fic: you know my wandering days are over (andrew/jesse, rpf, au, pg-13, 8600 words)

[pidgeoned]

fill for a tsn_kinkmeme prompt. Andrew and Jesse meet in the lift. Repeatedly. for S. remember how we met the same way? sort of? no? With special appearances from people you may recognize in the entertainment industry. 100% fiction.

Andrew meets him in the lift. It’s three in the morning and he’s staggering in from a party and he smells like a bad combination of sweat and alcohol and club room smoke. His hair is limp and hanging in clumps over his forehead, his shirt crusty in patches where he’s spilled beer and food. It’s the most unattractive he’s ever felt in his life and the last thing he needs is someone else to see him in this sorry state, smelling like the bottom of a shoe and half-drunk, swaying on his feet.

The guy gets on on the fifth floor. At first, Andrew doesn’t really notice him because his eyes are half closed and he’s listening to the hum and whirr of elevator machinery. He feels it reverberate through his ankles and the rhythmic churn under his feet makes him feel drowsy, his head falling forward into his chest. The guy drops his keys on the floor, the sound like the jangle of wind chimes, and Andrew straightens, sniffing, blinking out of sleep and stifling a yawn.

Andrew is afforded a view of the guy’s ass as he scoops his keys from the floor, and it’s funny for some reason, maybe because of the weird angle or the shape of his ass through his gently worn jeans, round and soft-looking, like it would be warm if Andrew slid a hand down the back of his pants and copped a feel, so Andrew snickers but then quiets down as soon as the guy casts him a sideways look.

He’s wearing a faded baseball cap that looks more pink than red, Andrew notes, and his backpack sags in places like he’s carrying a lot more than it could handle. He looks sweet, Andrew thinks, like the kind of guy who still remembers to call his mom every other day and helps old ladies across the street just because he feels like it.

The guy has curly hair, too, springy and thick and peeking out of the corners of his cap. He’s got his hands inside the pockets of his hoodie and his mouth, like a girl’s, is lush and curved, very pretty, Andrew notices. His glasses are old fashioned ones, not black wayfarers, or anything hip, but thin silver frames that make him look just a bit like a school teacher. They slip down the bridge of his nose when he tips his head to the side, just a fraction, and frowns down at something he’s reading on his cellphone.

Finally, the guy gets off on the fifth floor.

Andrew falls asleep a little, leaning against the wall, and misses his floor three times.

=

It’s six in the morning on a Wednesday when Andrew bumps into the guy again. Andrew’s picking his mum up from the airport and heading down to the first floor, his head tipped back, listening to Yo La Tengo on his iPod. He hasn’t showered this morning - there was another party last night, his friend Carey had this big birthday bash, complete with a live band and an open bar - so his sweater must be a little musty, even though he can’t exactly smell it, his hair scraggly tangles underneath his beanie, in need of washing.

The guy gets on and he’s holding a thermos of coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He’s bundled up in a jacket and scarf and his cap sits askew on his head. His glasses reflect the light of the room so it’s hard to see what color his eyes are behind the lenses but Andrew guesses blue or grey. Maybe blue-grey if there were such a thing.

Andrew watches him chew on his sandwich. He pretends to check his phone for messages when the guy glances at him, eyebrow raised. The song on his iPod changes to Queen and David Bowie’s Under Pressure and Andrew starts bobbing his head along to the music, mouthing the lyrics. He loves this song, the steady beat making him tap his foot too.

Andrew thinks he hears a laugh, but must be imagining things, because he looks up, and there’s nothing to indicate a shift in atmosphere; the guy’s head is ducked down and he’s sipping blissfully on his coffee, staring intently at the wall in front of him. Andrew shrugs his shoulders and turns the volume up.

Da-da-da-da-da-da-dum-dum.

Pressure.

=

The next time Andrew sees him, he’s getting in from the first floor. He’s carrying a box of clothes in his arms which looks heavy enough even without the guy - Curly? - constantly shifting from one foot to the other. Andrew wants to help out, be neighborly, but doesn’t want to seem like a total creep about it so he watches him instead, which he realizes is even creepier but what else can he do, they’re the only two people in the lift.

The guy doesn’t have a hoodie on. Tonight, he’s wearing a shirt that pulls taut across the chest. It’s tight enough that Andrew can see the outline of his ribs through the flimsy cotton. Andrew imagines he’s the kind of guy whose skin will warm upon contact or pimple with goosegumps. He entertains this fantasy for a moment, sliding his hands underneath the hemline of the guy’s shirt, feeling the muscles of his stomach ripple underneath his touch. The guy will moan, sucking in a shuddery breath, and Andrew will pull his shirt up even higher and lick his dusky little nipples, tongue the sweat off his breastbone. Andrew feels sheepish for a second, feels ashamed and dirty like a pervert so he shakes his head clear of those thoughts.

The guy’s posture is terrible. Andrew is standing behind him, staring at the back of his head, at his neck and that tiny slice of skin peeking above the collar of his shirt, pale like a strip of sunlight. He wants to lean over and touch the slope of his shoulders, maybe rub his back because standing like that, bent over, it must feel exhausting.

Just when Andrew’s about to say hello, Joe from the third floor trudges in with a tupperware of food. He nods vaguely in Andrew’s direction and stands between them, sighing, checking his watch every five seconds and tapping his foot. Joe’s wearing a nice long sleeved shirt and his hair is styled, slicked back, like he has plans for the night. He gets off on the fourth floor. The guy gets off on the fifth, jostling the box in his arms, and Andrew doesn’t even remember to say hi until he's gone.

=

Tom and Rob come over because they have nothing better to do. Tom’s girlfriend breaks up with him on a Tuesday and three days later when Rob’s had enough of Tom wallowing in self-pity, he finally manages to haul Tom out of the house, long enough to get him to breathe fresh air - as fresh as New York air gets, at least - before he starts moping again and quoting Oasis.

They end up, inexplicably, at Andrew’s apartment. They spend the night drinking and throwing popcorn at the TV and playing video games and prank-calling Tom’s ex-girlfriend who swears to sic the police on them. It’s all in good fun. The next morning, Andrew takes the lift with the two of them, Tom wearing dark sunglasses to hide his bloodshot eyes, Rob unusually cheery despite the massive hangover he says he’s experiencing.

So of course the guy has to share the lift with them too, getting in from the from the fifth floor, in his baseball cap and button-up shirt. Andrew stares at the back of his head, at his curls sticking out wildly from his cap. Rob’s flipping his phone open and closed and Tom is too morose to give an actual fuck whether he’s hitting on a neighbor or not, so Andrew steps closer, leans down, hands in his pockets and says, “Hey,”

The guy just looks at him sort of funny and then nods his head. It’s only then that Andrew realizes he has earbuds on and he’s nodding because he’s listening to music. When the guy leaves, and all three of them are out in the street, Rob elbows Andrew in the stomach and slaps him on the back, snickering into his ear.

“Smooth one,” he grins, “Were you trying to get with him or something?"

“Or something,” Andrew says, sheepish. “I was only trying to say hi, really.”

Even Tom shakes his head, as if in sympathy.

=

Andrew sees him again a few days later. He doesn’t make the connection at first because the cap has disappeared and this time he doesn’t have his glasses on. His eyes are startlingly blue up close, Andrew sees, but change color depending on the lighting.

The lift has these bad incandescent light bulbs which are supposed to set the mood or at least make you feel less claustrophobic, so the guy’s eyes, when he moves his head a little bit to the side, turn a certain shade of grey. It’s kind of fascinating.

Andrew is standing next to him and a little in front of him, so he’s eyeing him over his shoulder, trying to be subtle about it and glancing away when he thinks he’s about to get caught.

The guy blinks up at him, squints. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s hesitating.

It’s ten in the morning.

Andrew is late for school and he’s wearing a plaid shirt that’s unbuttoned a few inches below his collarbone. He supposes he looks better than when he’d last seen the guy. He hopes his cologne carries into the air, citrusy, a little too tangy, but clean and fresh-smelling.

“Do we know each other?” The guy asks, making a face. “You keep glancing at me and I think you look vaguely familiar.”

There’s a little curl of hair on his forehead, right between his eyebrows, and Andrew feels like flicking it back or pushing it aside but feels weird enough as it is, staring at it, so he does neither.

Andrew kicks at a line on the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t know what to say all of a sudden and feels sheepish for staring blatantly. Andrew likes the guy, sure, thinks he’s cute, but in the reverent way that ten year old boys automatically think all their female teachers are cute because they wear nice clothes and seem like good people.

“Actually, I live on the twelfth floor,” Andrew says. “We’ve bumped into each other a few times. Here, in the um, lift,” He extends a hand. “My name’s Andrew.”

There’s a pause longer than all the pauses in the entire world combined and then finally, the guy takes Andrew’s hand and shakes it, his grip firm, if a little sweaty. “Jesse,” he says. “Fifth.” His voice has a nice cadence, a little lighter than Andrew would expect, but it’s nice, and Andrew can definitely fall asleep to it, listening to him talk all day or read the back of a cereal box. Jesse seems friendly enough so Andrew decides to make small talk, keeping his eyes trained forward to the chrome doors so Jesse doesn’t see the slight flush in his cheeks.

“So what happened to your glasses?” Andrew asks.

Jesse laughs. It’s such a nice sound, breathy and quiet, like he’s trying hard not to laugh but can’t seem to help himself. “My cat hid them,” he says. He peers up at Andrew and his eyes are creased in the corners.

“You have cats? I thought there was a policy on pets.”

Jesse smiles, slowly, and Andrew feels this thing ease under his skin like a fever. He shivers a little, hunching his shoulders, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. He doesn’t know why Jesse has this kind of effect on him, when he’s not the best looking guy in the building. He’s easy on the eyes, maybe, but he’s not exactly a stunner, not in the conventional sense. Still, he’s. He’s something. And when Andrew looks at him, his stomach does wild somersaults.

“It was supposed to be a secret,” Jesse tells him, “But now that you know I guess I’m going to have to kill you.”

Andrew laughs. “I’m good at keeping secrets, so. Have no worries. Your cat will be safe.”

“Cats,” Jesse says.

“You have more than one?”

“I have an entire colony,” Jesse says, nodding, and he sounds entirely honest too so Andrew isn’t sure whether to laugh or take him seriously. “You’d be surprised.”

He cuts himself off when Patrick from the fourth floor gets on, in a stretched out t-shirt and blue running shorts, carrying a basket full of dirty laundry. Patrick grunts at them in acknowledgment and presses a few buttons, yawning huge and scratching his back.

They spill out on the first floor, all three of them, and head separate directions. Jesse adjusts the string of his bag on one shoulder and Andrew watches his back disappear down the hall before chasing him down the street.

“Hey,” he says when he’s caught up to him, breath coming up in rapid pants.

Jesse stares at him, one eyebrow raised. “Hey,” he says, confused.

Andrew laughs, more at himself than anything, and shakes his head. He steps back and feels a blush bloom across his face, spread down his neck. “I won’t say anything about the cats,” he says, and it feels ridiculous even as he says it. “So don’t kill me all right?”

It's flirting, and god, he's always been bad at this.

Jesse stares at him for a second and laughs. He shrugs one shoulder, the movement making his curls bounce a little, and he tilts his head like he’s mulling the idea over, making a thoughtful face. “I’ll think about it,” he says and then nods his head at Andrew, smiling. He has really expressive eyes.

Jesse crosses the street as soon as the lights change and Andrew waves, even though Jesse can’t see it, see him, and he feels sheepish, feels serene, on top of a lot of other things, giddy too, but mostly he feels like he’s the fucking man.

=

Andrew doesn’t know a lot of people on the fifth floor, or on any floors for that matter. He knows Patrick, who’s in some kind of garage band but bartends at night, and Armie who’s 6“5 and living with his boyfriend, Max, who looks tiny in comparison even though Max is, by no means, short. They get into arguments a lot, Andrew knows, because he sees Armie every other night in the hallway in his sleep pants and undershirt, making frustrated noises at the door and yelling about it being the last straw, they’re breaking up, they’re really fucking breaking up and Max better give him back the ring because that cost him a ton of money.

Andrew met Armie this way eight months ago. He was wandering around in the middle of the night, unable to summon sleep, having just moved into the building, and Armie was just sitting out there in the hall, this big mass of a person, his arms wrapped around his knees, snoring softly. He jerked back up as Andrew walked past him and pointed at Andrew and said, voice rough with sleep, “Dude, wait up. Aren’t you that English guy from the 12th floor?”

They talked for awhile until Max decided to let Armie back inside again. All three of them had a beer and Armie and Max turned out to be really great people. They cared about each other despite the histrionics. “It’s foreplay,” Armie would joke from time to time, “We like to rile each other up. It's kind of hot, except when Max starts threatening to burn my stuff.”

Andrew likes them because they’re like that TV couple you always root for, endlessly amusing to watch even though they fight so often. Because when it really matters, they’ll back each other up. Sometimes, Andrew comes over to their place for brunch, or just to hang out, or have Max look over his essays.

Max is a Film major at Columbia and his dad directs movies for a living. Their couch is the most comfortable thing Andrew’s ever sat on, with soft cushions that sag when you lean against them. Once, last semester, he’d fallen asleep on the couch, during the last leg of finals and woke up with a quilt thrown over his face and Armie looking down at him, snorting giggles and sipping coffee.

“Morning sunshine,” he’d said and threw a pillow in his face. “Max bought us bagels. Let’s eat.”

Because Armie and Max know everyone in the building including Joe who’s rumored to have played that little kid Timmy in the Jurassic Park movies, Andrew asks them about Jesse one day. Armie’s in the den, sorting out his laundry and he pauses before answering.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Armie says, “Are you sure he lives here? Maybe he’s dating someone who lives here. The only one with curly hair here that I know is that crazy vegan lady on the fifth floor. She smells like humus. I think she might be a witch.”

“Why are you so interested in him anyway?” Max asks, folding a magazine under one arm and sipping on his tea. He’s got moccasins on even though he’s indoors.

“Do you like him?” Max asks, propping his feet on the coffee table.

Andrew shrugs and thinks about this for a minute. He’s not entirely sure. He thinks Jesse’s cute though, with his soft mouth and his threadbare baseball cap. It’d be nice to get to know him. “I think he’s interesting,” Andrew says.

“I thought Max was interesting too and somehow my dick ended up inside him,” Armie says.

Max balls up a piece of paper and throws it at him.

Andrew laughs and nearly falls off the couch.

=

Andrew spends mornings waiting for Jesse to board the lift. He buys coffee from across the street and waits in the hall for Jesse to show up, riding the elevator back and forth until he has to drink both coffees himself because he’s already late for school. It’s stupid, he knows, but he doesn’t know how to pick up guys. Not that he’s picking Jesse up, he just thinks he’s interesting, with his cats and his glasses, and that funny way he laughs, his eyes creasing in the corners, his nose wrinkled.

One morning, they actually bump into each other when the coffee’s still warm and Andrew’s heading off to class.

“Where’d you get this?” Jesse asks him, genuinely curious. He sniffs his coffee and blinks before taking a perfunctory sip.

“There’s actually half a cow in that,” Andrew tells him, embarrassed. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee.”

“Black with lots of sugar,” Jesse says. “Did you get this across the street?”

“Yeah, I, I sort of bought them, you know. For a friend. I had over. But they left, quickly. So I decided to bring them with me to school because it seemed like a good idea?”

Jesse looks like he doesn‘t follow his line of reasoning but plays along and smiles. “Right,” he says.

“See you,” Andrew blurts when the chrome doors open.

“Yeah,” Jesse says. “Thanks for the coffee.” He lifts it up to eye-level, smiles again, soft. His eyes look different when he has his glasses on.

“Black with lots of sugar next time, right?”

“Yeah,” Jesse says. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Andrew promises. They stand in the hall for a minute, just staring awkwardly at each other and shifting from foot to foot. Andrew’s the first one to blush. He looks away.

“So, uh,” Jesse says. “I have to go now or my boss will fire me. See you around, Andrew.”

“See you, Jess.”

Jesse laughs at the nickname and chews a corner of his lip. He says nothing and just waves at Andrew, and it’s more of a salute, really, than a wave. Andrew groans and thumps the back of his head against the wall when Jesse disappears round the corner, out of sight.

“You have no game whatsoever,” Armie tells him that afternoon. “Weak, man. Weak. You should at least have his number by now. Or his last name. I’d have slept with him already, though.”

“Shut up,” Andrew snaps and then laughs at his own misery.

“What! I’m trying to lighten the mood,” Armie says.

=

Armie’s right though - Andrew has no game. He sees Jesse from time to time and his clothing rotates between hoodies and nondescript t-shirts that hug his shoulders. Jesse looks small without the hoodies on. His arms are thin and he’s just the right height for Andrew to be able to rest his chin on his head, kiss his temple. Andrew thinks about kissing him a lot these days. When he gets on the lift and Jesse’s not there, he wonders if Jesse’s thinking about him too, or if he’s in other lifts chatting up strange men.

Andrew imagines kissing him would feel a lot like getting struck by lighting, quick, electric, and cool, tasting like copper. He hums at the thought and closes his eyes. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that gets him through the day.

Armie elbows him in the ribs. “Do you miss your boyfriend?” he asks in singsong.

“Don’t you have work?” Andrew asks him, annoyed.

Armie just bats his eyes coquettishly.

=

Andrew has learned to tell whether Jesse was having a good day or a bad day by the slump of his shoulders. Jesse has bad posture and likes to keep his hands in his pockets.

When he’s tired but feeling okay, he mostly has this half-smile playing on his lips. When he’s not okay, his shoulders sag even lower and he keeps his head bowed down, his jaw tense and his eyes fixed at some point on the floor. It’s how Andrew knows when to bring up the weather or something inane just to get the flow of conversation going. He hasn’t seen Jesse visibly upset, disappointed, once, after he’d failed to get the part he wanted in a play - he’s an actor, the same age as Andrew, and does mostly off-Broadway theater work - but most of the time, he’s normal, a little twitchy, sometimes nervous, but sweet. Definitely sweet.

“You want to fuck him so bad it’s not even funny anymore,” Max tells him one day when they have brunch at the Indian restaurant two blocks from the apartment.

“What? I can’t have pure intentions?” Andrew scoffs.

“Sure you can,” Armie says, “You want to take him out first to a nice date, maybe a movie, some white wine later on, and then you want to bone him silly.”

“God,” Andrew says, laughing. “You two are incorrigible.”

“No, man, you just need to get laid,” Armie informs him.

=

It’s Sunday night when Andrew sees Jesse again. He’s come home from move night, and it’s basically when he and his friends get together once a month and order pizza by the dozen, sit around in Rob’s living room, watching bad movies with exploding cars and lots of cheesy one-liners. Tonight it’s Die Hard and Andrew’s throat is hoarse from screaming Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker repetitively with Carey who has this weird old-man crush on Alan Rickman, she says.

Andrew’s tired, so it’s nice to see Jesse again after three long days of not having him show up in the lift.

Andrew says, “Hey,” but then sees Jesse with an older woman who’s drunk and moaning and leaning against him and squeezing his shoulders. She has crazy wavy hair and a nose ring and Jesse looks embarrassed to be seen with her especially when she starts singing the chorus line to We Are The Champions.

“Hey,” Jesse says, glancing over at him. Andrew feels that old kick of jealousy, swift and vicious, when the girl clutches Jesse’s face and pinches his cheeks. She has bright red fingernails and her long black skirt swishes her ankles.

“Jesse,” she says, “Jesse, you are so sweet. Jesse, you’re my favourite person in the world. Jesse, you’re a cute little doll.”

Andrew blinks. Jesse flushes, makes a helpless gesture with his left hand and laughs nervously. The doors open on the fifth floor.

“Good night,” Andrew tells him. Jesse doesn’t hear him over the sound of his girl friend’s singing.

=

Andrew decides to address the issue the next time he sees Jesse. He wants to know if he’s just wasting his time. The coffee is expensive and he can’t spend his mornings riding lifts all the time in hopes of seeing Jesse again.

Jesse comes in on a Thursday. The glasses and cap are gone. His hair seems thicker without it, curlier, flat on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed. Half of his face is dented with pillow marks. Andrew wants to kiss him.

“Morning,” Andrew greets him.

Jesse nods noncommittally. “Mhm,” he says, scratching his shin.

Fourth floor. No one comes in.

“So,” Andrew says, whistling. “That girl the other day.”

Jesse turns to look at him. “What other girl?”

“The one that looked like Ani DiFranco. The one with the nose ring,” Andrew says.

“You mean my sister?”

“Your what?”

Jesse laughs. “You think she looks like Ani DiFranco?

“She’s your sister?” Andrew repeats.

“Yeah, well, what did you think she was?” Jesse says, and already Andrew feels a telltale blush rise in his cheeks. He clears his throat.

“Nothing,” he says and kicks at the floor, pocketing his hands. “I. Nothing.” They’re quiet for a moment. Before Andrew loses the nerve, he breathes in deep and says, “Are you doing anything Friday night?”

Jesse smiles up at him in sympathy. God, Andrew thinks. He hopes Jesse doesn’t think he’s a sad loser who has nothing better to do than wait on him all day which is pretty much apt now that Andrew thinks about it.

“Sorry, I’m a little busy this week,” Jesse tells him, laughing nervously. Andrew is ready to make excuses - “Sure, I understand. Whatever, it’s not. There was just this thing I thought you might like to see. Nothing important.” - when Jesse looks up abruptly, right before the doors open and leans into Andrew, their elbows pressing.

“Ask me again next Tuesday. I don’t have anything planned, then.” He laughs again, shy, and Andrew unhinges in jaw in shock.

Andrew swallows. “Next Tuesday?”

Jesse nods. “Yeah.”

“All right then,” Andrew says. He tries not to sound too eager. Jesse steps back and smiles sweetly and it takes all of Andrew’s willpower not to lean over and kiss him.

“Bye,” Andrew says instead.

=

Tuesday coincides with Armie’s big birthday surprise.

Max is planning the whole thing and has invited Andrew over. “Bring your friend,” he says meaningfully, rolling his eyes when Andrew splutters and flushes and gesticulates wildly. He does end up inviting Jesse though who says he isn’t sure at first, but confirms he’s free a few days later.

He gives Andrew his number. He’d written it down on the bed of Andrew’s palm, in broad clear strokes, the number two like an upside down nine, his hand warm when he turned Andrew’s wrist over, smooth and not rough with calluses even though his nails were chewed into misery.

“Um,” he said. “Call me if you want.”

“I want,” Andrew said hurriedly and they both flushed, laughed, looked away. He ended up calling too on the same night, his sweat blurring the numbers on his hand so he had to squint to get them right.

Jesse picked up on the third ring and his voice carried pleasantly over the phone, low and mellifluous, like he’d been thinking about Andrew all day, at work, on the subway, even though, Andrew was pretty sure, he had better things to do. It was a nice thought, however, so he stuck to that belief.

The night of Armie’s big birthday surprise, Andrew takes a long shower, has a leisurely shave, and puts on some cologne. He styles his hair briefly, frowning when it refuses to cooperate in the mirror.

It looks good enough, he decides half an hour later, and lets it tangle wildly with a bit of product. It’s the right ratio of hip and indifferent and Andrew hopes that it doesn't look like he's made too much of an effort.

The button-up shirt is maybe more formal than a t-shirt but it's nothing too fancy, dark blue plaid that almost’s black under a certain light.

He picks Jesse up and stands in front of his door. Jesse lives with his sister on the fifth floor and his entire corridor smells like patchouli . Andrew’s hands feel empty and he regrets not bringing flowers over. Then he remembers this isn’t a date and tells himself to stop acting like it is one. He schools his features and rolls his shoulders, gives himself a pep talk and wiggles his arms and it’s when Jesse’s door open and gives him a confused look.

“Oh, hey,” he says. “Do you want to come in first?”

=

Jesse’s place is the same size as Andrew’s. He has all sorts of furniture - a shelf teetering with books, and a drum set in the living room next to a bubbling aquarium of gold fish.

There’s a Spiderman blanket thrown over the back of the couch and pink little girl booties on the floor which Jesse claims is his little sister’s, Hallie’s, named after the comet. Jesse emerges from the kitchen carrying glasses of orange juice. He’s dressed nicely, faded jeans and a checkered shirt. The glasses are there, overwhelming his entire face, but he looks good.

Jesse hands Andrew his glass and smiles, tossing the pillows to one side of the couch. They sit in the center and Andrew takes a sip of his drink, rubbing one hand across his knee and pretending to look around the place. He puts his glass down on the coffee table. He looks at Jesse and thinks hard about what to say next.

“So,” he says. “Jesse.”

“So, Andrew,” Jesse echoes. They laugh simultaneously, their shoulders bumping. Andrew sighs and leans against the couch, letting his head loll as he stares up at Jesse. He really wants to kiss him but thinks it might be too soon. He doesn’t want to ruin the evening, or embarrass himself because he’s misread the signs.

But Jesse has the kind of mouth that’s sort of easy to visualize kissing.

It looks soft up close but looks like it would be even softer when wet, when you’re kissing it and stroking your tongue between his lips. Jesse’s cheekbones are more prominent when he smiles and he does that thing again, that nervous laugh, a dimple wrinkling in his left cheek.

“Are you sure this a good idea?” he says. “I don’t know any of your friends. And birthdays are kind of personal.”

“You're my guest,” Andrew says. My date, he thinks with a burst of sudden glee. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do I look nervous?” Jesse asks. He tilts his head to the side. Andrew doesn’t know what to make of the gesture, if this is Jesse’s come hither look or if he’s just being cute, so he laughs and blushes and looks away.

“Um, no, not at all. You look, uh, very confident.”

“Don't believe me, I'm an actor,” Jesse tells him, snorting. “So I’m full of shit.”

“I don’t think you’re full of shit,” Andrew saws. Jesse? He’s the sweetest, nicest guy in the building and his baseball cap is the cutest thing in the world.

Andrew just wants to take him home and slide him under comforters, pull his head back and tug at his hair so he could kiss him long and lazy, with just the right amount of tongue. Andrew gets shivers just thinking about it, which is often, at night, mostly in the shower when he’s leaving for school.

“You don’t know me,” Jesse says.

Andrew shrugs. “I like to think I do.”

Jesse smiles at him, laughs, pressing his lips together. “Okay, I'm nervous all the time,” he confesses. “And I don't know why but I get especially nervous around you. Are you a serial killer? My sister says it’s because you're shady that I feel this way.”

Andrew’s heart plummets. “She thinks I’m shady? What did I do?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jesse laughs again. “It adds a bit of mystery, don’t you think? And it’s kind of what I like about you.”

“You like me because you think I’m a serial killer?”

“Well, maybe because you could potentially be one, which makes you dangerous, and I’m a thrill-seeking kind of person, so.”

Andrew laughs in spite of himself. He climbs to his feet after checking the time on his watch. He came over with good intentions but now he’s suddenly dizzily in love, like he’s drunk on whatever Jesse’s put into the orange juice. It feels good. He feels good.

“Come on,” Andrew says. He extends a hand to help Jesse up. Jesse’s smile grows on his face and he takes Andrew’s hand as he stands.

=

They all crouch in the dark, waiting for Armie to get home from work. Patrick is there with Joe who’s wearing a sweater as orange as his hair. There’s a rustle coming from the other side of the door, and Max begins the countdown under his breath. One, two, three. He holds up a hand.

Armie throws the door open. He turns on the light and they all cheer simultaneously, much to his bewilderment. “Happy Birthday!” Max screams and grins at Armie’s wide-eyed look. Scattered claps and yells here and there and Joe, blurting, “Dude, you’re twenty five!” before turning on the music.

Max lunges at Armie and straps a birthday hat on his head.

“Happy birthday, babe,” Max grins and Armie’s still blinking at all of them, laughing, turning pink. He loosens his tie. “You did all of this for me? I thought you said birthday parties were bourgeois,” He mimics Max’s accent.

Max slaps him on the shoulder, rolling his eyes. “A little gratitude would be nice, asshole. Hey, Josh made some punch.”

Josh walks up to him, and he’s also around the same height, but with the kind of features that make everyone else in the room look inferior. He says, “What’s up, Hammer,” and bumps their fists together, before seizing Armie in a casual hug. “Happy birthday, man.”

“I thought you’d died of food poisoning in Mexico,” Armie tells him. Josh punches him gently on the shoulder and laughs.

It’s a good night. The party is full of people Andrew recognizes from the building, tenants like Rooney and Brenda from the third floor who has a really nice tan, not the fake spray-on kind, but the kind you get from spending long hours on the beach, lying on the sand.

Even their landlord Sorkin is there, and he keeps checking his phone every five seconds like he has somewhere else to be. Over all it’s a great party. Joe goes around dispensing party hats, Patrick trailing after him, with a pirate hat on. Andrew’s buzzed by the time they sing Armie a happy birthday, crowding around the low table and cheering for Armie to make a wish.

Max is on Armie’s lap, fingering Armie’s hair. Andrew looks at Jesse and wishes he were on his lap too, with his hands in Andrew’s hair and his thighs pressed between Andrew’s knee. Armie blows out the candles, snuffing out the last one after two more attempts.

Max starts slicing up the cake, Armie standing right behind him and rubbing his back.

“This cake is exceedingly expensive,” he tells all of them, “So some of you will have to share.” He gives Andrew a pointed look and hands him a plate. Armie’s already scarfing down his slice, licking the frosting off the tines of his fork and humming his appreciation.

“Plastic fork?” Joe offers. He holds out a pair in red and blue. Andrew finds Jesse in the corner, examining an old map of St. Croix that’s framed on the wall.

“Oh, hey,” Jesse says, turning. He takes a tiny sip of his beer.

“Want to share?” Andrew asks, holding the plate up to eye-level.

“Not a big fan of cake,” Jesse tells him.

Andrew shrugs. “It’s expensive cake,” he says. At Jesse’s laugh, he feels pretty stupid and shrugs his shoulders defensively.

“You like maps?” he asks, picking sullenly at the slice and not looking up. It’s chocolate with chestnuts and thick caramel icing between the layers.

“Do you like cake?” Jesse asks.

“What?”

“I’m kidding,” Jesse says. He smiles like he knows a secret, his eyes creasing in the corners. “Sure, I like maps. They fascinate me. I like seeing how landscapes change after a few years. People build buildings and roads and suddenly the entire architecture of the world shifts. The earth used to be made up of one supercontinent, the Rodinia, and then the plate tectonics shifted for years and years and the land drifted apart and formed subcontinents. And now we’re here, living in this millennia. Gas prices are rising and so are the sea levels. I’m sorry. Am I boring you?”

Jesse turns red, wrings his hands. His lips are wet, shiny and full where he’s bitten down it.

“No, carry on,” Andrew says, blinking. “You fascinate me. I mean, it. It fascinates me.” And it’s true enough. Jesse’s voice - god, where does Andrew even begin?

“So tell me something about yourself,” Jesse says.

Andrew wants to sound cool and interesting but the alcohol makes his tongue loose and he wants, at least around Jesse, to be honest and more himself.

“I had a brief art phase,” he tells him. “I was eighteen and listened to nothing but French music all day. I couldn’t understand a word of it but I thought the language itself was profound. I thought it was poetry. I don’t know. It was kind of pretentious. I guess I still am.”

He laughs at himself but Jesse doesn’t. Andrew sneaks a peek at him. Jesse’s brows are furrowed and he looks serious.

“You’re okay,” Jesse says to him. “I don’t find you pretentious at all.”

“I’m fine with being okay, I think,” Andrew says. There’s something lodged in his throat and he shrugs his shoulders just to have something to do.

“You should be,” Jesse says. “I like you okay.”

Andrew smiles and he feels his heart pushing against his ribs. “I’ll take that with a grain of salt,” he says and laughs. “Cake?”

“No, thanks,” Jesse grins. “I’m on a steady diet of beer and self-loathing.”

=

The party winds down a little after midnight. Patrick, Brenda and Joe stay for clean-up. Rooney’s passed out on the couch, her boots kicked off as she snorts and mutters in her sleep, rolling her head across the cushions. “We should shoot popcorn into her mouth,” Brenda suggests. “Or draw on her face.”

Max laughs and adjusts the blanket on her shoulders.

Eventually, Brenda leaves, with Rooney in tow, draped across her shoulder, moaning about a splitting headache and asking if there is pie. Patrick and Joe disappear too after collecting all the paper cups and storing the leftover food in zip lock bags and tupperware.

“You’re really meticulous about this, aren’t you?” Andrew says to Max who washes an ice cream bowl in the sink and dries his hands on a paper napkin.

“I like order.” Max shrugs.

Jesse walks in with an armful of party hats and paper streamers. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. “Where’s the birthday boy?” he asks.

They find him on the roof ten minutes later. He'd climbed there through the window, taking the connecting fire escape. Armie’s got a cooler of beer at his side and he’s sitting on someone’s lawn chair, looking up at the sky. There are no stars tonight, just thick rolling clouds and smog. His party hat is slumped to the side of his head.

“What’s sup guys,” he smiles sleepily. He tips his head back to receive Max’s lazy kiss and Andrew looks away, feeling like he’s intruded on a private moment. Jesse smiles at him, elbows him gently in the ribs. There’s something casually intimate about the gesture, the way Jesse looks at him under his eyelashes before grinning and scrunching up his nose.

They drink beer there, all four of them, Andrew and Jesse leaning back on their palms and staring up at the sky, Max spread along on top Armie and talking about how he’d cried as a kid watching It.

“Really? You cried? Out of fear?” Jesse asks incredulously. When he’s passionate about something, he starts talking over himself, words overlapping with no pauses for breath or punctuation marks.

“No,” Max laughs. “I get incredibly sad when people die in movies. They have families, you know? Imagine how devastated you’ll feel when you learn your only child died at the hands of a demonic alien clown.”

Armie giggles. “My mom’s a clown,” Jesse says suddenly. They all turn to look at him. Andrew puts down his beer.

“What.” Armie gapes. “No, shit.”

When Jesse nods, Armie says, “Get out of here, dude. Really?”

“I’m not kidding,” Jesse says. He catches Andrew’s eye and smiles and Andrew feels like he’s just missed something big. Max is the first one to drop off, excusing himself because he has to be up early the next day. Eventually, Armie leaves too, leaving the cooler of beer behind, kicking it with the toe of his shoe, his shirt completely unbuttoned now and hanging loosely at his sides, revealing the white undershirt underneath it, damp with patches of sweat. “Okay, guys, good night. I’m going to see if I can at least get a hand job before Max hits the hay. Don’t forget the cooler. I’ll be counting on you, Andrew.” He points at him and sways on his feet.

When they’re alone, the rooftop is eerily quiet despite the rush of cars below and the steady noise of morning traffic.

“It’s nice out here, isn’t it?” Jesse says. He’s hugging his knees to his chest, breathing in the air. “You can hear your thoughts.”

Andrew laughs.The wind feels good against his face even though he feels dirty and sweaty all over. “You’re kind of amazing, you know,” he says, unable to help himself from being honest. He leans sideways. “I miss your hat,” he says, touching the side of Jesse’s head and curling a lock of hair around his finger. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad too,” Jesse says. His smile is secretive, soft and slow. “You have excellent friends.”

Andrew snorts, shaking his head. He closes his eyes and squeezes them, then opens them again and Jesse’s still there, sitting next to him. It’s not just a dream his tired mind had conjured up.

They drink the rest of their beers, cans clinking. Jesse talks about his cats and how he’d smuggled them into his apartment in his hoodie and trained them to behave especially when Sorkin comes to collect the rent. Andrew smiles, just thinking about it, Jesse with his hoodie bulging in the front with a kitten mewling and pawing at him.

After awhile, the sun comes up, rising behind the buildings, turning the skyline a dainty pink. Andrew closes his eyes, resting them for a second because he still has school later at eight and he can’t afford to miss it.

=

He wakes up two hours later under a quilt that smells a lot like Max’s brand of laundry detergent, still on the roof, his face pushed up next Jesse’s, so close that Jesse’s hair brushes his eyelids and his breath flutters across Andrew’s cheeks. Andrew sits up and the movement makes Jesse stir and moan, clutch his head. He doesn’t have his glasses on. Andrew scrambles to his feet and hears a crunch under his shoe. He looks down and shit, he’s just stepped on Jesse’s glasses.

“Fuck,” Andrew groans. “I’m so sorry, Jess.”

Jesse yawns and inspects the damage. The left lense is cracked. He pockets it and yawns again, scratching his head. “It’s okay,” he assures Andrew. “I’ll live. I can get contacts. And you’re paying for them, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, sure. Definitely. Abso-fucking-lutely. Anything at all,” Andrew says.

Jesse laughs at him then, long, his shoulders trembling. “I was kidding,” he snorts. “Help me up.” He holds up a hand and Andrew feels silly, like a kid driven into incoherence because he had no other way of expressing himself, just stutter-stopping through each sentence. Andrew yanks Jesse up to his feet. Jesse smells like beer and last night’s party. He smells like sleep.

The cooler is gone so they only have the blanket to bring back with them. They fold it together, Jesse shaking out the debris and Andrew flattening it into a neat rectangle, afterwards.

Max is in the kitchen, drinking coffee when they climb down. “Morning,” he tells them distractedly, zipping up his bag. “I’m leaving for school. Armie has to sleep off a hangover so don’t forget to lock the door when you leave. Armie’s dead asleep right now and I don’t want random strangers coming up and stealing my furniture. Understood?”

Andrew nods, still half asleep.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Jesse asks.

Max waves at him and sips his coffee, tipping the rest of it down the sink before turning on the tap. “No, go ahead. Make yourself at home.” When he disappears, Max turns to Andrew, thumping him on the stomach with his Philosophy readings.

“Behave,” he tells Andrew kindly.

“When have I not?”

Max laughs. “Therein lies the problem. You’re far too well-behaved. Go crazy a little. It might pay off.” He waves at Andrew from the door, turning slightly. “And don’t forget to lock the door when you leave, okay?”

“Sure,” Andrew says absently.

=

They leave Armie to sleep. Andrew locks the door behind him, skipping a step. He’s tired but strangely energized, alive with a burst of enthusiasm he feels roiling in the center of his bones. Jesse trudges along next to him, yawning, rubbing his face. His shirt hikes up when he stretches and Andrew feels like a pervert for staring but doesn’t look away.

“Thanks for a great night,” Jesse says with a gentle smile. Andrew flushes, nods his head. Slow down, he tells his pulse and steps closer so that they’re walking side by side, elbows brushing. Jesse says nothing, looks up at him, then away. He walks ahead, jogging a little so he reaches the elevators first.

They open five seconds later. Andrew is left watching him, blinking, completely stunned into speechlessness when Jesse waves him over, wearing that smile again, the one that got Andrew into this mess in this first place. Jesse’s eyes are bright even underneath the cracked lenses of his glasses.

Andrew runs to catch up, stopping abruptly at the doors.

“Are you coming in or what?” Jesse asks him, leaning against the wall. His arms are crossed and his head is tipped back and he’s still smiling, slowly, sleepily. His eyebrows are raised, like he’s waiting for something. Andrew steps inside, pushing his way through the doors when they close on him and then slide open again a second later.

Justin, who’s from the same floor as Armie, is about to step in when Andrew holds up a hand.

“This one’s full, sorry,” Andrew tells him. The doors close but not before Jesse laughs. “What’s so funny?” Andrew asks him.

“Nothing,” Jesse says. He licks a corner of his lip and Andrew is distracted for a moment. He crowds Jesse until Jesse’s back hits the wall, knows it’s stupid, but touches Jesse’s mouth with his the pads of his fingers.

Jesse’s lips part easily, and his breath is distinctly sweet, cool with a hint of toothpaste.

“Hey,” Andrew says, drunk already from their proximity, “Can I kiss you?”

“You’ve got your knee pressed between my legs and you ask me that now?” Jesse says, incredulous. Andrew blushes. He feels Jesse’s nose press against his cheek before they even kiss, and months from now he knows he’ll remember this - the way Jesse stomach shudders when Andrew slides his hand under the hemline of his shirt, fingering the delicate curve of his ribs - and smile at the memory.

“Go on,” Jesse says, nudging him with his knee against Andrew’s thigh. “Knock yourself out, stupid.”

Andrew laughs. “Hang on a minute,” he says, lifting Jesse’s glasses. Jesse blinks and that’s when Andrew kisses him, cupping the side of his face. Jesse shivers in his arms, with happiness or maybe something else. Whatever it is Andrew feels it too, buzzing behind his eyelids like electricity. Jesse moans quietly against him, his mouth wet and faintly cool against the bend of Andrew’s jaw.

When the doors open again, neither of them moves or blinks.

“Take the stairs, mate. We’re busy,” Andrew says without looking up.

The doors close again with a ding and Jesse snorts, slumping against Andrew’s shoulder as he laughs.