tsn_kinkmeme non-journal fills:
all the young folks; ANDREW/JESSE, G. (663 words) [ original link here] Jesse rides Andrew's scooter (not a metaphor).
Jesse knows they’re going to die. It’s only seven in the morning and neither of them has had any coffee yet and Jesse just knows, feels it in his heart of hearts, that they’re going to die. There are a number of ways, for example, that they could skid off a bridge and into the freezing Charles River, or hit an old lady crossing the street and then careen into a dump truck. These things happen all the time, Jesse’s seen it in the news - you take your eyes off the road for one second or drive into a pothole, and you’ve permanently sealed your fate. Plus, driving a tiny Vespa scooter with little room for anything else let alone another passenger means you’ve already got one foot in the grave.
Andrew, apparently, doesn’t think so.
Jesse yelps when they pass another speedbump. His jaws knock together violently and he turns his face to Andrew’s neck, keeping his grip firm around his waist. If it were any other day, he’d scoot closer and push his nose up against Andrew’s ear, maybe pretend to fall asleep so he can curl up against his back like a lazy cat, but his stomach has tied itself in crazy knots, unable to stop trembling, and he keeps thinking about their inevitable gory deaths.
Andrew laughs at him, his shoulders shaking. “You’re not going to fall off, Jess. Trust me,” He pats Jesse on the knee like he’s soothing a wild animal or a very slow child. “We’re going to be fine,” he says to him.
“You don’t even have a helmet on,” Jesse says, huffing a little. He feels stupid, knowing they’re only going fifty to sixty miles per hour and weaving through the mostly empty road. “Avoid speedbumps,” he says, just to be petty, and tugs at the front of Andrew’s jacket where the zipper bites into his skin.
“I can’t,” Andrew tells him. “They’re built in. And they’re kind of just... there, so.”
Jesse laughs in spite of himself. His car refused to start this morning and now they’re taking Andrew’s trusty little scooter to work. It’s red with blue stripes on the sides and Jesse feels like a total dork riding it, his hair flattened by the helmet Andrew insists he wears, which is red too and has a sticker of the union jack on the front. Jesse can feel the scooter churn underneath him, the smooth whirr of it under his legs humming up his spine.
Andrew keeps his eyes steady on the road, his eyebrows knit in complete concentration. His back is warm, curved slightly, and his hair peaks up in strange angles, like he’s run his fingers through it all morning instead of combing it down or styling it. Jesse sighs and leans against him, fits his chin on his shoulder and closes his eyes. He tries not think about roadside accidents or missing red lights and focuses on the steady rhythm of Andrew’s breathing, isolating the sound from the noise in the street. He feels sleepy, with Andrew tucked up comfortably against him and muttering about how he used to bike up and down his neighborhood as a kid.
“Hey, if you fall asleep on me, you are going to die,” Andrew says, shrugging his shoulder to jostle him. Jesse scrunches his face and sniffs, rubbing his cheek against Andrew’s neck and squeezing his eyes shut. He blinks his eyes open and tightens his arms around Andrew’s waist, sliding his hands under his shirt. The skin underneath is warm, the way bread left to cool is warm, soft and smooth and powdery.
“Thanks for the comforting thought,” Jesse says, and Andrew laughs and elbows him in the ribs.
They make it in time - and alive - for work.
i have been searching all of my days; ANDREW/JESSE, R. (686 words) [ original link here] curtain!fic with kids not borne of mpreg.
The kids are well-adjusted, well, mostly, something Jesse is grateful for because he remembers growing up feeling nervous all the time and jittery, his head ducked down, his hands balled inside the front of his shirt.
Dillon is four and is every bit Andrew’s son, with his thick hair and brown eyes. He has a lisp because his two front teeth are missing, and he loves eating melons and the color red, and once, Jesse bought him a baseball, just to see what he would do with it, and Dillon, he drew it a face with a beard and sunglasses and then threw it out the window where it hit a passing man’s head. But it’s his sister Jesse’s worried about. Lois, who is six and has just started school, reminds him of himself. She’s stubborn and likes keeping to herself and spends whole days lying on her stomach, drawing on the living room floor. She has his curls, thick and unruly, like a bird’s nest. She pouts up at Jesse and whines when he wrestles her down in front of the dressing mirror and flattens her hair with a fine tooth comb.
Jesse watches her toddle off to school in the morning with her pink backpack and lopsided headband and waits until she turns and waves at him, standing on her toes, smiling, her grin no longer gummy and toothless like it used to be when she was a baby, before driving back home, his heart in his throat, and where Dillon is waiting to be fed breakfast and where Andrew is still buried under the covers, his face dented with pillow marks.
They live in a three bedroom apartment in New York City. They argued for a year about where to raise their kids, living with Andrew’s parents first in Surrey and then in LA where they bought a house. Finally, Andrew relented and they bought bigger apartment in New York City with room for the kids, and all the cats, and room for them too when they wanted to be apart.
Dillon is almost five now. Jesse feels old and ancient, lying in his bed at night, thinking about the last ten years. He thinks about Dillon as a baby, tiny and gurgling and soft in his arms, and then thinks of him now in his Transformers t-shirt, parked in front of the television on the Playstation, his hair wild and sticking up, just like Andrew’s.
When Jesse gets broody and thoughtful, Andrew knows when to leave him alone. They’re still figuring each other out, even after all this time, happy for the most part, but not completely trouble-free. Whenever they fight, Andrew is the first one to apologize, rolling onto his side in bed and pawing at Jesse under the covers. Andrew wants him, wants sex, as often as possible, whenever, and Jesse wants it too but has a lot more self control.
When the kids have been put to bed, Dillon read a bedtime story, Jesse locks the door and slides under the blankets, curls himself around Andrew like cartoon smoke. Andrew kisses him in the dark, smiling into his mouth, his hands warm where they rest flat against the slope of Jesse’s back. They fuck as quietly as possible, which isn’t very quiet at all, because Jesse’s learned how to be loud in the last five years as Andrew hums pleasure around his cock. They move together, sweat painting their skin, the bed creaking softly in the night as Andrew thrusts and thrusts and thrusts. The ache builds in the pit of Jesse’s stomach and he licks the line of sweat from Andrew’s neck, pushing back against him and gripping his shoulders with his fingernails. And then it’s over, and they lie on their backs, catching their breaths and laughing until Andrew reaches across the bedspread and tucks himself against Jesse’s side.
“I’m sleepy,” Andrew says to him, folding a long leg over him.
“Good night,” Jesse yawns.
if you were an ocean, i'd learn to float; CHRIS/DUSTIN, PG. (1515 words) [ original link here] the awkward morning after Dustin gives Chris a lapdance.
Dustin wakes up with a crick in his neck and a foul taste in his mouth that makes his tongue feel raw and tangy. It's early, maybe six in the morning on a Saturday, and the dorm room is empty and Dustin is missing a very good pair of pants.
It's happened before, of course, the disappearing underwear, so Dustin doesn't think too deeply into it. Once, after finals, he smoked too much weed and streaked down the hall with streaks of water color like war paint on his entire body. Chris had to carry him over bodily one shoulder like a sack of potatoes because somehow Dustin felt compelled to streak outside too, in the harsh New England snow, declaring war on the Aztecs.
Dustin laughs at the memory and immediately regrets the decision when his head starts to pound. He groans and rubs a palm across his face, blinking when his hand comes away smeared with make-up.
He hears a rustle of movement from the door and sure enough there's Chris with no shoes on and what looks like Mark's smelly bathrobe stretched taut across his chest.
"You're up early," Chris observes, and Dustin must've looked like a complete lunatic, blinking at him owlishly, because Chris starts to laugh. But whatever. Dustin gets that a lot. He likes to attribute it to his pleasing personality and charming class clown persona.
Still, Dustin flushes and shakes his head. Chris has this way of making him feel like a school girl, rendered to incoherence by the ferocity of his man-crush. It's stupid, Dustin knows, but man, Chris is the type of guy he always wished he could be: smart, funny, and very pleasing to the eyes, and not in a sleazy way, either.
"It feels like I have make-up on," Dustin says. "Do I have make-up on?"
Chris bites his lip, eyes never leaving Dustin's face. "Maybe," he says vaguely. He disappears for a second and comes back with a water bottle which after throwing in Dustin's direction, goes way above Dustin's head, hitting the wall behind him.
"Okay," Dustin says slowly. "Much appreciated."
"Oops." Chris picks it up from where it has rolled across the floor, popping it open, handing the bottle after wiping the spittle with his shirt sleeve.
"Do you remember anything last night? Anything at all?" Chris asks carefully.
"I remember Mark," Dustin says, "Throwing up in someone's hair. I didn't think it was possible but this Mark we're talking about here, of course he exceeds expectations. It's in his DNA."
Chris laughs. "What else?"
Dustin shrugs one shoulder. A few things: the shirt he wore to the party, with the huge stain on the back from where he'd slept on a highlighter, Mark grumping about how he'd rather be back at the dorm, coding. And then - shit.
"Oh, fuck me bareback on a trampoline." Dustin cradles his face in his hands and hunches his shoulders. His cheeks burn. Shit, shit, shit. "The lap dance?" he says in a small voice, peering up at Chris through his fingers. At Chris' affirmative nod, Dustin groans and crumples into himself, wanting nothing more than to hide under a fortress of blankets and never leave. Build an entire civilization of blankets. It seemed entirely possible.
"Christ. I gave you a lapdance. I gave you a fucking lap dance."
Chris looks more amused than anything so Dustin punches him in the shoulder, repeatedly.
"Fuck!" Chris says. "Stop hitting me! Why are you hitting me?"
"I gave you a lapdance, stupid! Why do you think? Why didn't you stop me from humilliating myself? Oh man, I hope you didn't take, like, videos of me and posted it on the internet. Did you? I swear to God, Chris, I will kidnap your dog if you do that. And I will feed him cat food just to be petty. And I will have him pee on your hair!"
"Relax." Chris rolls his eyes, rubbing his shoulder and edging away from him. "Jesus, man. I didn't take videos. And even if I did, I wouldn't be posting them on the internet. That stuff is private."
"Private," Dustin repeats, giving him an incredulous look.
"Yeah," Chris says, nodding. He has this crazy smile on his face, part sheepish, part clumsy oaf. "Um," he says, stalling. "Yeah."
Dustin falls back on his pillows, sighing. His head is still buzzing, a low formless ache at the base of his skull, and he should probably shower because he's starting to smell too, but somehow he can't bring himself to move from the bed, especially when Chris is watching him so closely.
"What?" Dustin says, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. He rubs the bends of his elbows and shivers. "Is it the make-up? Because I honestly can't remember how it got on my face."
Chris laughs at him for that, the bastard. He stands there for a second, just staring at Dustin in amusement before leaving the room without preamble. He returns half a minute later with a wet towel and yanks Dustin forward so he's closer to the edge of the bed where Chris is sitting.
"It's clean," Chris assures him, "Stop fidgeting," and begins dabbing Dustin's face with it, gently easing the make-up off his cheeks. Something about his slow movements makes Dustin feel sleepy but at the same time his chest feels like it's about to cleave in two. Stupid feelings, he thinks irately, stupid, stupid, stupid. He wonders if it shows on his face and if, worst case scenario, he pops a boner that'll ultimately lead to the demise of their friendship, but Chris is intent on getting the gunk off Dustin's face, picking at the caked flecks at the corners of Dustin's mouth with his fingernails and seemingly uncaring about anything else.
"All done," he says, leaning away.
"Yeah?" Dustin asks.
"Yep."
Chris wets his lip. The bed dips under his weight when he shifts. They stare at each other for a second, eyeing each other nervously. Dustin opens his mouth. Chris points at his face.
"Hey, you've got something-"
"So, the lapdance-"
They talk over each other, laugh, recoil, until Chris, unblinking, surges forward and cups Dustin's bare shoulder. Dustin blinks when Chris kisses him, a slow, wet, kiss that starts out soft at first. And then a second later, there's a drag of teeth, and the barest brush of tongue on Dustin's lower lip. Dustin never pegged him for a slow kisser and the realization makes him jolt in his seat.
Dustin blinks, astounded. His face feels oddly warm. His skin tingles too. It's like his freckles have become sentient and are skittering across his skin, planning a conquest of some kind. "Um."
"That was for the lapdance," Chris says, breaking the atmosphere, because Chris is Chris and sometimes he just does shit like that.
"Fuck off!"
Chris laughs as Dustin hurls a pillow at him, missing on purpose.
"You remember though, right? You uh, you sang Prince, even."
Dustin groans and clenches his fists in his hair. He remembers it vaguely: swinging his hips in a wide cant and Chris' face pressed against his stomach, his tongue in Dustin's belly button and his hands, warm and huge and calloused in places, spread across Dustin's ass, kneading. He can't remember the song but he does remember slipping a leg over Chris' shoulder and pushing his crotch into his fucking face. Jesus Christ on a burrito.
"Oh, god," Dustin says. "I am an idiot. I am a complete fucking idiot. I'm so so sorry man."
"Don't be," Chris says gently, fixing him with a look Dustin has never seen on him before. It stops Dustin for a second and he flushes, moans into his hands. He wants to die.
"I'm not embarrassed about the lap dance," Dustin says, not looking up from his hands, "I'm embarrassed for the uh, singing during."
"Pfft." Chris snorts, waving a hand like it's nothing. "Are you kidding me? You could've given Prince a run for his money! Besides, it was uh. Entertaining to say the least."
"Right. Sure."
"Honest!"
Dustin smiles a little, rubbing a palm across the back of his neck where the skin is starting to turn red all over. "I'm hungover," he says. "Last night I gave you a lapdance and five minutes ago you just kissed me with tongue."
"Pretty much," Chris says, shrugging helplessly.
Dustin flops down on some pillows, opening and closing his eyes and staring at the ceiling. He feels feather-light. Maybe he's still high. Maybe. Or maybe it's got something to do with the way Chris is looking at him now, gaze soft around the edges, mouth quirking.
Dustin sighs. "Life is just plain weird sometimes," he says with a dramatic shake of the head. He leans up on his elbows, laughing, and meets Chris halfway as he bends down for another presumably tonguey kiss.
sick; CAMERON/DIVYA, PG. (2228 words) [ original link here] Divya is sick but not like that. Okay, maybe. Cameron nurses him back like Florence Nightingale and Tyler is, as usual, Tyler.
Divya was sick. It was a couple of days after finals week, a Sunday, and he slept off a cold and then woke up some time in the late afternoon, and then found out he was sick. His head felt like it was a balloon filled with cotton, his vision swimming a little. He tried getting out of bed but couldn’t even make it to the door without swaying on his feet.
It was snowing outside, the entire courtyard shimmering white under the streetlight.
Diyva slid under the covers, rolling down onto his stomach. It was warm there, under the sheets and the pillows felt sinfully good underneath his head. He thought about lying down for a second, just a second, and resting his eyes to collect his thoughts. He knew he had to be somewhere but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where so he closed his eyes and slept a little.
=
Cameron was looming over him.
It was evening, Divya knew, because it was dark outside and Cameron had already changed into his dark blue sweater. The sweater was gently worn around the hemline which made Divya think about the time Cameron got really really drunk during freshman year and hugged him to his chest, pink-faced and grinning, his sweater, coarse and slightly warm from his body heat, rubbing Divya’s face. His sweater smelled like beer and chips, Divya remembered.
Divya sat up and moaned at the pain blooming in his head. He felt hungover but also tired and hopeless. It was a weird feeling and made him want to sleep again.
“You’re sick,” Cameron said.
“It’s just a cold,” Divya told him. He rolled onto his side, facing away from Cameron, and attempted reaching for his cell phone. Divya strained his arm and wiggled his fingers like he was casting a spell but then gave up after a full minute because it seemed like too much effort, his cell phone was perched perilously close to the edge of the desk. Movement meant more pain and it felt good just to lay with his head cushioned against a heap of pillows.
Above him, Cameron laughed.
=
Divya opened his eyes. This time it was Tyler who stood over him, arms crossed and wearing a white t-shirt that stretched taut around his chest. Tyler look displeased, like he thought it was Divya’s fault he got sick in the first place. And maybe it was - he crammed for tests and had about an hour’s worth of sleep each night - but Tyler could at least pretend to feel sympathetic. Instead, he rolled his eyes at Diyva.
“Are you lucid?” Tyler asked. Divya snorted and made a vague gesture with his hand. He looked down at his feet and saw he was wearing socks. Socks he knew were not his own because the only socks he had were white. These were either Tyler’s or Cameron’s, five sizes too big and dribbling down the rest of his feet, black with two red stripes around the ankles. Diyva scooted up to his elbows and blinked blearily up at Tyler who stood with his back to the light. He looked like he had a halo around his head which was funny for some reason so Divya laughed.
Tyler gave him a weird little look before pulling the blankets over Divya’s chest.
“Sleep,” he said. Divya slept.
=
Divya wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke up next. It was dark in the room, lines of light from outside slicing the floor. He tried sitting up but there was something heavy atop him and he realized with a sudden start that they were blankets. The one at the top was a homemade quilt, the edges frayed and worn from use. He shifted underneath the pile, pulling the blankets aside because he was starting to sweat in his clothes.
“Are you hungry?”
Divya blinked his eyes in the darkness. The door that led to the hall was open and he could hear someone rustling about in the room. He squinted but it made his head hurt so he lay back down again, waiting for the footsteps to float closer towards the bed. Someone’s hand was in his hair, pushing it back from his forehead and prying apart the sweaty knots.
Divya closed his eyes. “Hey,” he said softly.
It was Cameron. Only Cameron could touch someone like this, so casually tender and earnest it was almost too heartbreaking to bear. Tyler was the type to fling an arm around your shoulder, slap you on the back. He was rowdy and loud, a man’s man, but Cameron. He did things that made Divya want to lean against his great broad shoulders and never let go.
“Have you been in here the entire time?” Divya asked.
Cameron laughed sheepishly. “I was bored. I had nothing better to do.”
“Than to watch me sleep?” Divya asked again. There was a pause and they both laughed softly in the dark. Cameron’s hand was large and warm against Divya’s head and his fingers were long and felt like they could easily break anything apart.
Divya was starting to feel sleepy again.
“Are you hungry?” Cameron asked him. His voice had an odd sort of effect on Divya who felt both alert and drowsy at the same time.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
Cameron nodded. He said, quickly, “All right, wait here.”
His fingers brushed Divya’s temple briefly when he stepped back to leave the room.
=
There was a crinkle of plastic. Only the bedside lamp was on. Divya opened his eyes and Tyler was standing in the doorway, staring down at his phone. Cameron was hunkered down next to the bed, a bag of food in his lap. The room smelled like chicken soup. Divya’s clothes were damp with sweat so he loosened his collar and then tugged at his sweater.
“I thought for a minute we were going to have to shake you awake,” Tyler said, yanking the sweater forward and off Divya’s head and arms. Divya fixed him with a look, his hair puffy around his head.
“What?” Tyler said, laughing a little as he rummaged through Divya’s closet. He threw a shirt at him, then a pair of pajama bottoms which flew over Divya’s head and hit the wall behind him.
“Thanks,” Divya said. “You’re a peach.”
“Well, you’re up now at least,” Cameron said, sighing as he picked the pajamas off the floor and handed them to Divya. Divya smiled at him in thanks before turning to raise an eyebrow at Tyler who simply shrugged his shoulders and made a weird face.
“I suppose you’re feeling much better now if you can glare at me with that kind of intensity,” Tyler said, lifting a hand to Divya’s forehead. Divya batted him away, feeling like a coddled child, but Tyler was persistent and held Divya’s arm down, hand curled around his bicep, while he checked on his temperature.
“Still warm, mmm. I’d say a slight fever and a cold. Sleep it off and eat some chicken soup and you’ll be fine.” He grinned and tapped Divya on the nose before stepping back, hands on his hips.
“Gee, thanks for the prognosis, doc,” Divya said, rolling his eyes. He felt slightly better, if a little dizzy and warm, but Tyler was right - it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Tyler left to get him a glass of water and Divya turned to Cameron again who was unwrapping a styrofoam bowl of soup, the steam fogging up the plastic lid.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted so I got beef and chicken. But then Tyler ate the beef so I guess you’re going to have to settle for chicken.”
Divya stared at him for a second and laughed. “Thanks,” he said after a moment. Somehow the thought of Cameron braving the icy winds outside just to buy him soup made him feel absurdly warm and happy. He picked at the thread sticking out of one of the blankets and raised his eyes from his lap when Tyler walked back into the room, noisy and without preamble.
The glass of water Tyler pushed towards Divya looked a lot like Sprite.
“Sorry,” he said, sheepish. “Your dorm fridge doesn’t come equipped with bottled water, apparently so you’re going to have to make do with this.” He tossed Divya a packet of cold medicine which Cameron caught before it could land on Divya’s face.
“Nice,” Tyler grinned, clapping. “Great aim, little brother.”
=
Divya changed out of his sweaty clothes. The door was closed but it wasn’t locked and he felt like any moment, Cameron could walk in, see him in his tighty whities and laugh. He felt a lot better after the chicken soup, which Cameron was about to feed him if it hadn’t been for Tyler who started making kissy noises and swooning and talking in an annoying woman’s voice, several octaves higher. Divya’s stomach felt warm and full now, but his head still ached if he moved around too much and he still thought longingly of sleep.
He scooped his laundry from the floor before tossing them unceremoniously in the hamper. He collected the socks too, wondering whose bright idea it was to outfit him in them, before folding them carefully and setting them on top of the pile. He was just about to worm his way back under the covers when Cameron poked his head in, eyebrows raised in concern.
“Hey,” Cameron said, knocking gently, even though it was far too late for that already. Divya smiled lazily at him and folded his hands across his chest.
“You’re still here?” he said. He tried not to sound pleasantly surprised.
Cameron just looked embarrassed to still be there.
“It’s nearly morning, Cam. You should head back. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” Divya yawned and waved a hand, rolling his head across his pillows and staring at Cameron through slitted eyes. He lifted his head when Cameron didn’t budge from the doorway, one hand against the wall, his eyes watching Divya closely.
“Um,” Divya said.
“My brother’s playing poker with your dorm mates,” Cameron said by way of explanation, all in a rush of breath. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, looking sheepish and helpless, his face flushed.
“Oh. Oh. You can um, you can stay here if you want,” Divya said, shrugging, pretending he wasn’t totally keen on the idea. Cameron’s face lit up, like a kid’s on Christmas morning, and he shut the door behind him before shuffling over to the bed. He sat down next to Divya and the mattress dipped, its springs squeaking. Divya fought the urge to roll towards him, lay his head on Cameron’s lap or something equally stupid. And maybe he was just imagining things but it felt like he could feel Cameron’s body heat seep into the air.
“I think I might be falling asleep soon,” Divya said, laughing to himself. And this was the truth, his eyes were closing, and he squeezed them tight before blinking them open again. Cameron scooted closer, his arm, solid and warm and heavy, resting absently across Divya’s waist, his hand stroking up Divya’s side.
Divya didn’t want to sleep, but it was happening all too quickly, the medicine making his eyelids feel heavy, his limbs leaden. Cameron’s thumb traced the line of his ribs under his shirt, and it felt so good that Divya moaned happily in his throat, cheeks flushing.
Cameron laughed but not unkindly. His breath was a rush of hot air across Divya’s face.
“Go to sleep Div,” he whispered, patting Divya‘s cheek with his large warm hand. “Get better.”
Divya cracked one eye open and peered at him, pressed his lips together in a thin line. “You take such good care of me Cameron Winklevoss,” he said. And he meant that as a joke, nothing more, but Cameron’s answering grin was enough to make the pit of his stomach feel hot and cold all at once.
“Why of course. You’re my favourite,” Cameron said, pulling his arm back to ruffle Divya’s hair.
Divya flopped back down and sighed. His face was red. He could feel his skin burning all the way to his ears.
“Yeah,” he said softly, tucking himself under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. “You’re my favourite too, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Cameron said, laughing, a low sound that reverberated in his chest. “Now go to sleep.”
He leaned over Divya for a long moment, one long arm braced against the mattress. Divya kept his eyes squeezed shut and waited for Cameron to bend farther down. Cameron’s lips were dry and cool when he pressed them to Divya’s forehead. He leaned away, the tip of his nose brushing Divya’s cheek. Divya slid one arm around his broad back, the muscles shifting under his hand as he pulled Cameron back to him, squeezing his shoulders.
“Thanks for the soup,” he said. “It was great. It really was.”
Cameron kissed the side of Divya’s face, then his ear, his eyelashes fluttering against Divya’s face ever so faintly.
“You’re welcome,” he said, laughing softly, “Now sleep. Jesus, Div. It’s already two in the morning.”
in the sun; ANDREW/JESSE, PG-13. (965 words) [ original link here] Andrew and Jesse holding hands and crossing the street, pretty much.
Jesse likes Andrew more than he should but it's probably because he's the most interesting person he's ever met. Andrew laughs at all his jokes, the nasty ones, the risque ones, even the ones that are meant to be private jokes with himself. It's the way Jesse doesn't ever have to explain himself that makes Andrew so easy to like. With Andrew, he doesn't have to apologize for being the kind of person he is, off-kilter and anti-social sometimes, his gaze level with the ground when he speaks, hands dug inside his pockets. No one else makes him feel this way.
There's Anna whose touch makes Jesse feel so at home, at ease with himself, other friends too who laugh along with him and punch him in the shoulder and swing their arms around his back and say things like, "that's so funny, man," or "don't be too hard on yourself". With Andrew it's different altogether. It's the way they can walk together, side by side, shoulders bumping, without ever needing to talk.
It's October now in Boston. The trees are fast shedding their leaves and Jesse is dressed in dark and enveloping colors that match the kind of mood he's in most of the time, brown, shades of grey, his shoes caked and muddy from where he's stepped into a puddle. His hood is pulled up, over his eyes, his head ducked low so he can watch his shoes leave muddy prints all over the asphalt.
"Jess," Andrew says. He nudges Jesse to get his attention.
Andrew may not know it but he's the most beautiful person Jesse has ever seen. He's not conventionally attractive but he's lean instead of lank, the stem of his neck long and pale and his hair a soft tangled mess. Jesse thinks about reaching over and touching it, a lot of times, hand outstretched, but he's managed to stop himself in time to pull back and pretend he isn't altogether fixated on Andrew's face, his lips as they move, and more importantly his hair, ruffling where the cool wind touches it.
"You okay?" Andrew asks. "You look deep in thought." His eyebrows are drawn together in concern.
"When am I ever not deep in thought?" Jesse says.
"Good point." Andrew laughs.
It happens in a split second. Jesse's about to cross the street when Andrew yanks him back into the sidewalk. Another second and a bright red Toyota zips by, honking its horn, and Andrew yells indignantly at it, clenching a fist in its direction before turning back to Jesse.
"Are you all right?"
Jesse is not all right. He is far from all right. Once, after filming, Andrew took him out for coffee and they spent the entire night talking about Russian revolutionaries and the Cold War, shredding paper napkins listlessly with their fingers, their shoes touching under the table. Eventually, they were shooed outside for the ruckus and ended up back at the apartment on foot, giddy with the caffeine still buzzing in their bloodstream, cracking jokes about Stalin and wondering vaguely where Andrew might have left his hat. And Jesse is probably a total pervert for remembering this but Andrew's stomach had been so smooth when he rolled over on Jesse's couch, his shirt hiking up over his ribs. And his ankles, crossed over the armrest as he grinned tiredly up at Jesse and said goodnight, see you in a bit Jess and left Jesse standing there, feeling like an idiot, with his tongue thick inside his mouth and his heart heavy, like lead, in his chest.
No. He is not all right.
"Thanks," Jesse says. He looks down and sees that Andrew's hand is curled around his. He wonders if it were Andrew who reached out first. It would make a lot more sense, Jesse thinks, even though he's the one who's easily startled and prone to grabbing Andrew's hand. Jesse's only known Andrew for a few months and already he's dreading filming coming to a close. Three more weeks, he thinks, and the clock continues to tick. Maybe it's the New England weather that makes his thoughts drag, bitter and lonely.
The trees stir overhead and Jesse looks up, squinting at the light that seeps in between the leaves. When he blinks, Andrew's face is perilously close and Andrew's blinking too, down at him, eyes wide and brown and liquid. The air rushes past Jesse and it makes his chest ache and when Andrew pulls him over to his side, he has to skip a few steps just to catch up with him.
Their hands are still interlinked when they reach the corner but Andrew stops abruptly just as the stoplight shifts from green to red.
"Your hands are clammy," he says, looking over his shoulder, down at Jesse.
Jesse shrugs. "I have bad circulation."
"I know," Andrew says. "You have bad everything."
Jesse laughs. They should be crossing the street, he knows, should be moving now before the light turns green again. Instead, Andrew leans over, stroking Jesse's cheek, and kisses him slowly on the mouth. It doesn't last very long. When Andrew pulls away, his breath is warm and clouds the space between their noses.
"Watch where you're going, Jess," he says and then smiles. "Be careful next time. Okay?"
Jesse closes his eyes, opens them again, and Andrew is still standing there, up close, his hair moving gently in the breeze, close enough that Jesse can see the veins in his cheeks.
"Yeah," Jesse says, and tugs a bit at Andrew's hand, sweaty and cool and cupped over his. He sniffs out a laugh, and it hurts somewhere deep inside, knowing Andrew will have to let go some time.
"Won't happen again," Jesse says and holds on tight.
OTHER LINKS:
( Jesse and Andrew make pizza in the kitchen and make health code violations )
( Andrew pines and a revelation is made although not a very bright one )
( Andrew is genderbent and still in love with Jesse )
( Andrew and Jesse meet in NYC based on the historical moment that went down not 24 hours ago )
( Joe's cat Mr. Peepers takes a liking to Jesse )