fic: mapmaker, mapmaker, make me a map 2/2 (tsn, pg-13, andrew/jesse, AU, 18475 words)
mapmaker, mapmaker, make me a map part 2/2
Someone's hands are covering Jesse's eyes, holding his head in place so he can't turn it.
"Sandpiper?" Jesse guesses.
He's been standing around Tower Records for the past hour, leafing through magazines and earning dirty looks from half of the staff.
His mind has been running on crazy what-ifs all morning: what if this meeting ends in disaster? What if he doesn't meet Andrew's expectations? What if Andrew doesn't meet his?
Jesse turns. Andrew stands in front of him in a navy blue shirt and a black beanie, a pair of aviator sunglasses tucked into his shirt. He looks almost startlingly normal, his brown moccasins faded and worn from overuse.
"Jesse?" Andrew says uncertainly. Even his voice sounds different; it has a lower cadence. Andrew's eyes roam Jesse's face and for a moment, Jesse wonders what it is that he's seeing.
"You're Parrotfish, right? I think I'd kill myself in embarrassment if you happen to be a random stranger I just jumped." He sounds nervous which makes Jesse feel a little bit better. He's also an hour late.
Jesse wore a nondescript hoodie to the occasion. Underneath is the shirt Andrew sent him a few months ago, the one with the screenprinted drawing of a sleeping octopus.
Andrew gives him a warm smile and reaches out to shake his hand. His grip is firm, the weight of his hand makes something in Jesse shift but he's not sure what.
"I thought you'd be... I don't know, taller," Andrew says, still looking at him.
"Thanks," Jesse tells him curtly. "I thought you'd be nicer."
Andrew laughs. He pushes his hair back, which is dark and thick and wild and falls loosely around his ears. Jesse wants to touch it just to see if it's as soft as it looks but he pockets his hands instead, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.
"No, I mean," Andrew says, his laugh tapering off, "Not in a bad way. I just thought." He shrugs, doesn't continue, eyes never leaving Jesse's face. It unnerves Jesse a little so he looks away, stepping back a little and ziping his hoodie all the way up to his chin so that the octopus print of his shirt doesn't peek out over the zipper.
"Do I disappoint you?" There's more truth in the question than he allows himself.
"No, I kept my expectations very low, next to nothing at all."
Jesse almost laughs. "Same. I'm unimpressed."
"I think I can live with that," Andrew says.
They smile at each other, shy, Jesse leaning against the far wall of the magazine stand and staring at the rows of CDs beyond Andrew's head. He can smell Andrew, he thinks, and the clean, mineral scent of his skin, and something else too, underneath all that, cologne maybe or shampoo.
This is real and it's happening, it's really really happening, right now.
"Still," Andrew murmurs softly, "I thought you'd be... I'm not sure what I thought you'd be."
He's not alone. "Anyway, no. I'm rambling. God. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Where are my manners? I, would you like to go out for coffee?"
"Coffee," Jesse repeats. He doesn't know what he's expecting but it's not this. He feels awkward, tongue too thick inside his mouth, his stomach tying itself in knots. He wants to throw up.
Jesse balls his hands in his pockets and wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation but he mans up for once and offers Andrew a polite smile.
Andrew's still looking at him, expectant, and his eyes are dark under a certain light. His face is less angular than Jesse remembers from his picture online, his face rough in places with stubble.
Jesse pushes his glasses up when they slip off the bridge of his nose "Sure," he says. "Whatever."
It makes him sound almost flippant.
Andrew grins at him, nodding, and they step out into the street, into the cool, March morning, shoulders bumping on their way out and Jesse jogging a few steps to catch up.
||
The package arrives on a Thursday.
Jesse slinks in through the front door after school, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water when his mom appears at the doorway, carrying a brown parcel.
"Honey," she says, a note of concern in her voice. "Do you know anyone from London? Because you just got a package and I-"
Before she can finish, Jesse bolts towards her and snatches the parcel from her hands. It's from Andrew. Of course. Who else would it be from?
Jesse hurries to his bedroom, thumping up the stairs and almost trampling on the cat. He locks the door behind him, stares at the parcel sitting on his bed for a whole five minutes before tearing it open with a box cutter.
His hands shake.
Buried underneath all the bubble wrap is a shirt with one of Jesse's drawings - "octopus exploiting pre-adolescent son by using it as a stuffed animal" - screenprinted on the front. A note attached to it reads: I hope you enjoy popping bubblewrap! written in red felt-tip pen.
Jesse almost doesn't see the postcard until he turns the box upside down and it falls in his lap. He takes it with him to the bed, flopping down on his back and holding it up against the light.
After dinner, he thumbtacks the postcard to his map of old Lisbon on the wall, sits back leaning on his palms, and smiles.
||
The coffee shop is quiet, half-empty. A Tori Amos song plays in the background for ambience and Andrew quickly locates a table that is both near an outlet and the bar. There are no rowdy college kids today, just a bunch old couples all reading the newspaper and enjoying their coffee.
"I'll have whatever you're having," Jesse says when Andrew asks him what he wants. He isn't particular about his coffee. Jesse likes it black with lots of cream and sugar, but he'll take anything as long as he gets his required caffeine kick.
"Are you sure? You don't want anything specific?" Andrew asks. He has dug out his wallet, brown leather and bulging with notes, with a keychain of a silver ox dangling from it.
"A bran muffin maybe?" Jesse says. "I don't know."
Andrew grins. It's kind of disarming, that, Jesse thinks, because Andrew smiles sort of slowly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "I'm buying, is that all right with you?"
"You - you don't really have to."
"No, man, you just sit there and guard our spot." He points to the table, still grinning. "Sit."
"I'm not a dog," Jesse tells him, but he goes ahead and sits at the table anyway. He picks up a handful of paper napkins from the condiments cart and starts doodling while waiting for the coffee to arrive.
"No bran muffin. And I got you a caramel latte, " Andrew informs him, pulling out the seat across from him and setting down the tray. "I'll just get you another one if you don't like it."
"Don't worry, I'm not picky," Jesse mumbles as Andrew leans towards him to hand him his drink. Jesse takes a careful sip of it before putting it down, taking the lid off and breathing in its warm, sugary scent. It's good.
"Are you drawing something?" Andrew asks, dunking half a packet of sugar into his coffee. "Can I see it?"
Jesse slides the napkin across the table, ears prickling in embarrassment at how childish the habit is. He really needs to stop drawing on everything.
"What's this?" Andrew asks again. Always full of questions, Jesse thinks, not without a hint of amusement.
"It's rubble."
Andrew makes a thoughtful noise. Jesse remembers the same sound over the phone, except up close, in his ear, a low hum that made his chest seize a certain way. Jesse stares at Andrew's hands curled around the Styrofoam cup. Andrew's fingers are long and elegant and his nails are short and clean, not raw and chewed to misery like Jesse's.
"Can I write on this?" Andrew looks up hopefully at him.
"Sure. Do whatever you want with it. It's yours."
Jesse excuses himself to the men's room where he splashes water on his face and paces the floor for at least ten minutes. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes frantically. Then he puts his glasses away - they make his entire face feel clunky anyway - and checks his reflection in the mirror before deciding he really needs a haircut.
When he wanders back to the table, Andrew's laptop is out and he's handing Jesse back the paper napkin, smiling.
"Read it," Andrew insists.
"You wrote all this while I was in the bathroom?"
Andrew nods. "Do you want me to sign it for you? You could um, you could frame it."
Jesse gives him look. It must have been a really strange one too because Andrew laughs - a real laugh this time - and it takes him a minute to sober up, sipping on his coffee and shaking his head, shoulders still shaking.
Jesse folds the paper napkin into a tiny square before pocketing it. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness in the room and immediately regrets his decision to lose the glasses. He feels like a newborn, seeing everything in glaring, vivid colors.
"You're not wearing your glasses anymore," Andrew observes. "Why did you take them off? Headache?"
Jesse shrugs. "Something like that, yeah."
Andrew spends twenty minutes checking his e-mail while Jesse takes tiny experimental slurps of his latte, looking around the room. It's not as bad as he had anticipated but it's not going swimmingly, either. He somehow expected more fanfare.
"Are you all right?" Andrew asks him over his computer. He sounds sincerely worried too, which makes it even worse.
Jesse forces a smile. "I'm fine," he says. He rubs his palms against the leg of his jeans, up and down until the friction burns his skin. "Do you want to, to watch a movie or something or uh, do you have to be somewhere later?"
"I'm free all day, actually," Andrew beams. "I was hoping you had something planned for me," Another grin, and Andrew's cheeks bulge as he finishes his coffee in one swig, breathing out a pleased sigh. "I don't know my way around town, so you'll have to bring me to places and entertain me."
"I'm really not the most entertaining person in the world."
Andrew's smile is kind. "Sure you are."
||
Two weeks before Christmas, Jesse heads down to the thirftstore to buy presents.
He isn't usually the shopping kind but one Saturday, his mom shoves him bodily out the door, telling him, urging him, to go be a teenager outside and breathe fresh air for a change - so she can cuddle up to her boyfriend Al on the couch and not worry about keeping it PG - and Jesse figures, well, why the hell not.
It's not like he has anywhere else to be.
He rifles through a box of cassette tapes and buys Justin a Frank Zappa album and a homemade mixtape dated 1988. Justin loves that kind of the stuff. It's Ashley's influence mostly but now that she's gone from his life, Jesse wonders if Justin still listens to the same sad songs or if he's more likely to throw himself off a bridge now that he has no reason to listen to Belle and Sebastian without wanting to cry.
Jesse buys his mom a knitted blouse.
Andrew is the last person Jesse shops for. Jesse takes his time and looks through selections of shirts and shoes and belts and handmade sweaters. He finds the reindeer hat forty minutes later, made of soft brown felt and still in good condition although the left antler droops sadly to the side.
At home, Jesse covers the hat in green tissue paper before stuffing it in a box. He lets it sit in his closet for another three days before mailing it out.
It doesn't snow on the twenty fourth, a week later, but a package from Andrew is waiting for him on the front porch a few days later. He slaps down the front steps in socks and oversized sandals, tearing eagerly through the wrapping with trembling hands.
It's a leather bound copy of all of Jesse's drawings - at least the one's he's sent Andrew anyway and not the doodles he makes in class - fifty pages long and with a note scribbled on the last page that says, curt: Merry Christmas Jess. I hope you stay warm during the holidays.
A picture falls from between the pages. It's of Andrew wearing the reindeer hat, hands covering his eyes and grinning his head off. Jesse turns it over in his hands, touching the outline of Andrew's hands in the picture. He doesn't tape the picture to the wall, he doesn't keep it anywhere his mom may stumble across it.
He folds it in two and tucks it into his wallet.
||
Andrew flew in two days ago for a zine thing. An official Diode meeting, he said over the phone, voice high and incomprehensible over the din in the background.
They made plans to meet each other, do something fun. Andrew had some online zine friends in the area and would be staying with them in the meantime.
"What do you want to watch?"
They're at the cineplex, checking the listings, and it's a choice between a movie called Charis - which is about a mutated iguana going on a massive killing spree - and a Persian short about a man who drives around, depressed, asking people to kill him. There's another movie too - a romantic comedy about mistaken identity and both Andrew and Jesse raise their eyebrows at the same time before bursting into laughter.
"I think I'll pick the fifteen foot iguana," Jesse says. "It sounds interesting at least."
"Who doesn't want to see a killer iguana?"
"Exactly."
They pay for their tickets. The movie doesn't start in another ten minutes so they stand around the hall, not talking, Jesse pretending to check his phone for messages and Andrew watching people walk by them. It's the longest ten minutes of Jesse's life, not counting the time he had to sit in the principal's office when he was ten, for hitting a classmate after he had called him a fag.
"Do you want to get popcorn?" Andrew asks.
"Sure, I love popcorn," Jesse says. He doesn't, but they're watching a movie about a murderous reptile so he supposes it's only fitting. Andrew buys them soda, some raisinets and a tub of buttered popcorn as large as Jesse's head.
"I don't think I've ever seen a bigger tub of popcorn in my life," Andrew laughs. Laughter is the key because then Jesse can pretend that his chest isn't rapidly filling with worry.
It feels entirely like a date. Is it a date? The theater is cold with only a few people in it, couples tucked against each other and talking over the trailers. Andrew picks a seat right in the middle of the theater, easing down on his chair which squeaks in complaint as he maneuvers the food around them. He lets the popcorn sit on Jesse's lap - "Do you mind?" "No, not at all. Go ahead." - and tears through the packet of raisinets with his teeth.
"Want one?" His elbow is warm where it presses against the back of Jesse's hand.
"Sure," Jesse says. Why does he keep saying that, anyway? Sure?
"Let me see if I can try getting it into your mouth," Andrew grins. His eyes are a deeper shade of brown under a certain light.
Andrew shifts in his seat and attempts to shoot a raisinet into Jesse's mouth. He misses, a spectacular six times, pelting Jesse everywhere but the lips.
One even hits Jesse in the eye.
Jesse snorts, picking a raisinet from his lap and criticizing Andrew for his bad aim.
"Weak," he says with a shake of the head. "You disappoint me."
Jesse's grateful for the dark - it hides the smile that stretches across his face, warm, like a fever.
They're shushed by the couple a few feet behind them so they quiet down, dissolving into snickers. Andrew slouches in his seat so that his knees touch the back of the seat in front of him. He lolls his head to the side, staring at Jesse, blinking a few times, before grinning and scooping a handful of popcorn from his lap, making Jesse jerk up in surprise in his seat, his heart in his throat, and Andrew laughs at him before nudging him in the ribs, and says, "Stop fooling around, it's starting."
So Jesse slumps down too so he's level with Andrew and tries not to act too surprised whenever Andrew reaches over for some popcorn.
||
"Something wrong?" Jesse asks.
The movie's finished and they're standing outside the theater, rubbing their elbows like junkies. It's late in the afternoon and the sky is tinged orange, strips of clouds hanging low on the horizon where the outline of the city blurs against the seaside.
Andrew's looking at his phone, flipping it open and closed. "Yeah, um. My friend was supposed to pick me up. I've been trying to text him for the past half hour but he's not responding."
"Do you need a ride or something?"
"Do you have car?" Andrew's eyes light up and Jesse actually contemplates lying to him just to keep his spirits up. Jesse shrugs one shoulder. He decides to tell the truth.
"Sorry. I don't even have my license yet." More out of laziness than an inherent fear of driving into a telephone pole or running over an old lady crossing the street.
"Sometimes I forget that you're seventeen," Andrew tells him. "You're far wiser and more creative than most people my age. Have I ever told you that?"
"You obviously have never met a lot of people," Jesse says. "And whatever, you're not that old. You're only nineteen."
"Physically maybe, but I have the mind of a twelve year old, I think."
"No twelve year old can write poetry like that," Jesse says.
Andrew blushes - actually blushes - and ducks his head and laughs, rubbing his neck and the back of his ear. "Thanks," he laughs, still not looking up at Jesse. "That means a lot to me, especially coming from you."
"I don't even know what that means," Jesse says honestly. He listens to musical theater for leisure and can never bring himself to move like Andrew who makes every stride seem easy and casual and cool.
"My house is a twenty minute walk from here," Jesse volunteers, stuffing his hands inside his pockets and gripping his glasses tight in one hand. His hands are sweating again, cold, clammy.
"If you want to come over or whatever."
"Or whatever?"
"Yeah, I don't know," Jesse says, shrugging and looking away. His mom is staying at Al's tonight - he's got the whole house to himself.
Andrew pockets his phone and makes a thoughtful noise in his throat. He looks down at Jesse, seemingly curious, touching the back of his hand gently to get Jesse to look at him.
"Hey," he says, soft.
Jesse jumps back, startled, whipping his head around as his heart pounds furiously in his ribs. "What?"
"Sorry," Andrew says sheepishly. He looks like he doesn't know what to do with his hands which he leaves dangling useless at his sides. "Do you really want me to come over?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I'm a stranger, whom you just met on the internet. You don't know me. You don't know if I'm not psychotically warped or a killer of children."
"Well that would put a damper of things wouldn't it? If you happen to be any of those two or both."
"I'm neither."
"Good."
"Good?"
Jesse releases a sigh he doesn't know he's been holding. "Yeah, good. Is there something else you want to tell me?"
The rush of cars on the road is calming. A cold gust of air escapes the trees and ruffles Andrew's hair like invisible fingers.
"No," Andrew says, "Not really, no. Nothing else."
Jesse walks ahead, his head ducked down and his hood pulled up, his fingers balled in his pockets, restless.
Andrew darts after him to catch up, his shoes scraping against the asphalt. He slows down when he is shoulder to shoulder with Jesse and pulls Jesse's hood down to his neck.
At Jesse's startled look, Andrew grins, slow, and bumps their shoulders together.
||
"All I have is apple juice," Jesse tells him, retrieving the carton from the fridge. "And pretzels."
"I like pretzels," Andrew says as he looks around the kitchen and puts his messenger bag down on the counter. He pulls out a chair and sits leaning forward with his elbows on the kitchen table, watching Jesse.
"Where's everybody?"
"My mom's at a her boyfriend's." Jesse makes a disgusted face, shakes his head clear of thoughts. Boyfriend is a term reserved for younger people, not balding middle-aged men who still live in the same house as their ailing mother.
Jesse slides the glass of apple juice toward Andrew and the liquid sloshes inside the glass, spilling a little.
They watch each other across the table, over the rim of the glass. "Actually, you know, maybe you shouldn't drink that. It might be expired. It's been in the fridge for months, maybe even longer."
Jesse reaches for the glass the same time as Andrew does and one of them knocks over the drink and it spills down Andrew's shirt. The glass rolls across the edge of the table and splinters into several pieces on the floor.
"Shit!"
"Oh god, I'm sorry, I-"
"No, no it's okay," Andrew assures him, holding up a hand. He peels his shirt from his stomach. His pants are a little wet too and this is a nightmare and Jesse wants nothing more than to die, here and now.
"Don't worry about it," Andrew says, stepping back from the puddle of apple juice on the floor.
"It looks like piss," he says after a moment.
This makes Jesse laugh. "I'll lend you something to wear. I'm really sorry about all this."
"No, it's all right," Andrew laughs. Jesse quickly sweeps up the mess in the kitchen before leading Andrew up the stairs. He digs through his closet for something decent but all he has is a rotation of t-shirts that are either too big or have something referencing pop culture on them.
He hands Andrew a black shirt with a print of Pepé Le Pew on the back. Andrew's looking at his map of Lisbon on the wall and tapping his fingers against the postcard of London thumbtacked there.
"What's this a map of?" Andrew asks. "I don't think I've ever seen it before."
Jesse hands him a pair of drawstring pants. "It's a vintage map of Lisbon circa 1850. My dad gave it to me before he-" he stops there and shrugs his shoulders. "Before he left, I guess."
Andrew runs a finger down Largo de San Martinho. It doesn't seem like he's paying attention. He grabs his messenger bag from Jesse's bed and hunts through its contents before pulling out a CD - the same one Jesse remembers laboring over for an entire week before sending out.
"You drew this based on this map," Andrew concludes. "Didn't you?" He sounds proud.
"Yeah, but I mean, it's not even close."
Andrew smiles at him. "I said it before and I'll say it again: you are one of the most creative people I know."
Jesse chews on his lip, blushing fiercely. "You should change," he says, gesturing to the yellow stain on Andrew's shirt. "I'll put your dirty clothes in the wash. Bathroom's at the end of the hall."
He follows Andrew out of the room, waiting outside the bathroom door. Andrew's clothes are neatly folded - socks, pants, shirt - when he dumps them in Jesse's arms.
"Make yourself at home," Jesse tells him before leaving to put Andrew's clothes in the washing machine. He holds Andrew's shirt to his face, sneaking guilty looks at the door every five seconds, and running his hands across the smooth width of the fabric.
He feels like a pervert but Andrew's shirt smells like his skin, clean and sharp and damp, tinged with a tang of sweat. Jesse stuffs it inside the washing machine before he does anything stupid like smother it against his face or use it to masturbate on.
Later, he finds a titanium ring in the back pocket of Andrew's pants, black and smooth and about half an inch thick and with silver grooves. Jesse pockets it and makes a metal note to return it to him even though he knows, deep down, that that's highly unlikely.
||
Justin is still sick with heartache when school resumes after Christmas break. It pains Jesse to be around him sometimes because Justin doesn't talk much, doesn't eat, and one day stops bothering to fix his hair altogether.
"What does it matter? It's not like I'm trying to attract potential mates, anyway," he tells Jesse bitterly who isn't sure whether or not he likes this new Justin, angry but funnier and stomping around sullenly like owes the world nothing.
Jesse's kind of in a predicament too. He lies in bed at night, touching himself under the covers, thinking not about a random assortment of lewd images he often associates with sex, but of Andrew now and Andrew's hands. Andrew's mouth, and his voice in Jesse's ear with its low, familiar cadence.
Jesse comes, feeling sick to his stomach when he has rush to the shower at midnight to clear his head. He doesn't enjoy it, but oh he does, even though it feels like a minor betrayal on his part, thinking about Andrew every way including the sexual way.
He does it all over again anyway, night after night, muffling his moans with a fist between his teeth.
There are plenty of ways to measure distance, Jesse thinks, and each night when their bodies aren't pressed together, side by side, he maps out the quickest route to London in his head. A desert tundra, a vast blue ocean. It will take him days, weeks, maybe even years to chart the territory on foot.
He thinks about the geography of Andrew's body, the mountain valleys of his spine and the smooth plane of his stomach, the shape of his mouth like a carved half moon, the calligraphy of veins on the back of his hand - all of it imagined, inside his head, all of it making it that much harder for him to fall asleep, alone, at night.
||
Jesse makes them grilled cheese sandwiches.
They eat standing up, leaning against the kitchen counter on their elbows, their mouths full of crumbs, like such children.
"Thanks for the shirt," Andrew says, tucking the back of it into the drawstring pants Jesse has lent him too. The sleeves are too big on him even though it's a proper fit, if a little bit taut around the back and chest.
"I like it," Andrew smiles and Jesse returns the gesture amiably enough, smile flickering, polishing off the rest of his sandwich and not looking Andrew in the eye. Andrew has shoulders that make you want to lean on them, broad and completely at odds with the rest him which is lean and long and elegant but not lanky.
Andrew decides he wants to stay over because it's late and his friend still hasn't picked up his calls. They spend at least two more hours in the kitchen, talking about writing and art and films they loved as children and the fact that Andrew used to be a competitive gymnast when he was eight. All of it are topics that have been rehashed though, from e-mails and midnight conversations on the phone.
It's nearly morning again when they settle down, in the misty dark of Jesse's room. Seams of streetlight seep between the blinds, casting slices of light across Andrew's face. He's on the floor next to Jesse's bed, lying haphazardly on the spare mattress, legs twined in Jesse's old Superman blanket. His ankles are skinny and peek out from the cuffs of his pants.
Jesse has to be careful not to step on Andrew's face if he has any plans of using the bathroom later on.
"So," Andrew says. His hands are crossed on his chest and he and Jesse are both looking at the ceiling.
"So," Jesse echoes.
"Is this awkward for you at all?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"I mean," Andrew sits up and leans across Jesse's bed. His arm brushes Jesse's arm fleetingly. Jesse stirs in his sheets.
"What?"
"I'm glad you invited me into your home."
"Um. Okay. You're not about to gut me in my sleep now, are you?"
Andrew laughs but it's soft and when he shakes his head, strands of his hair go fluttering down his eyes like bird feathers. "No, shut up for a moment, will you? I mean it's not everyday you invite a person you meet on the internet, home, is it? I'm glad you trust me enough to do that. I'm glad we've finally met face to face, you know?"
"I think we clicked better on the internet," Jesse says, biting his lip and flushing. He says all of this in a rush before he loses his nerve and Andrew's amused little sigh makes him flush even darker.
"I'm really not as interesting as you make me out to be. I'm not comfortable in my own skin. I would change myself if I could. Half the time, I don't even know what to do with myself." He sits up in bed.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, now," Andrew says, patting the back of his hand. He rubs it tenderly, in sympathy no doubt, his thumb tracing concentric circles along the ridges of Jesse's knuckles. His touch clouds Jesse's thinking.
"You don’t have to be miserable to be interesting," Andrew says. He sounds like he believes it too.
"It works for some writers," Jesse says, shrugging. "Besides, there's no profit in happiness, is there?"
"That is sort of true," Andrew agrees, "but it won't kill you to allow yourself to be happy once in awhile."
Jesse shrugs again. His problem in life is that he thinks too much.
Will he ever be happy?
Andrew's hand is on top of his hand and his heart is thumping wildly in his chest like bass drum beats and he wants, achingly, for Andrew to lean over and kiss him, bridge the distance. He doesn't want to sabotage their friendship. He doesn't want this moment to end, as Andrew leans away and his arm brushes the edges of Jesse's fingernails and he says goodnight.
The mattress squeaks when Andrew turns on his side, facing the wall. Jesse lies on his side too and stares at the broad sweep of Andrew's shoulders, the shape he makes under the covers when he folds in on himself, preparing to sleep.
Jesse pulls the blankets over his head and commits it to memory.
||
The noise wakes him.
Jesse sits up in bed, only acutely aware of his surroundings, and locates its source in the dark. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the shifting darkness and then he sees Andrew hunched over his computer, face blue from the screen light, cradling his chin.
His back is turned to Jesse. "Sorry, did I wake you?" Andrew looks up when he hears the rustle of blankets.
Jesse doesn't answer. "Are you writing?"
"Yeah, just something for the zine meet on Friday," Andrew says, tapping away at the keys. He has a webpage open which he closes quickly when Jesse drops to sit next to him.
"You should go," Andrew insists, "It'll be fun. A bunch of us are getting together to share stuff we've written. Mostly, we'll just hang out and get drunk."
"But I don't write," Jesse says. "And it's really not my thing."
"I want you to go, though," Andrew says. "Will that change your mind?"
"No, not really," Jesse confesses. His knee is touching Andrew's. The point of contact is electric and Jesse stares down at his lap, knowing full well that Andrew is watching him.
"I'll only be in town for a few days," Andrew says. He looks like he wants to say more but lets it end there abruptly.
Jesse looks up at him for a second, taking a moment to study his face. There are places he's missed shaving, his hair is a soft, tangled mess. Andrew looks back at Jesse, earnest and hopeful, and his elbow rests gently on the outer edge of Jesse's thigh.
"Fine," Jesse says, tired already. "I'll go, I'll go."
"Yeah!" Andrew cheers. "Yes!"
He pulls Jesse into a fierce hug and Jesse is smothered momentarily with a faceful of Andrew's hair and Andrew's smell, which is citrusy for some reason, and Andrew's arms, long and thin, and wrapping themselves all the way around him.
When Andrew pulls away, he's still grinning, and his hands are still touching Jesse's shoulders.
||
Andrew is already in the clothes he wore the day before, sans the beanie, when Jesse wakes up the next morning, head still operating on cloudy thoughts, and grappling for his glasses by the bedside table.
Andrew hands them to him. His hair is wet and he's brushing his teeth with a finger of toothpaste. "I used your shower," he explains, swinging his messenger bag by the string and adjusting it on his shoulder.
He bites into a knuckle. "I hope you don't mind?"
Jesse waves a hand. "You're leaving already?" He tries not to let the concern show in his voice. The last thing Andrew wants is a needy nerdy high school friend.
"Yeah," Andrew says. "My friend says he'll be picking me up at Tower Records. Do you, I don't know, want to at least get breakfast or something?" He blinks around like he's trying to remember something important. "Wait. Don't you have school today?"
"I'm taking a personal day off."
"For me?" Andrew says, a lilt of hope in his voice. He's batting his eyes.
"We're not really doing anything today," Jesse tells him - another lie, he has tests soon and can't afford to miss any of the lectures.
They head to the same coffee shop as yesterday.
The college kids are there, their laptops out, their headphones plugged in.
"Pastry?" Andrew asks. He's standing so close that their shoulders overlap.
"No, no I'm good," Jesse says, pretending to peruse the menu so he doesn't have to move.
True enough, Andrew's friend is there to pick him up at Tower Records. She introduces herself as Carey.
She's English too and a founding member of Diode and she looks good standing next to Andrew, in black leggings and a large oversized shirt, her blonde hair cropped short and her eyeliner smearing out in wings across her face.
"Andrew has told me a lot about you," Carey says, shaking his hand.
"Oh do shut up," Andrew laughs.
"I really like your drawings," she says sincerely.
"Thanks," Jesse says.
They leave promptly afterwards. Andrew doesn't hug Jesse or anything but he does wave at him, promising to text before sliding down into the passenger seat of Carey's car.
||
"I need a ride."
"Why?" Justin asks. "You missed school for two whole days, man. Are you depressed? I hope you're not asking me for a ride so you could go meet your drug dealer because then my answer will have to be no."
Jesse snorts. "As if," he mutters under his breath. "A friend is inviting me to this thing tonight."
"Huh. You have thing?"
"Yeah," Jesse says. "It's in the other side of town."
He slouches in his seat. The computer, for once, is turned off. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Nothing," Justin says. He's smiling, edging towards Jesse, his grin growing marginally every second. "Is this thing a party of some kind? Is there a girl involved?"
"Yes and no," Jesse tells him honestly. He swats Justin away when he tries pinching his cheeks.
"It's not a girl then?"
"No."
"Is it a boy?"
Jesse sighs and leaves his glasses perched on the edge of the desk. He rubs at his eyelids and scrubs his face with the heels of his hands. "It's complicated," he says.
Justin looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or offer his sympathy. "Well, as long as you're happy, I guess." He sounds solemn.
"Me? Happy?" Jesse snorts. "That'll be the day." He thinks about Andrew again, his hands, his face.
"I met him on the internet," Jesse adds after a long pause.
Justin sighs, and when Jesse turns to look at him, his features are crumpled in a look of pain. "Oh, Jess."
"What!"
"You sure you know what you're doing?"
"I'm not doing anything!" Jesse says defensively. "We're just friends!"
"Are you absolutely sure you know what you're doing?" Justin repeats. He's standing now, looming over Jesse. Jesse looks away and shrugs one shoulder, turning his face away so that Justin doesn't see the blush in his cheeks. He grinds his teeth and tries not to smile.
"I'll be careful," Jesse promises even though he knows for a fact that it's too late for that now.
"Good," Justin says. "You had better be."
He reaches over and ruffles Jesse's hair fondly. Jesse rolls his eyes.
||
Justin drops him off an hour later at the address Andrew specifies. It's a large house, sitting atop a hill, with a sprawling grove of trees behind it. It looks haunted.
"Are you sure this is it?"
The lights are on in all of the windows which means, at the very least, that the house is inhabited. Jesse steps out of the car, standing in front of the iron gate, his hands stuffed inside his pockets. There's no doorbell or anything. He stands there for five minutes before sending Andrew a text.
"You'll be okay here?"
"Yeah, you can go now, mom."
Justin laughs. It's the first time Jesse's heard him laugh in a long time so he counts this as a good thing. Justin honks his horn before driving away, waving at Jesse from the driver seat before turning the corner.
Andrew arrives ten minutes later, in a blue flannel shirt. No beanies this time, just his hair sticking out in a wild mess. "Did you wait long?" he asks. He's grinning as he cups Jesse by the shoulder and ushers him inside.
"I just got here, actually," Jesse says, and Andrew nods, still grinning, like that is a particularly interesting piece of information.
||
The party is in full swing when Jesse steps inside, the packed heat of the living room hitting him heavy like a punch in the face. He's never been to a party before. Justin says it's because he has no social graces. He can't dance, can't flirt, he can barely talk to a girl unless they're asking him for directions.
Andrew nudges him on the shoulder. He's draped his plaid shirt on one arm so that he's only wearing his shirt underneath, which is white, and outlines the grooves of his muscles, and has the a picture of Tolstoy screenprinted on it.
They weave their way to the kitchen, passing several people all of whom wave and give Andrew bodily hugs.
"You're popular around here, I see," Jesse observes when they near the keg. He's never seen one up close, only in pictures, and wonders what else the night has in store for him.
It's nine PM on a Saturday and he's in a house full of strangers, drinking beer. But then he reminds himself that he's with Andrew who knows him more than Justin ever could.
"I don't even live here." Andrew laughs.
"Ah, the power of the internet," Jesse says. Andrew's smile flickers as he hands Jesse a cup of frothy beer. Jesse wipes at the rim with the edge of his shirt and pockets one hand before taking a sip.
The kitchen is spacious, tiled walls that reflect the light, and they're the only two people in there. Everyone is in the living room where the music sounds like it's coming from underwater.
"Ah, this is good stuff," Andrew says with a sigh. He wipes the bottom of his lip with his thumb and eyes Jesse closely, like he's anticipating his response.
Jesse shrugs. He feels hot and cold all over with embarrassment. "I really have nothing to compare it to," he says.
"You mean you've never had a beer before?"
"Considering my sedentary lifestyle, there was hardly any need for social lubrication. Besides, I'm um, I'm really not a big fan of beer?"
"Oh. Uh, would, would you like a coke then or something? Pepsi?" Andrew puts his cup down on the table and starts rummaging through the cupboard, the fridge.
"I'm fine, you don't really have to do that but thanks," Jesse says frantically. "Thanks."
Andrew shuts the fridge, smiling sheepishly. Jesse leans further back so that the edge of the kitchen counter digs into the small of his back.
"This can be, like, a little social experiment for me or something," he says.
"Social experiment," Andrew repeats before bursting into laughter. He looks at Jesse oddly and for a moment Jesse wonders if he has something on his face.
"You are so funny," Andrew tells him. Jesse shrugs. You have better posture, Jesse thinks. Better everything.
"Do you want to meet my friends?" Andrew asks. He dunks his empty cup into a nearby bin and stands even closer, nudging Jesse's ankle with the point of his shoe.
Jesse stares at the marble swirls on the floor, then up at Andrew's ankles. He's wearing grey socks inside his tasseled loafers. Jesse wonders if he has a tattoo on one of his ankles. Of a dragon, he thinks.
"I don't know," Jesse says uncertainly, chewing on his thumbnail. It's bad habit from childhood, one he doesn't think he'll ever be able to shake off. "Do you want them to meet me? I mean, I have the social skills of a reptile."
"I like reptiles," Andrew tells him which startles Jesse into looking into his face. He tries to read his expression which says nothing, only that he won't look away from Jesse's gaze.
"Yeah?" Jesse says.
Andrew grins, and it's soft, lighting the corners of his eyes as he reaches across the room to cup Jesse's arm. He is the easily Jesse's favorite person in the world.
"Yeah," Andrew says.
||
"Uh, how do I look?"
Jesse steps out of his closet in an off-white button down shirt. He has another shirt underneath, in navy blue and with a worn print of Smurfette on the front. His sneakers are dirty, once some other color now a dull lifeless gray, caked in mud.
Justin laughs at him from his perch on the swivel chair.
"My, my, my. Aren't we all grown up." Justin actually has the gall to look misty-eyed. "You may want to lose the glasses though and style your hair a little bit. Why do you have your retainers on?"
"Because I want perfect teeth," Jesse tells him, rolling his eyes. He sits on the bed. "This is stupid. I look like a schlub." He feels like one too.
"Yeah, well," Justin says, with a shrug, "At least you've got that going for you. Why are you trying so hard anyway? Don't look at me like that. You know why I'm asking."
Jesse checks his reflection one last time. He doesn't like what he sees but when does he ever?
"There will be people there," he says.
"You never cared before."
"Cool people," Jesse adds.
"Are you saying I'm not cool?"
"Andrew's friends," Jesse says persistently. "Writers, artists. Internet people." Mostly it's just Andrew he's worried about disappointing.
"Internet people," Justin repeats slowly and with a skeptical look. "Right."
||
The music is loud enough that it makes Jesse's ankles shake. He can barely hear Andrew over the sudden din but Andrew's hand is firm on his elbow when it guides him into the next room, and somehow, that's enough.
It's quieter in there. A group of people are sitting in a circle, drinking beer and smoking joints. A girl with ponytailed brown hair is wearing cat ears. Even her eyes look feline.
"I'm Emma," she says, grinning as she shakes his hand. She's Jesse's height, if a not an inch taller, and wearing a long pencil skirt.
Jesse feels a sharp pang of jealousy when Emma nudges Andrew by the hip. He wishes he were a girl so he can touch Andrew casually and laugh it off because it doesn't have to mean anything.
"Hi! Are you Parrotfish?" She has such a gleeful hi too, like she's really pleased to be meeting Jesse which would, he thinks, be a first.
"Don't crowd him, Em," Andrew scolds her gently.
"Really, it's fine, and yeah-"
They talk over him.
"All right, all right. This is me keeping my hands off your goods!" Emma says. She winks at Jesse before joining the circle once more, folding her legs underneath her and grabbing the upturned bottle on the carpet, resuming their game of spin the bottle.
Andrew spots Carey with another girl, their heads ducked down, their feet bare. They're both talking in whispers. Carey jolts from her seat when she sees Andrew in the corner and then she waves him over to the wrap-around couch she and her friend are draped on.
"I see you have brought Parrotfish."
Jesse forces himself to laugh. Carey's friend is staring at his face, he knows, because he can feel his skin prickling with discomfort.
The rest of the night passes quickly.
Andrew introduces him to more people, some Jesse recognizes from the zine webpage, some eyeing him warily. Andrew knows everyone by name which is a talent he has and what essentially, Jesse guesses, draws people to him. He's such a charmer, weaving his way through the crowd and clapping people on the back and cracking jokes and making small talk before moving on to the next person.
Jesse doesn't bother trying to remember any of their names. He just nods along while Andrew leads and pretends to grin at Andrew's friends so wide that his teeth actually start hurting. It doesn't matter anyway, he thinks. He'll never see these people again and he doesn't like the way some of them sidle up to Andrew and touch his bicep, laughing into his ear while they slide their hand up the material of his shirt.
Jesse's in high school, and he lives in the other side of town, and these people are probably in college or live in the city. Sometimes he wonders if the people there take one look at him and think: naive white kid. He has the looks down pat from the nondescript Smurfette t-shirt to the schlubby shoes.
Some time around midnight, someone brings up swimming. It's Emma, of course, who's wearing a Santa hat now, and a large flannel shirt that goes all the way down her knees. She's drunk and swaying on her feet, barely catching herself before she stumbles.
"Let's go swimming!" she says and everybody who isn't locked in an embrace with somebody throws their hands up and cheers. Sometime ago Andrew has left to take a phone call, leaving Jesse with all these people he has only met tonight.
Emma shoves him bodily out the door. The music is turned down low in the living room. Behind Jesse, people are heading off into dark corners. To hook up, he thinks bitterly and yelps when Emma drags him down the hill.
There's an Olympic-sized swimming pool, blue and pristine and reflecting the light of the stars. Emma starts taking her shirt off. Pretty soon, everyone does the same so that they're all dressed down to their underwear. Carey sits in a corner, drinking a beer and texting, her long pale legs crossed at the ankles and Jesse thinks: maybe she's more of Andrew's type.
Andrew seems to be genuinely fond of her - maybe it's because they're both English - and she's cool and composed and very pretty, small enough to fit snugly in Andrew's arms without having to worry about where to put her head.
Jesse doesn't do hugs but for some reason he wants to try slotting his head in between Andrew's neck and shoulder, tilting his head just so to press his lips to Andrew's pulse. He used to fantasize about falling asleep next to him - not just sex although sometimes that happens too - but just sleeping, side by side with him on the same bed, their shoulders and legs pressed together, their skin warm with sleep.
It's easy to get along with people when you're swimming because you don't have to do or say anything. You can just swim along quietly, among everybody, and still feel like a part of things. Some of the girls are smoking by the pool side, still drinking beer with their heads tipped back and their hair spread across the grass like seaweed.
Jesse sits by the pool side, careful not to let the edge of his pants touch the wet tile. He's on his sixth, maybe seventh beer. He thinks about Justin for some reason and wonders if, when Justin said he was going to parties, he meant sitting around drinking while everybody else gossips around you.
Over all this has been a pretty crazy night and Jesse feels pretty crazy too, pretty stupid, for waiting for something exciting to happen, something cathartic.
But the party is winding down to a lull , the lights dimmed down and the music turned so low that only a few people are left dancing. Why did he even come here? What was he expecting? Wasn't this supposed to be a zine thing? Where are the all writers?
All this build-up had been for nothing.
Jesse's overthinking again, feeling miserable, which means he must be pretty drunk. He doesn't remember lying on his back but blades of grass are brushing his face and they make him want to cry somehow. He hasn't seen Andrew for over an hour and part of him worries that Andrew has gone off somewhere, in the dark, with one of the pretty girls he met from the party. Someone called Michelle with grey eyes and soft hair and who's probably class valedictorian or something or a cheerleader or both.
Jesse shakes his head clear of those thoughts and walks up the hill, back to the house where he washes his face in the kitchen sink. The water is cool and slides down his face, seeping into the collar of his shirt. He feels his stomach lurch violently. He wonders if it's from the alcohol or the disappointment or both.
"Hey," someone says behind him. Jesse doesn't turn around when he feels Emma's hands press against his back, rubbing tenderly down his spine. "You okay? You had a lot to drink back there. Do you want me to call Andrew?"
"Don't!" Jesse says hurriedly, bent over the sink. His breath is fogging up his glasses. He doesn't want Andrew to see him like this - or to see Andrew anymore for that matter.
Jesse doesn't subscribe to psychology which says everything you do is because of yourself. You do things because of people, because you love them, and you want them to love in you return. Tonight, Jesse waited, but nothing happened and he realized he has had enough. It's too much effort. He doesn't want to follow Andrew around like a little lost puppy anymore.
"Hey," Emma says again, slow this time, surprisingly sober too for someone who probably has a new drink every fifteen minutes. She smells like cigarettes and perfume. "You like him don't you?"
Jesse pretends not to know what she's talking about. "Like who?"
Emma doesn't say. She leaves him after that and when Jesse turns, Andrew is standing in the doorway with his eyes bewildered and bright. He doesn't look like he's drunk, which is a good thing, because Jesse wants to go home and someone has to drive him.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Jesse says quickly, ducking under Andrew's arm and hurrying past the people in the living room. He throws up in the toilet, moaning and clutching his forehead, forgetting to lock the door behind him.
Andrew has followed him all the way there, too, and there is concern in his face, everywhere, in places they shouldn't be.
"So, Emma thinks I like you," Jesse says, unable to stop himself. He flushes the toilet, washes his face in the sink and doesn't look Andrew in the eye even though he's standing right behind Jesse, face reflected in the mirror.
"Do you?" Andrew says.
"Do I what?"
"Like me," Andrew finishes. He shuts the door behind him. Jesse picks up the tube of toothpaste and smears a line down his finger, brushing the aftertaste of bile from his mouth. He spits in the sink, rinses.
"Where were you all night?" Jesse says, head ducked down into the sink.
"I told you - I had to take a phone call." Andrew sounds exasperated. It's the first time Jesse has ever heard him remotely unhappy.
"That was two hours ago," Jesse says.
"I know. I'm sorry," Andrew shrugs his shoulders and rubs his elbows, "I couldn't get away. A lot of people wanted to talk."
Jesse nods in understanding. He turns so that he's facing Andrew in the cramped bathroom. His eyes hurt, feel sore, and Andrew is close enough to kiss and Jesse wants to reach out to him and touch his face, touch his hair and feel its velvet brush against his fingers.
"Andrew," he starts to say, but he doesn't get very far. He stands on his toes and grabs Andrew by the front of his shirt, pulling him swiftly forward. The kiss is awkward and hurts Jesse's teeth, and his vision spins for a second before he lets Andrew go, tasting spit in his mouth, blood.
"Jesse, you're drunk," Andrew tells him. There's blood on his lower lip too from where he cut his lip and he dabs at it with two of his fingers.
"I'm also in love with you," Jesse tells him. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
"What?"
"I'm in love with you!" Jesse says furiously. It echoes inside his chest, a low hum, and Jesse swallows against the rise of bile in his throat and points at Andrew. He thumps a hand across his chest, and slumps tiredly against the wall. "I'm in love with you," he says, resigned.
Somehow it doesn't feel all that strange to say it. When did he get so fearless?
"Oh, Jess," Andrew says. "Jesse." Andrew's eyes never leave Jesse's face. He looks up, eyes shining with sympathy. "Jesse, come here."
"Don't patronize me."
"Jesse, please." Jesse doesn't move. He's embarrassed and tired beyond all comprehension. It's been a long night. He wants to go home and forget this ever happened, forget Andrew.
The last thing he needs is Andrew to feel sorry for him. If there's anything Jesse hates, it's sympathy.
"Jesse," Andrew says gently. Andrew leans over to touch him and his fingers are cool against the bend of Jesse's elbow. They're breathing the same air and Andrew's breath is warm and the brush of it against Jesse's face makes his blood skip.
When Andrew's fingers touch the edges of his glasses, a part of Jesse dies a little bit too.
Andrew takes them off slowly, folding them neatly against the edge of the sink. Jesse looks down and sees his glasses there, perched with the utmost care near the edge of the sink, and Andrew's hand braced against the wall behind him, pinning him to place. Andrew moves in to kiss him, closing his eyes, but Jesse holds up a hand and says "wait!" before slipping off his retainer.
"Now I'm ready," Jesse says, and his smile makes his entire face twitch, his hands shaking when he reaches out to rest them on Andrew's back. He feels like he's going to have a heart attack.
Andrew kisses him and his mouth his warm. Andrew kisses him and it's very very good.
||
Jesse is shorter than Andrew which makes it okay for him to tuck his face against Andrew's throat, feel his Adam's apple bob against his cheek. Andrew's hands are inside Jesse's shirt, high up against his ribs and thumbing his nipples, his thigh pressed firm between Jesse's legs. Jesse's breath stutters out of his chest.
He doesn't know what he's doing, where to put his hands without feeling it awkward and forced. Instinct tells him to respond quickly, to want everything and concede nothing but his mind keeps rapidly firing suggestions that he can't seem to keep up with. Andrew crowds him against the sink, pushes him bodily up on the cool countertop to press sloppy noisy kisses down the side of his neck, Jesse's head connects with the wall and then underneath his shirt, Andrew leaves tiny marks with his teeth, tongue tracing a hot path down the waistband of his pants. Jesse groans.
He thinks about bruises that will last for days even after Andrew has gone. Jesse doesn't want to think past this moment so he wraps his legs around Andrew's middle, crossing them against his back, and yes, that's good, that's really really good. He fists a hand in Andrew's hair, another on the small of his back. Andrew's hair isn't as soft as he had imagined, coarse with hair gel and stuck together with sweat, but that's okay because Jesse has him with him, right now, and it is happening, really, truly happening.
Andrew is kissing him, open-mouthed, fierce, and they move together like a shifting tide. When Andrew slides a hand inside Jesse's pants, and cups him, there, fuck, right there, Jesse hisses, throwing his head back, biting his lip.
"Your hands are cold," he tells Andrew in a whimper of complaint, but Andrew's hand on his cock feels like a good kind of fever, a rush of heat that spreads from his spine all the way down to his toes. It makes Jesse's knees buckle and he juts his hips as he fucks Andrew's fist desperately.
He feels everything all at once: the wet warmth of Andrew's mouth and the manic grins between kisses, the soft calluses in his hand as he works Jesse's cock.
"Fuck," Jesse hears Andrew say for the first time. "Jesse."
It doesn't take much to get Andrew off - just Jesse's hand pressed against the bulge in his pants and his thumb brushing across the head. They sit on the floor afterwards, drunk in the afterglow and reveling in it. Andrew needs a change of pants and Jesse needs his glasses to bring everything into clearer focus. He stays where he is though, slouched against Andrew on the floor, thinking about what just happened, the surreality of all of it.
Andrew's head is resting on top of his, and one of his hands is on Jesse's knee, and his breath is soft, ruffling the top of Jesse's hair, the brush of it prickling the skin of Jesse's neck, making him shiver.
Jesse wants to keep Andrew there, forever, never move. He wants this moment frozen as Andrew twirls a lock of his hair around his finger and nudges their shoulders together. The gesture is startlingly tender and the look in his eyes is the same one Jesse used to see before on Justin back when he used to go out with Ashley. It's not sentimentality but sentiment, a real feeling.
"I leave early tomorrow," Andrew says.
"I know," Jesse tells him. He tries not to think about what will happen after.
"I want to pack you up in a little box with breathing holes and bring you home with me, feed you tiny bits of pizza when you get hungry," Andrew says, laughing softly.
Jesse laughs too, unexpectedly. He wants that, he thinks. Life will be hard again when Andrew leaves and who knows when he'll get to see him again. This, Andrew's face pushed up so close to his, their temples touching, it may never happen again and the thought pains him.
"I'll miss you," Jesse tells him honestly, fighting the urge to grab Andrew and kiss him stupid, just because he's so close, so close. He pulls back to look at Andrew's face which is cloudy with emotion and exhausted from last night's party.
Andrew touches his hair again, brushing it back from his forehead. And Jesse wants to say, don't do that, I'm not a girl but Andrew presses a lingering kiss to his temple and that stops him completely. Andrew's touch has a way of clouding his thoughts.
"I miss you every single day I'm not next to you," Andrew says to him, brows furrowed with intensity.
"Yeah?"
"Yes," Andrew affirms gently.
Jesse snorts but blushes fiercely, looks away. Andrew is not the only one. He remembers all the nights he spent in bed, alone, cell phone pressed to his ear while he listened to Andrew breathe in the dark.
"You're a sap," Jesse says to him fondly, elbowing him under the ribs. "Don't say things like that. It's going to ruin your reputation."
Andrew, whose lips are moving on top of Jesse's head, just laughs and squeezes Jesse even harder.
"What reputation?" he says.
||
Jesse doesn't see Andrew off, afraid he'll do something ridiculous or embarrassing or desperate. They say their goodbyes and kiss all morning, quiet in the dawn and sleepy with warmth, Andrew's head pillowed on Jesse's lap on the bathroom floor, laughing when Jesse tells him about the ring he planned never to return.
"You little klepto," he says. "I'd have given it to you had you just asked!"
"Yeah, well," Jesse says, shrugging his shoulder in embarrassment.
Justin picks him up at ten in the morning, when Andrew is as good as gone, rolling down to a stop at the end of the street so that Jesse has to jog a few paces to get to him. He folds in on himself in the backseat, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking off his glasses. It's been a long night.
"You look like shit, Jess. Did you have fun?" Justin glances up at him from the rearview mirror as he makes a left turn.
Jesse ducks his head, laughs. He thinks about Andrew. Then he shrugs his shoulders and continues to say nothing, watching the scenery drift by out the window.
||
Monday night, Jesse is online and so is Andrew.
END
AUTHOR'S NOTES/TL;DR:
Assuming you waited for the last picture to load (SPOILER: IT IS A GIF! IT MOVES~), congratulations you've reached the end of the fic. Hurrah! Fucking god, I don't even. D: I wrote this shortly after discovering I sprained my left wrist (tl;dr) long story short, that didn't deter me from finishing this, typing mostly one-handed and emoting at my computer screen. This fic contains a lot of references from everything to art (lol what) to movies and books. They are as follows:
usernames:
sandpiper - Sandpipers are a large family of waders or shorebirds. They have long bodies and legs, and narrow wings. Most species have a narrow bill, but otherwise the form and length are quite variable.
WARDENGARD is a play on words (what) WARDEN being an anagram for Andrew and GAR taken from his last name. GAR(FIEL)D. Woot.
parrotfish - A type of fish. Almost all species are sequential hermaphrodites, starting as females and then changing to males.
squip- (Jesse's screen name) is the name of a fictional pill in Ned Vizzini's science fiction novel Be More Chill. It is "a quantum computer in pill form that can communicate directly with your brain once ingested" - at least according to wiki.
DIODE is a real website but it hosts poetry, not art, and it is not an online zine.
The poems used in this fic include: "You are Rain" / "You are a Pharmacy" by Nate Slawson, "This Is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams (although only heavily referenced. It's the one about the plums), "Childhood" by Maura Stanton, and "My Poems" by Isaac Oliver. The "Persian film about the depressed man driving around asking people to kill him" also exists and it is called "Taste of Cherry.
Some multimedia from flickr: one, two, three and four. Also: five.
The sad Ween song is "Sorry Charlie."
Also although I didn't mention the town Jesse lives in, a New England suburb always comes to mind whenever I try to picture the settings. The mix "THESE ARE NOT SHOWTUNES: SONGS YOU CAN LISTEN TO WHILE YOU MASTURBATE OR WALK THE DOG (PREFERABLY NOT TOGETHER)" is available for download on iTunes HERE. There were supposed to be 12 tracks (a "nice, even number") but lol.
Thanks for reading!
ETA: I SCREWED UP WITH THE TIME DIFFERENCE GUYS AND WILL REWRITE PARTS OF THIS SO IT MAKES EVEN MORE SENSE! SORRY! I'M KIND OF AN IDIOT.