Dandy: Fair's Fair
“Suckaaa,” Andy says, and he drags the a out like that, too, real long and obnoxious. Dave hates when Andy gloats, although that’s mainly because when Andy’s gloating, Dave’s not.
“Fuck,” David says. “Do I have to?”
Andy shrugs. “Fair’s fair. I didn’t make the rules.”
And that’s true; David has to give him that much. On their first morning in their new house-and fuck, they own a house, who would have thought?-it was Dave who said, “House rule: Rock-Paper-Scissors for who has to get the paper in the morning.” Only then it was summer and now it’s the middle of winter and it’s cold and their driveway is long, really long.
But because David’s not one to back down, especially not when it’s his own rule, he slides out of bed and places his bare feet flush against the floor. He’s cold right away, wearing only wearing boxers, so he goes over to the chair in the corner to grab the first sweatshirt he sees. It’s Andy’s-grey and zip-up-and once he puts it on, Dave doesn’t think he’s going to ever give it back.
Behind him, light is just starting to come in through the blinds and it’s leaving shadows along the sheets, along Andy’s face and the broad expanse of his bare chest. Dave looks at him and for a minute, and he doesn’t know how else he could describe Andy as other than breathtaking. But then Andy’s smiling, saying, “I bet the Business section is a real doozy today,” and David thinks, Asshole, and the moment is gone.
Dublin’s in the kitchen, and when he sees David, he gets up and runs to the door as if he already knows that David’s going outside. David says, “You turncoat, you could at least pretend like you expected me to win,” and Dublin just looks up at him, blinks a little bit, and then runs behind David to stand on the other side of his legs.
About halfway down the driveway, Dave realizes that slippers or flip-flops or even a pair of socks would have been great because it is cold out and the concrete is like ice and the bottom of his feet are crying. So David sort of jogs to the newspaper, the kind of jog where it’s really just a lot of little steps taken really fast, and he’s sure he looks like an idiot but he doesn’t really care.
Halfway back, the papers all fall out of the bag and Dave has to stop to pick them up. Dublin’s standing on some of them and so Dave has to physically remove of him, and he’s not that cool with pushing around his own dog, so that’s kind of a bummer. But then he jogs back inside and up the stairs no problem, and he doesn’t even have frostbite, so Dave thinks it’s alright.
Back in their room, Andy’s got all the blinds open and he says, “You’re like, fucking, Usain Bolt or something with that running of yours,” and normally Dave would say something back, something about Andy’s girl hair or about how he could put his mouth to better use, but Andy’s got the sheets draped loosely around his waist and he’s not wearing a shirt and so Dave lets it slide with nothing more than a “Fuck you” and a smile.
When David climbs back into bed, he leans over to kiss Andy. He brings his hands up to Andy’s neck and slides his legs in between Andy’s, running the soles of his feet up Andy’s calves. Andy’s warm, still heated from being in bed and from being draped all over Dave the night before, and so touching him kind of comes as a shock to Dave’s cold skin. Andy hisses a little bit and tries to pull away-“Cold, cold, cold!” he says-but Dave’s got a good grip him and doesn’t let Andy back off.
“Oh my god, I fucking hate you right now,” Andy says once Dave lets him go.
“No you don’t,” Dave tells him, and Andy says, “Well, I won’t if you let me start with the comics.”
David doesn’t say anything and just passes Andy the Business section.
Fair’s fair.
“Fuck,” David says. “Do I have to?”
Andy shrugs. “Fair’s fair. I didn’t make the rules.”
And that’s true; David has to give him that much. On their first morning in their new house-and fuck, they own a house, who would have thought?-it was Dave who said, “House rule: Rock-Paper-Scissors for who has to get the paper in the morning.” Only then it was summer and now it’s the middle of winter and it’s cold and their driveway is long, really long.
But because David’s not one to back down, especially not when it’s his own rule, he slides out of bed and places his bare feet flush against the floor. He’s cold right away, wearing only wearing boxers, so he goes over to the chair in the corner to grab the first sweatshirt he sees. It’s Andy’s-grey and zip-up-and once he puts it on, Dave doesn’t think he’s going to ever give it back.
Behind him, light is just starting to come in through the blinds and it’s leaving shadows along the sheets, along Andy’s face and the broad expanse of his bare chest. Dave looks at him and for a minute, and he doesn’t know how else he could describe Andy as other than breathtaking. But then Andy’s smiling, saying, “I bet the Business section is a real doozy today,” and David thinks, Asshole, and the moment is gone.
Dublin’s in the kitchen, and when he sees David, he gets up and runs to the door as if he already knows that David’s going outside. David says, “You turncoat, you could at least pretend like you expected me to win,” and Dublin just looks up at him, blinks a little bit, and then runs behind David to stand on the other side of his legs.
About halfway down the driveway, Dave realizes that slippers or flip-flops or even a pair of socks would have been great because it is cold out and the concrete is like ice and the bottom of his feet are crying. So David sort of jogs to the newspaper, the kind of jog where it’s really just a lot of little steps taken really fast, and he’s sure he looks like an idiot but he doesn’t really care.
Halfway back, the papers all fall out of the bag and Dave has to stop to pick them up. Dublin’s standing on some of them and so Dave has to physically remove of him, and he’s not that cool with pushing around his own dog, so that’s kind of a bummer. But then he jogs back inside and up the stairs no problem, and he doesn’t even have frostbite, so Dave thinks it’s alright.
Back in their room, Andy’s got all the blinds open and he says, “You’re like, fucking, Usain Bolt or something with that running of yours,” and normally Dave would say something back, something about Andy’s girl hair or about how he could put his mouth to better use, but Andy’s got the sheets draped loosely around his waist and he’s not wearing a shirt and so Dave lets it slide with nothing more than a “Fuck you” and a smile.
When David climbs back into bed, he leans over to kiss Andy. He brings his hands up to Andy’s neck and slides his legs in between Andy’s, running the soles of his feet up Andy’s calves. Andy’s warm, still heated from being in bed and from being draped all over Dave the night before, and so touching him kind of comes as a shock to Dave’s cold skin. Andy hisses a little bit and tries to pull away-“Cold, cold, cold!” he says-but Dave’s got a good grip him and doesn’t let Andy back off.
“Oh my god, I fucking hate you right now,” Andy says once Dave lets him go.
“No you don’t,” Dave tells him, and Andy says, “Well, I won’t if you let me start with the comics.”
David doesn’t say anything and just passes Andy the Business section.
Fair’s fair.