fic: swing swing gently (andrew/jesse, rpf, pg, 1600 words)
fill for tsn_kinkmeme: " I want you to take me into the kitchen and show me how to make a pizza and then tell me that you know how to make something better. And then we'll get on the floor and create millions of health-code violations." I'm terrified the mods might take it off the prompt post because it's not properly labeled so I filled it asap.
It’s just something to do on their last day in Boston. Snow is glistening outside the windows. Jesse stands by the kitchen sink with his hands and hair powdery with flour. He thinks about his grandmother, how she taught him to make bread with his hands. Conversation has felt sparse all afternoon.
“I think you’re doing it wrong,” Andrew tells him. He reaches over to grab Jesse’s ball of dough, flattening it with steady palms. Jesse stares at his fingers for a moment, their rhythmic movement. Finally, Andrew looks up at him. The dough is a flat circle and he punches the center to even the surface.
“You’re actually good at this,” Jesse says.
“It’s just trial and error. I have no idea what I’m doing.” Andrew shrugs one shoulder then peers up at him shyly through his eyelashes. His hair is flat on one side and peaks up in strange places. He’s slept on Jesse’s couch all afternoon, which explains the wrinkles in shirt and the dents in his face.
“I’m going to miss Boston,” Andrew says suddenly. He patches up the hole in his dough with a piece cut from the edge. Jesse thinks about this for a moment. He doesn’t know if this is a question, or if it requires a sincere and honest response. He makes a thoughtful noise in his throat and douses more flour on the table. The silence is comfortable for awhile until Andrew sighs and stops kneading.
“I hate LA,” Jesse tells him, picking at the edges of his fingernails. “I hate how fake it all feels, you know? I feel like I’m surrounded by fucking movie stars and not actual people, like everyone’s just acting and pretending to be someone else they’re not.” He laughs at himself and shakes his head, knowing that it’s silly. He knows, without looking up, that Andrew is staring at his face. Jesse wonders what it is that he’s seeing. A nervous wreck? Sometimes Jesse’s mind strays and he worries about misrepresenting himself.
“It feels real in Boston,” Jesse continues after a beat. “Does this make sense to you?”
Andrew smiles slowly. The corners of his eyes crease. “Everything feels real here, doesn’t it?” He watches Jesse knead dough for awhile and then sniffs out a laugh, tipping back his head. The stubble he’s too lazy to shave off catches in the light.
“Come here,” he says, leaning on his elbows on the table. He wets his lip and they shine when he grins, all teeth. “Come on,” he persists, rolling his eyes when Jesse just stands there, one eyebrow raised. “I’ll teach you a great technique.”
“I thought you said you had no idea what you’re doing?”
“Yes, well, now I do. And I’ll teach you. Come on.” He sprinkles flour on the table and the smell rises up in the air and makes Jesse want to sneeze. Jesse blinks and breathes in deep, goes round the table to stand by Andrew’s side. Andrew’s elbows are streaked with flour and his skin smells powdery and warm, like bread.
“All right, so, what you want to do is create a circle. Roll the dough into a ball and then punch it in the middle. No, no, Jesse that looks like a baguette. Punch it in the middle. Yeah, no, more force.” He snickers and scratches it his cheek, face pinching as he watches Jesse attempt to follow his instructions.
“You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you, Eisenberg,” Andrew says with a sigh. Jesse feels sheepish and throws a handful of flour in his direction. Andrew squawks and laughs and hides his face behind one arm, and tosses flour in his direction too which Jesse properly evades by leaping back a few steps.
“Hey, hey, concentrate, will you? Do you want to make pizza or not?”
“We can always just call for pizza,” Jesse says, rubbing his cheek against the back of his arm. At Andrew’s incredulous look, he adds, “But of course nothing will ever compare to the taste of one made with your own sweat and blood so let’s do this, all right. Let’s go. I’m ready.”
“Oh, shut up,” Andrew says, laughing. He elbows Jesse in the ribs and Jesse rubs at the spot thoughtfully.
“You’re still doing it wrong, you know,” Andrew says to him. His voice is softer now, and low, as he moves around Jesse carefully and stands behind him. Jesse can feel Andrew’s body heat seep into his back when Andrew leans all the way forward, his long arms touching the sides of Jesse’s arms. Jesse jerks at the contact, feeling the static brush of the hair on their skin. He turns his head but Andrew’s gaze is turned toward the dough on the table, misshapen and puffy like a formless landmass.
Jesse stares at the side of his face. Andrew is tall enough so that Jesse’s head is a perfect fit under his chin. Andrew slides his hands on top of Jesse’s, pushing them down flat against the dough.
“Mold it gently with your hands,” he says, “Don’t rush. We have all afternoon.”
Jesse can think of plenty of things they can do all afternoon, on the floor, against the fridge, but decides not to say it and bites down on his smile. He focuses on the warmth of Andrew’s palms and the repetitive drowsy movement of their hands kneading the dough together on the table. Andrew hums and Jesse can feel it reverberate against his back, the low sound of it making the hair on his neck stand on end.
“Jess,” Andrew says. His hands stop their movement and Jesse stills and closes his eyes. Andrew’s entire body is pressed along his back, his lips satiny against the shell of Jesse’s ear, whistling tiny puffs of breath.
Andrew kisses Jesse’s neck, and his breath stutters like that small point of contact may kill him. When he exhales, Jesse feels it pass through his own chest, a cold rush of air, and he shivers deep in the center his bones. He doesn’t know what to say or do with his hands which are still buried in the dough and leaving soft indentations. Andrew kisses his cheek this time, his eyes closed. Jesse closes his eyes too and waits, but nothing happens, no more kissing.
And then Andrew spins him around the table and tosses the entire bowl of flour in his face.
“What,” Jesse says, not sure what just happened. Andrew grins back at him, smug, and Jesse splutters, blinks, and thumps him on the shoulder, grabs leftover flour from the table and smothers his face with it, his mouth, until Andrew laughs and laughs and laughs and they tumble together on the floor, all elbows and knees and powdery hair, shrieking and flailing.
“Stop!” Jesse says, kicking Andrew in the shin when he starts tickling him under the ribs. “Stop, I can’t breathe!” He curls in on himself and slaps Andrew’s hand away, clutching his stomach and trying to contain his laughter. Andrew dissolves into snickers that make his entire body shake but he leaves Jesse alone and doesn’t touch him anymore, just lies there panting and gasping on the floor, staring at the ceiling, shaking his head.
A second later, when they’ve sobered up, Andrew reaches across the floor to hold Jesse’s hand. Jesse feels a little ridiculous, holding hands indoors, on the kitchen floor, so he snorts softly and squeezes his eyes shut. Andrew’s fingers sink clean between the spaces of his knuckles. Jesse can feel the rough callouses in them and where the skin has started to peel off from the cold, he can feel the creases in Andrew’s palm and wonders, in some ambiguous part of him, if their threads of fate were ever meant to cross.
They lie in silence for a bit more. Jesse listens to the hum of the fridge and breathes the powdery scent of the air.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing,” Jesse says, “Do it.”
Andrew laughs, staring at him for a moment, pink in the face. He rolls sideways and slides a hand underneath Jesse’s shirt. The movement is smooth and slow, like he’s making bread, a finger tracing up Jesse’s breastbone, making his skin spark with electricity. His thumb touches the edges of Jesse’s nipple, his hand spread open along Jesse’s side. Jesse feels like his body is attached to a livewire, always so jumpy and excited, vulnerable to even the most fleeting contact.
“You kiss like a pervert,” Jesse tells him, looking down to where Andrew’s knee is pressed between his thighs.
Andrew laughs, sheepish, but doesn’t move away. He moves closer, presses Jesse against the floor so that their stomachs touch where their shirts have hiked up high over their ribs. Jesse smiles and inhales the silken warmth of his breath, stroking the sides of Andrew’s lips with his fingertips until they open and dimple in the corners.
“It’s a technique,” Andrew says to him, grinning. His eyes are slits when he laughs. Then he leans down to kiss Jesse, lazy and open-mouthed, and Jesse reaches in behind him and grabs a thick tuft of Andrew’s hair, daubing it with flour.