he's pulling away, leaving me to chase after him helplessly.

"Will," he breathes, and braces a hand against my chest, "what did you mean? That you don't know why you're doing this."

I slide my hands around, drape my arms around his neck. "Because this is crazy, Nico. It's insane." It sounds amused in a way that means just the opposite.

Nico's grip tightens on me and he screws his eyes shut. Like he's trying to block himself off from the world. "I know," he whispers. Chokes, drags it out of himself like it's something hateful.

"Sshhh..." I rub circles onto his back, urge him closer until he pulls himself into my lap and slumps against my chest. He's heavy, my legs are probably going to fall asleep sooner or later, but I don't really care. I just hold him, press my face into his hair and just hold him.

After a long, long while, I turn my head to the side, so that my cheek is resting against the top of his head, and whisper, "I want you to meet my parents."

Nico barely misses smashing our heads together when he sits up, would have if I didn't jerk away. "What? Will, you don't have to–"

I hold a hand up to silence him, "I just want to introduce you. I want them to get to know you, not everyone's opinion of you. I want them to realize how great you really are. So... So when I do work up the guts to tell them... Maybe it'll be easier."

His expression softens up. His fingers are shaking when they brush over my cheeks, "Will. Sugar, you don't have to do that to yourself. I know... I know that it can be bad. I don't want that for you. Just... the fact that you're even hanging around me is bad enough."

I press my lips into a firm line, cup his cheeks. "Look at me. Nico, you are not something to be ashamed of, alright? You're kind and daring and... you make me feel whole. That's not... That means the entire world."

"Your folks won't think so."

I give him a little rueful smile, "I guess they'll just have to learn different."

Thank you, lashyewtwist,  CarlosTheeScientist, coolcatpjo, Fragileasafeather, _Gandalf_The_Gay_ and (from tumblr) ismill for beta-reading this and giving me great feedback and critiques (I hope I didn't miss anyone! Please tell me if I did).

The title is a song by The Penguins that was released in 1954.  

Also! There will be a part two to this.......... idk when. But there will be. 

(lowkey publishing this on here before i do on tumblr even though it's a gift for someone on there........ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

that is all.