Jesus of Suburbia II REVISED
Title: Jesus of Suburbia, Chapter III: The Son of Rage and Love
Author: sistergrimmel and blueinkedlines (Neko Kuroban).
Rating/Warnings: PG-13. Nothing worse than your average teen flick.
Summary: "No one ever died for my sins in hell, as far as I can tell-- at least the ones I got away with."
The apartment was halfway to feeling like a home -- and that was at least twice as much as anywhere Luke had ever lived before.
He had lived there for three months, since the start of his senior year of high school -- him, the dog, and his best friend -- and it was, by this point, more than familiar. In all honesty, he was surprised the condo board had not yet complained. They were seventeen-year-olds renting out a three-bedroom unit for a pittance compared to what the other residents, mostly young professional couples, paid. There was nothing legal about the arrangement -- neither he nor Jack had been declared independent of their minors, neither of their names were on the lease agreement, and Jack had given their landlord a handful of Vicodin in place of a down deposit for the rental.
He let himself in.
The place had been eggshell-white when they moved in. Now, it was cramped with a hodgepodge assortment of furniture scored from yard sales and made out of flat-packs from IKEA...and it was probably a good thing the boys had not paid a down deposit, because Luke doubted they would get it back when they moved out in the spring. The stain on the carpet: okay, that could be cleaned. There was writing and drawing on the living room walls, the result of a drunken party where one of their friends had decided that they needed to play Pictionary. They could paint over that. Some things were actual improvements (as they saw it): Jack had painted a mural on the walls of the kitchen they almost never used.
The one thing Luke couldn’t see a way around, though, was the hole. They had hired a contractor to put in a skylight tunnel in the second bathroom (Silena’s idea). The contractor had skipped out, taking the cash (and the beer from the refrigerator and Luke's prescription dextroamphetamines from the bathroom cabinet) and leaving only a sheet of plastic to cover the gap in the ceiling and roof.
That one was probably going to be hard to explain away.
Luke threw himself onto the living room couch. It was an awful couch. He and Jack had “rescued” from a yard sale, and they were both amused by how incredibly ugly it was. The 1970s-style print was brown with obnoxious flowers in a shade of nicotine yellow; when it was new, they had probably been daisies. As it was, the sofa seemed improved by the countless coffee and beer spills, three gaping tears in the upholstery where yellow fluff stuck out. How did he feel more at home laying here than he ever had anywhere else?
There were new cigarette burn marks in the arm, courtesy of Jack, Luke noticed. At least, Luke thought, exasperated, he said they were cigarette burns. Like we don’t both know exactly what he's been doing.
The cynical mental complaint was a sign of how rattled he really was: Luke hated wasting time bitching about things that could not be changed. (Anything that could be changed? Fair game.)
How had that strange new girl had gotten under his skin so easily? He loved Silena. He wasn’t in love with her, but he loved her. How had she vanished from his mind the second he met a girl he didn’t know and might not like?
He sank into the couch with a groan.
Jack is going to laugh his ass off when he hears about this one.
As though the thought had summoned him, a lean, lithe teenage boy with gelled brown hair and tanned skin padded into the living room. He was clad in nothing more than a pair of fleece pajama pants emblazoned with miniature versions of the Heineken logo. He was smoking a joint.
“I got a call from Tizrah,” Jack said by way of greeting.
“Fuck.”
Their landlord had the tendency to drift in and out of addictions; in three months, the boys had already decided that hearing from him was “no big deal.” On the other hand, getting a call from Tizrah, the accounts payable manager for the properties, meant they actually had to settle for the month. rent was to be paid to our landlord; all other inquiries and concerns were to be directed to Tizrah. The woman was terrifying and efficient, and Luke had a certain amount of respect for her.
Jack shrugged. “Rent’s due, apparently.”
“If only we’d known that it happens every month when we moved in.”
“Time to go hit your dad up for cash.”
“That’s going to be awkward. I haven’t called him since the last time the rent was due.”
Jack shrugged. “Could be worse. You could have to go see my dad. I haven’t called him since the last time he got drunk and kicked me out of the house. In July, remember? You were there. Oh, wait,” he said, pretending to be searching his memory. “If I recall correctly, you were the reason.”
They had never talked about that night -- not seriously, at any rate. Luke snorted now. “Whatever. Just don’t try to pay the rent with the money you score off selling drugs. I’m not enabling your little pyramid marketing scheme.” The words rang false to his own years. His entire friendship with Jack was based on each of them feeding off the other. It was a little too late to stop enabling the other boy.
"Pyramid schemes are illegal,” Jack teased. “Are you still all testy over the new girl? Mary might have been hot, but she’s a fucking Ice Princess. I’m staying away, and you should, too. Girlfriend was wound tighter than a rubber band, anyway.”
Luke thought of Thalia Grace’s hands tucked into his back pockets. “She kissed me today.”
“How the hell did that happen?” Jack sounded -- and looked -- both jealous and impressed. “She looked like she wanted to cut your balls off by the time school let out.”
Luke smirked. “I think Scarlett wants to save the plantation.”
“You selfish bastard. Silena and I aren’t enough for you? Is that it? I paint the walls, I share my beer, I give you all the XTC your little heart could desire--”
“You’re a real house husband,” the blonde boy drawled.
Jack threw himself into the armchair across from him with a pout. “Princess must be a really good kisser.”
“She is,” Luke admitted. “But it’s not just that.”
“What is it about this girl?” Jack asked, exasperated. “And you want pizza or Pop Tarts for dinner?”
“She made me lose a bet.” Luke rose nimbly from the couch. Crossing the room, he stopped in front of Jack’s chair to glance at the other boy’s pupils. “Pizza and soda,” he decided after a minute. “You’ll scarf the entire box of chocolate fudge Pop Tarts otherwise.”
“Pizza and pop it is.”
Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. They didn’t have a house phone. Why bother? Each of the boys had a cell phone. (Jack had two--one for clients, one for friends.) “You lost a bet?” He asked while it was ringing. “I know that it’s a rare occurrence, but you’d think it wouldn’t endear her to you.”
Luke shrugged. “She intrigues me.”
Jack ignored him. “Hey, Signora di Contadino!” He said instead. “It’s Jack Lyndon. We want delivery this time. Can you send Cara? Luke needs to have some sense beaten into him, and he actually respects her.”
Signora Maria di Contadino was the proprietor of their favorite authentic Italian place; it was owned and run by the woman and her husband, Signor di Contadino. Cara was their college-age daughter who cooked and ran deliveries. The Signor was a quiet man; the Signora was a loud, bossy matriarch who fussed over each and everyone of her customers and loved Luke and Jack as if they were her own sons.
The restaurant’s atmosphere was brooding but welcoming, and the long wooden counter was scratched from years of use by customers and family and friends. The flat bread pizza was the best Luke and Jack had ever had, and the cappuccino and espresso were both strong and endless. The di Contadinos did not serve Coke or Pepsi but true Italian sodas -- sparkling water flavored with shots of caramel or peppermint, chocolate or vanilla. The cash register consisted of four wineglasses: one for bills over ten dollars, one for fives and ones, one for silver change, and one for pennies.
“One extra-large cheese and one personal Hawaiian chicken and pineapple,” Jack was saying. “Can you bring extra bread and pop? Hold on. I’ll tell him. Luke?” Jack looked up. “The Signora says we need a vegetable, and she’s comping us a salad to go with our food.” Jack returned to the call and laughed. “I try, ma’am. See you later.” Jack ended the call. “Suppertime in T minus thirty.”
“Great. I’m going to--”
“Not so fast,” Jack interrupted. “We have to figure out why you’re chasing a Snow Queen.”
Luke sighed. “No, we don’t. We have to eat pizza. Call Sandra. Tell her to come over. She’ll make everything all better.”
“She’s a bitch and a half,” Jack protested with more of a whine in his voice than was altogether becoming.
“But it’s been three days since you broke up. Time to do the reconciliation sex thing. You’ve been painting her for three days, anyway.”
Jack flushed. “I was painting a brown-eyed redhead, okay? I met a really sweet one who goes to public school. She--”
Luke cut him off on his way to the kitchen. “Shut up, Jack. Get yourself together.” He retrieved two beers from the refrigerator. “I’ve got homework.”
“Fine, bastard. See if you ever get to borrow my My So-Called Life DVDs ever again.”
On second thought…
Luke threw a pair of blueberry Pop Tarts into the toaster. “Whine more. You only get like this when you have the munchies. Eat that for now. Pizza in thirty minutes. Take care of yourself, or I’m calling Lee and he’ll freak and demand that we let him cook us real food.”
“God. You really do have the hots for Mary, don‘t you?”
Luke rolled his eyes. “I give you artificially flavored toaster pastries and we still want to talk about me? Shut up, Jack.”