fic: you've got me wrapped around your little finger (andrew/jesse, rpf, pg, 1200 words)
fill for a tsn_kinkmeme prompt. au. a cute jewish boy walks into andrew's bar... (not a euphemism)
Andrew sees the kid again late one Friday night just an hour after closing time. He’s mopping up the floors when the kid trudges in, completely missing the closed sign hanging up front and climbing up the barstool. Really, the only thing that’s stopping Andrew from telling him to leave, is his hangdog face. He’s wearing a button-down pink shirt that’s wrinkled beyond misery and his shoulders are slumped forward, tired. His pants are mud-brown, corduroy. Andrew isn’t sure what to make of him. He looks like a regular guy but there’s something off about him, not in the set of his shoulders or his posture, but something that begs a second look.
It takes Andrew a few seconds to remember his name, isolate his face from the hundred or so patrons who come in every other day. Jerry? Jemar? Jesse. Right, Jesse. Andrew has seen him a couple of times ordering drinks with a slightly older guy, a friend of his, maybe, that Max mentioned being a good tipper. Andrew almost doesn’t recognize Jesse without his baseball cap on. He’s got the kind of curly hair that’s huge enough to house a few select birds.
“We’re closed you know,” Andrew tells him, biting down on a laugh when Jesse’s head snaps up. His eyes are wide behind his glasses although it’s hard to tell because the surface glints against the light. They’re blue, or maybe grey. Andrew hasn’t decided yet.
“Sorry,” Jesse says, distracted, sliding off the stool “I’ll just -”
Andrew waves a hand to stop him. “’S all right. Don’t worry about it.” He puts the mop away and vaults over the counter, slapping the tabletop with both palms. “Anything you want? Anything I can do for you?” He leans forward on his elbows and raises his eyes.
The kid - Jesse - blinks back at him. He shrugs one shoulder and lays his wallet on the table. It’s brown leather, tattered but bulging with cards and receipts.
“Do you have iced tea?” Jesse says.
“I’m not sure,” Andrew laughs. He’s pretty sure they don’t have it but looking at Jesse, he feels like he has to lie. “You don’t want anything with alcohol in it? Do you want coffee?”
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Jesse says, shrugging again. “I don’t want to commemorate this occasion with alcohol so. Iced tea is fine.”
“Iced tea it is,” Andrew says, nodding. He excuses himself for a minute, watching Jesse from the kitchen rest his forehead against the countertop and scratch his hair. Andrew leaves the bar through the backdoor, shrugging into a leather jacket. Outside Max is smoking and Armie is laughing at something he’d just said, slapping his knee before leaning back against the wall.
The air is cool and makes him shiver.
“Where are you going boss?” Armie says. Max stubs his cigarette against the wall and pulls on his gloves.
“To get iced tea,” Andrew says, waving at them. He comes back from the store ten minutes later, feeling stupid as hell as he pours a ringlet of honey into Jesse’s drink. He hopes Jesse doesn’t think the pink paper umbrella - pink like his shirt - is the tackiest thing ever.
Andrew doesn’t even know why he’s trying so hard. It’s late and he’s tired and the bar is closed and the tea cost him around five dollars. Jesse’s still slumped into his arms when Andrew returns with his drink.
“Hey,” Andrew says softly, nudging him on the shoulder. Jesse blinks and sits up straighter. He rubs underneath his eyes and props his glasses on the table. His eyes are blue but they change color sometimes, turn grey, when he blinks or when the light is weak.
“Here you go,” Andrew says, sliding his drink across the table.
Jesse smiles, slowly, like someone waking up from a long sleep of bad dreams. He takes an experimental sip and makes a pleased noise in his throat. He picks up the paper umbrella and twirls it in his right hand. His fingernails are ragged, like he’s been chewing on them. Andrew wonders what his hand feels like, if it’s soft at all like Andrew hopes his entire body is, or if it’s rough with calluses.
“So,” Andrew says, leaning forward. “Tell me, what is your story.”
Jesse looks at him, laughs, then begins talking. He tells Andrew his name, Jesse, and his trade, acting. He tells Andrew his sister Kerry had just set him up with a guy she knew in college. The guy took him to see a show on Broadway and they ended up at his place, a swanky apartment with a view of Central Park. Jesse had a freak-out in the bathroom when it became apparent that the guy wanted to have sex with him. He climbed out of the fire escape and took a cab to Andrew’s bar because it happened to be nearby and he needed a drink, and he didn’t feel like facing his sister yet when she had such high hopes for him and her college friend.
This was the fourth guy he blew off in six months. He was twenty seven with no clue where his life was headed. He lived with his six cats and hadn’t gotten laid since college. The guy’s name was Tom.
Tom the cunt, Andrew thinks. “Jesus,” he mutters. Andrew flushes when Jesse looks up at him, surprised, eyebrows raised.
“I mean.” Andrew laughs and shakes his head. “That is tough. I honestly wouldn’t have the faintest clue what to do if I were in your shoes. I’d die, probably or off myself. I mean,” He cuts himself off mid-ramble. “God. Listen, the drink’s on me so don’t worry about having to pay for it, okay?”
Jesse smiles behind his glass, holding back a snort. It makes Andrew feel like a total idiot but it’s worth it anyway, he thinks, because Jesse smiling is a good thing. It’s nice, it’s sweet. He isn’t the best looking guy out there but Andrew thinks he’s really cute. His mouth is pretty, like it would be warm inside, and wet, if Andrew were to lean over and kiss him. Like it would be soft and lush, like the inside of a fruit.
“Do you have any more though?” Jesse asks. He lifts his empty glass to eye-level. “Of this?”
Andrew looks at him for a moment. He can picture Jesse’s entire body stretched out on his bed, his muscles flexing as he moved, his stomach, pale, trembling as he sighed and moaned and bucked his hips. He can picture Jesse showering in the morning after, his hair flat against the sides of his face, humming showtunes off-key. He can picture Jesse kissing him goodbye in the morning, see you again, pulling him forward by the lapels of his shirt and pressing their bodies flush against each other’s, whispering his number into Andrew’s ear and telling him he’ll be waiting for him to call.
Andrew leans forward on his arms, so close that their noses are almost touching, and smiles. He slides the paper umbrella behind Jesse’s ear, feeling him shiver against his touch.
“For you,” Andrew says, grinning. “You bet I do.”
Jesse laughs and chews on the corner of his lip.