Milkweed (Jesse/John AU)
Title: Milkweed
Author: goodbyesheesha
Pairing: Jesse Lacey/John Nolan, John Nolan/Camille Nolan
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,218
Summary: [[AU]] If Brand New never formed, then Jesse would never have written Seventy Times Seven. That means no Sunrise Highway, which means Jesse and John never made up, which means...
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places, and events are used fictitiously.
Notes: There was so much I wanted to put into this. There was backstory and Adam and stuff, but it ended up being... Shorter and less exciting, and not as good.
Oh my God, I sound so anti-Camille in this. Really, that isn't the case! I quite like her, in fact.
Jesse Lacey shaved for the first time in three and a half weeks today. It is September third, and tomorrow he'll be greeted by the young, excited faces of twenty-three six year-olds. Their youth and wonder ought to contrast perfectly with the way Jesse feels. But even if he does feel like Hell, he may as well look good-- even if only for the parents. Teaching the first grade was the worst decision Jesse Lacey ever made. He doesn't do it for the children; he probably ought to, but he doesn't. On his more pessimistic days, Jesse has no problem admitting that he hates the children. He hates the fact that they can't just sit quietly and ingest their mathematics. But then mostly he hates their innocence and their joy, because it reminds him of everything he doesn't have.
If Jesse could go back, he definitely wouldn't become a teacher. He wants to be famous, and he doesn't want to be alone. He has run himself back in time over and over again, and he knows exactly where he made his fatal mistake. Jesse thought he was following the right dream--the one that wouldn't disappoint him-- but he was wrong. What he should have followed was John.
From the living room, the television calls out "Do you have an ex whom you desperately miss? Do you regret breaking up with them? Do you obsess about them while they're not around? Then you should be on our show." and Jesse's internal monologue is saying "Fuck you, Maury" and not much else. And maybe Jesse ought to call in; maybe he ought to be on their show. After all, his torrid gay love affair from high school with some big rock star would probably make good television. Nobody deserves to laugh at his life's mistakes quite as much as bored housewives.
Jesse has chosen fitted, faded blue jeans and a corduroy jacket. He hopes it says something other than "bitter, heartbroken homosexual", but it doesn't matter. The children will never notice, nor will they care, and he likes it better that way. It gives him the excuse to fall apart eventually. They don't know well enough to question it when he stops shaving or doing laundry, or when he reeks of whiskey. The parents come in a few times during the first week-- there's always at least one mother, one of those desperate and bored housewives, who pesters him with questions and propositions-- but that stops quickly enough. None of them are as interested in their childrens' education as they pretend to be. The hardest part is just sewing himself together for that short initial period.
Today's Maury is one of those trashy cheating episodes, and an elephantine woman with no bra on is yelling at her cheatin' man. So much of her monologue is bleeped out that it's unintelligible. It's substanceless entertainment, but Jesse watches simply for the joy he gets from feeling like trailer trash.
This is Jesse Lacey's life. This is what he gave up love and fame and music for.
♥
Jesse made the unwise decision to forgo sleep in lieu of World of Warcraft and four AM poetry sessions. The pit of dread that settles in his stomach at the sound of his alarm is hardly unexpected. When his alarm goes off, it sounds like a truck backing up. His internal monologue is saying, "Just back up already" and not much else.
He had gotten dressed a little after five, and takes the saved time to avoid tearing himself away from his computer. It isn't much, since Jesse never gives himself excessive amounts of time to complete his morning routine, and the clock soon reads 7:17. He briefly wonders why teachers have to show up so much earlier than the students, since he spends most of the morning doodling and refilling his coffee mug.
The drive to work is uneventful. Jesse hums along absently to The Zombies on the radio. The song is stuck in his head for the rest of the day. He's still humming when he settles down to look at his class list for the year. If Jesse were prone to it, he might have spit out his coffee, maybe even coughed. Instead his breath simply catches--which makes it impressive that he didn't choke and cough-- and he freezes, eyes trapped on the page.
Anne-Marie Nolan.
The logical part of Jesse's brain is reasoning with him. It's saying that Nolan is a fairly common surname, and besides, last he checked, John was gay. That other part of Jesse's brain, his Jesse Half, is already panicking. It's telling Jesse to pack up all his stuff and leave, maybe visit a psychiatrist. Jesse is terrified of seeing John's dull, deeply set eyes in the face of a little girl with a hyphenated name and some mother Jesse doesn't know.
It's obvious who the girl's father is, even from far away. She's only six years-old, but she has that delicate Nolan body, with those intense eyes and vaguely elfish ears. The idea that it could be Michelle's daughter doesn't even occur to Jesse. It would have fallen through, anyways. That isn't Michelle, it's some stranger. The woman bringing the child into the room is plain looking, really. Nothing really stands out about her, but she seems patient and sweet, and just the kind of girl John would fall for. She's a girl to love so that John wouldn't have to love Jesse.
"Are we the first ones here?" The woman asks. She seems well-spoken, and definitely feminine. There's no chance that she's Michelle's lesbian lover.
Jesse nods, and steps out from behind his desk. "I'm Jesse," he says, extending his hand. When she doesn't respond, he adds in "Lacey" for good measure. This garners a response, but the woman doesn't offer her hand. Instead, her eyes go wide, in recognition.
"Camille," She says, sounding somewhat hostile. Jesse gets the feeling John hasn't been saying the nicest things about him. There's even a good chance this Camille woman knows about Jesse's relationship with her husband.
John's eyes stare up at Jesse, scared and confused, from the face of his daughter. Jesse breaks his stare from Camille to look at the little girl, and he smiles.
"Since you're first, you get to pick whichever desk you would like," Jesse says. It's the first time he's ever spoken to a child with genuine affection.
♥
Maybe it would be easier for Jesse if Anne-Marie wasn't so much like John.
It isn't just in her appearance-- although the physical resemblance is shocking at times. Her personality and her mannerisms just catch Jesse sometimes. She is quiet-- not shy, or socially awkward-- and antisocial. The other children seem to make her uncomfortable-- she spends a lot of time around Jesse, for that reason. When she concentrates, she looks at her hands. If you watch closely, you can see her eyes scroll over all the lines and freckles. Jesse's internal monologue is reminding him how much he really does miss John.
Anne-Marie is the closest thing Jesse has to John, and she's starting to become something else. She's a person of her own, and she's the reason Jesse bothers to shave every morning; she's the reason he shows up at work.
Time sneaks up on Jesse, and soon it is late October, and he's standing at the front of class, handing out schedules for parent-teacher conferences.
♥
Jesse has prepared a small folder on Anne-Marie, and an accompanying speech. It's short and generic and rude, and Jesse almost feels bad about how much it ought to upset Camille. But then, when the door opens, it isn't Camille who steps into the room.
"John," Jesse says. He doesn't feel happy, or angry, or anything like that. Jesse is just a blank slate, waiting for John to write on him.
John looks good, possibly the best he's ever looked. He's still pale and scrawny and gangling in a way a grown man never should be, but he's something more. Jesse can tell, just looking at him, that young wannabe punk girls have photos of him all over their walls. He's not wearing his glasses, he hasn't brushed his hair, and a thick coating of stubble lines his jaw, descending down to pepper his neck. It's as if John is trying to make a point. He's trying to say that Jesse doesn't mean enough to him anymore. Jesse isn't worth getting dressed up for.
After a moment's wait, when Jesse realises that John has nothing to say, he motions for him to sit down. John obliges, and he looks as if he's working himself up to speech. He doesn't get the chance, though.
"Funny, isn't it, that I ended up teaching your daughter," Jesse spits. He never intended for it to come out as bitter as it does, but then Jesse has never been good at hiding his emotions.
A soft, sad smile finds its way onto John's face, darkening his eyes and bringing out his cheekbones. Jesse wants to stop the flashes of memory that are taking over his conscious thoughts. He just wants to stop missing John.
"You would have been our first choice, if we knew it was you teaching, Jess," John says. Jesse flares inwardly at the use of 'we'. "And hey," John continues, "You'll probably be teaching little Peter in a few years."
"Peter?" Jesse asks. He doesn't want to hear that John has other children. He doesn't want to think about John fucking some girl, or John holding her hand through labour, or telling her he loves her.
"Jeff and Michelle's kid," comes John's response. Jesse is visibly relieved. "Peter Frampton."
And here is where Jesse can forget about his overwhelming angst, and how bitter he is and how much he loves John. "They named their son Peter Frampton?"
"Daughter, actually." John looks appropriately amused. Jesse looks appropriately horrified.
That should have broken the tension, for good, but instead it did the opposite. It was like a trip back, to remind them who they ought to be.
"So," John says, breaking Jesse away from his reverie.
Jesse clears his throat repeatedly, and shuffles with the papers on his desk, trying to figure out how he managed to misplace his folder on Anne-Marie. He doesn't find it, but he speaks anyway. "So, Anne-Marie," and Jesse's words are sharp and awkward, "is a very good student. She seems passionate about her work-- especially English." Jesse smiles when he says this, even if he doesn't want to.
"Jess, stop" John intervenes. Jesse obliges. "You don't need to tell me all that. It's sweet and all, but I can gather all that from Anne-Marie. I came here to talk to you."
"Fuck," Jesse says, and just like that he's throwing away his chance to make up with John. "This is it? I almost went on Maury for you!"
There is a twist of confusion across John's face, but it is soon covered up by shock, as Jesse's hands find his shoulder. Jesse's fingers are digging deep into the flesh, trying to find their grasp within hard bones, and Jesse is pulling John forward in a rough whiplash movement.
Those hands are strained, and John's face is pulled tight, close against Jesse's. It would be easy enough for Jesse to kiss him, but it would also be easy to punch him, and Jesse isn't sure which would be more appropriate. His confusion is only made greater by the excitement and lust in John's eyes, and really, it just makes Jesse want to hit him and hurt him and make sure he knows what he did to Jesse. But he can't do anything except press his lips against John's.
It's overzealous and there is too much teeth behind it, but it's the first kiss they've had since they were teenagers, and Jesse wants to believe it's amazing. And it is, for Jesse, because he knows it's his. John wouldn't kiss Camille like that; it's too powerful and masculine and too angry.
The desk ought to be an inconvenience, and it is for John. He's stretched out over it, stomach and chest resting on paperwork and paper weights, with the sharp edge digging into his hips. It's just painful enough to be pleasurable, and Jesse is thinking about how he wishes he was in a position where he could see it. Then he's thinking about pounding into John from behind, fast and hard, until that sharp, sharp edge digs in too deep and breaks skin.
That about settles it.
"Jesus Christ," Jesse breathes, and he's not even looking at John, but he's certain John knows what he is thinking. Jesse is getting up out of his desk, struggling, and he barely avoids tripping over his chair. It isn't an ideal moment to be embarassed, but he is, only vaguely.
John is smirking, and John is free. As malicicious and awful as he feels, he knows that he's getting what he wants.
There is a place in the back of Jesse's brain that is saying 'Oh fuck, lube' and wondering why he doesn't keep a bottle of lotion in the classroom, because it would make this so much more convenient. Then he reminds himself that he teaches six year-olds, and keeping something like lotion around could be downright dangerous.
It must look fairly comical, because John's smirk has grown, and he looks like he's opening is mouth to laugh, but instead he says, calmly, "I have lube in my back pocket." And he does; Jesse can see it. It's hardly inconspicuous, and Jesse wonders momentarily if anyone noticed it.
"Doesn't it come in smaller bottles? Maybe you could have just brought some Vaseline or something." Jesse wants to stop talking, really, he just can't.
"People find Vaseline more suspicious than lube, Jesse."
John is standing now, facing Jesse, and looking like they've only been having a casual conversation. He'd always been good at snapping back to nonchalance, acting normal. It had been the only thing to save them from getting by Michelle on more than one occasion.
Seconds drag on and on, and Jesse notes that this is probably the most awkward he's ever been around John. Memories are trekking through his brain, in a slideshow of his history with John. It's his life flashing before his eyes, and his brain is laughing, joking about how it's fitting, because the tension is killing him. Jesse has never been a very funny man.
A wave of Jesse's hand is all it takes for John to know they're getting back on track. He places the bottle of lubrication on the desk and sets to work on undressing. It's clumsy and fast, and a little embarassing for Jesse to even watch, but he has gotten used to that feeling around John, despite the years without him.
John fully removes his pants. He has to take his shoes off beforehand, and it does look a little ridiculous. He's standing, bent slightly over the desk, in a tshirt and socks-- unmatching, which seems surprising and rebellious even considering his position. But then Jesse hesitates to take off his clothes. He likes it better this way, with John awkward and exposed, alone in that. Even when Jesse does move to take off his pants, he only slides them down to his ankles. It hinders his movement, but he doesn't care. They cover his socks and shoes.
There's some surprise in John when Jesse slips inside him, and the bitter part of Jesse is feeling elated. He's simultaneously loving and hating the fact that John is so unused to bottoming, after all those years fucking his wife. Jesse doesn't wait to move-- he's never been a patient man, and he has always been a selfish one-- and the fact that John is shifting in discomfort has some slight appeal to it. John came prepared, he knew what to expect.
John's hands are gripping onto the desk, trying to take the pressure off his pelvis, and his long fingers are white from lack of blood flow.
Quiet, quiet John is letting out tiny little grunts, and Jesse mirrors them into his ear, lips pressed too closely to the flesh in a way that muffles everything. The desk repeats after them, shuffling forward along the carpet in time with Jesse's thrusts. One of the drawers is loose, and rattles. It feels to Jesse as if the entire world is running in time with them.
It doesn't feel like sex, to Jesse. It's more like beating off on a hot summer's day, nestled in your leather chesterfield, which is just flesh to begin with. The only problem is that the sofa is sweating all on its own. It's John-flavoured sweat, that makes him hard to hold onto, like he's just Jesse's cheap, vinyl blow-up doll, complete with those awkward plastic noises everytime Jesse thrusts into him.
And then Jesse comes. There's no warning, and when it happens, John tenses up, tightening around Jesse and if Jesse were capable of coherent thought, he'd probably be pissed that John hadn't done that when it mattered.
After Jesse pulls out, he does little else. John pulls himself up off the desk, standing in front of it, and he's fully hard, probably painfully so. His dick is standing at the edge of the desk, like a performer in a puppet show.
"Well, go on then," Jesse says, motioning toward John's cock. He's circling back around the desk, sitting in his chair, for a better view.
John scowls, but there's a smile somewhere behind it. "You're doing an awful job of getting me back," he says. Jesse concurs.
Jerking off doesn't take long for John. It's the same as he probably does it in his tour bus, fast and silent. Jesse is watching John's cock raptly. There's something about it that makes the whole situation seem fake. The intense bruised colour of John's dick stains the insides of Jesse's eyelids when he blinks, and when John comes the semen is a sharp, milk white.
A knock sounds at the door, presumably for Jesse's next appoinment, which was supposed to have started long ago. Jesse almost laughs. John does. It's a giggle: sharp and fast, and much too high. He takes the chair, which had been previously cast aside, and sinks down into it, still fighting off bubbles of laughter.
Jesse isn't laughing, but he's smiling, because he's far from angry now, and he realises he needs this. His internal monologue is speaking directly to John, saying, "We still have a chance. We could live like this. Let's start again, like we were in high school. You don't need that woman, really" And he knows John can hear it, just as clearly as if he'd spoken the words.
"Jesse, no." John says, and Jesse wants to misinterpret him, completely misunderstand, but he gets it. Camille comes first. Jesse is never going to have John, not the way she does. She looks good in public, and if Jesse isn't content to share-- and he never will be, Jesse and John both know this-- then he gets nothing.
John Nolan is milkweed: he's common and plain. He's just a weed. No one expects him to be poisonous.
Author: goodbyesheesha
Pairing: Jesse Lacey/John Nolan, John Nolan/Camille Nolan
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,218
Summary: [[AU]] If Brand New never formed, then Jesse would never have written Seventy Times Seven. That means no Sunrise Highway, which means Jesse and John never made up, which means...
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All real names, places, and events are used fictitiously.
Notes: There was so much I wanted to put into this. There was backstory and Adam and stuff, but it ended up being... Shorter and less exciting, and not as good.
Oh my God, I sound so anti-Camille in this. Really, that isn't the case! I quite like her, in fact.
Jesse Lacey shaved for the first time in three and a half weeks today. It is September third, and tomorrow he'll be greeted by the young, excited faces of twenty-three six year-olds. Their youth and wonder ought to contrast perfectly with the way Jesse feels. But even if he does feel like Hell, he may as well look good-- even if only for the parents. Teaching the first grade was the worst decision Jesse Lacey ever made. He doesn't do it for the children; he probably ought to, but he doesn't. On his more pessimistic days, Jesse has no problem admitting that he hates the children. He hates the fact that they can't just sit quietly and ingest their mathematics. But then mostly he hates their innocence and their joy, because it reminds him of everything he doesn't have.
If Jesse could go back, he definitely wouldn't become a teacher. He wants to be famous, and he doesn't want to be alone. He has run himself back in time over and over again, and he knows exactly where he made his fatal mistake. Jesse thought he was following the right dream--the one that wouldn't disappoint him-- but he was wrong. What he should have followed was John.
From the living room, the television calls out "Do you have an ex whom you desperately miss? Do you regret breaking up with them? Do you obsess about them while they're not around? Then you should be on our show." and Jesse's internal monologue is saying "Fuck you, Maury" and not much else. And maybe Jesse ought to call in; maybe he ought to be on their show. After all, his torrid gay love affair from high school with some big rock star would probably make good television. Nobody deserves to laugh at his life's mistakes quite as much as bored housewives.
Jesse has chosen fitted, faded blue jeans and a corduroy jacket. He hopes it says something other than "bitter, heartbroken homosexual", but it doesn't matter. The children will never notice, nor will they care, and he likes it better that way. It gives him the excuse to fall apart eventually. They don't know well enough to question it when he stops shaving or doing laundry, or when he reeks of whiskey. The parents come in a few times during the first week-- there's always at least one mother, one of those desperate and bored housewives, who pesters him with questions and propositions-- but that stops quickly enough. None of them are as interested in their childrens' education as they pretend to be. The hardest part is just sewing himself together for that short initial period.
Today's Maury is one of those trashy cheating episodes, and an elephantine woman with no bra on is yelling at her cheatin' man. So much of her monologue is bleeped out that it's unintelligible. It's substanceless entertainment, but Jesse watches simply for the joy he gets from feeling like trailer trash.
This is Jesse Lacey's life. This is what he gave up love and fame and music for.
♥
Jesse made the unwise decision to forgo sleep in lieu of World of Warcraft and four AM poetry sessions. The pit of dread that settles in his stomach at the sound of his alarm is hardly unexpected. When his alarm goes off, it sounds like a truck backing up. His internal monologue is saying, "Just back up already" and not much else.
He had gotten dressed a little after five, and takes the saved time to avoid tearing himself away from his computer. It isn't much, since Jesse never gives himself excessive amounts of time to complete his morning routine, and the clock soon reads 7:17. He briefly wonders why teachers have to show up so much earlier than the students, since he spends most of the morning doodling and refilling his coffee mug.
The drive to work is uneventful. Jesse hums along absently to The Zombies on the radio. The song is stuck in his head for the rest of the day. He's still humming when he settles down to look at his class list for the year. If Jesse were prone to it, he might have spit out his coffee, maybe even coughed. Instead his breath simply catches--which makes it impressive that he didn't choke and cough-- and he freezes, eyes trapped on the page.
Anne-Marie Nolan.
The logical part of Jesse's brain is reasoning with him. It's saying that Nolan is a fairly common surname, and besides, last he checked, John was gay. That other part of Jesse's brain, his Jesse Half, is already panicking. It's telling Jesse to pack up all his stuff and leave, maybe visit a psychiatrist. Jesse is terrified of seeing John's dull, deeply set eyes in the face of a little girl with a hyphenated name and some mother Jesse doesn't know.
It's obvious who the girl's father is, even from far away. She's only six years-old, but she has that delicate Nolan body, with those intense eyes and vaguely elfish ears. The idea that it could be Michelle's daughter doesn't even occur to Jesse. It would have fallen through, anyways. That isn't Michelle, it's some stranger. The woman bringing the child into the room is plain looking, really. Nothing really stands out about her, but she seems patient and sweet, and just the kind of girl John would fall for. She's a girl to love so that John wouldn't have to love Jesse.
"Are we the first ones here?" The woman asks. She seems well-spoken, and definitely feminine. There's no chance that she's Michelle's lesbian lover.
Jesse nods, and steps out from behind his desk. "I'm Jesse," he says, extending his hand. When she doesn't respond, he adds in "Lacey" for good measure. This garners a response, but the woman doesn't offer her hand. Instead, her eyes go wide, in recognition.
"Camille," She says, sounding somewhat hostile. Jesse gets the feeling John hasn't been saying the nicest things about him. There's even a good chance this Camille woman knows about Jesse's relationship with her husband.
John's eyes stare up at Jesse, scared and confused, from the face of his daughter. Jesse breaks his stare from Camille to look at the little girl, and he smiles.
"Since you're first, you get to pick whichever desk you would like," Jesse says. It's the first time he's ever spoken to a child with genuine affection.
♥
Maybe it would be easier for Jesse if Anne-Marie wasn't so much like John.
It isn't just in her appearance-- although the physical resemblance is shocking at times. Her personality and her mannerisms just catch Jesse sometimes. She is quiet-- not shy, or socially awkward-- and antisocial. The other children seem to make her uncomfortable-- she spends a lot of time around Jesse, for that reason. When she concentrates, she looks at her hands. If you watch closely, you can see her eyes scroll over all the lines and freckles. Jesse's internal monologue is reminding him how much he really does miss John.
Anne-Marie is the closest thing Jesse has to John, and she's starting to become something else. She's a person of her own, and she's the reason Jesse bothers to shave every morning; she's the reason he shows up at work.
Time sneaks up on Jesse, and soon it is late October, and he's standing at the front of class, handing out schedules for parent-teacher conferences.
♥
Jesse has prepared a small folder on Anne-Marie, and an accompanying speech. It's short and generic and rude, and Jesse almost feels bad about how much it ought to upset Camille. But then, when the door opens, it isn't Camille who steps into the room.
"John," Jesse says. He doesn't feel happy, or angry, or anything like that. Jesse is just a blank slate, waiting for John to write on him.
John looks good, possibly the best he's ever looked. He's still pale and scrawny and gangling in a way a grown man never should be, but he's something more. Jesse can tell, just looking at him, that young wannabe punk girls have photos of him all over their walls. He's not wearing his glasses, he hasn't brushed his hair, and a thick coating of stubble lines his jaw, descending down to pepper his neck. It's as if John is trying to make a point. He's trying to say that Jesse doesn't mean enough to him anymore. Jesse isn't worth getting dressed up for.
After a moment's wait, when Jesse realises that John has nothing to say, he motions for him to sit down. John obliges, and he looks as if he's working himself up to speech. He doesn't get the chance, though.
"Funny, isn't it, that I ended up teaching your daughter," Jesse spits. He never intended for it to come out as bitter as it does, but then Jesse has never been good at hiding his emotions.
A soft, sad smile finds its way onto John's face, darkening his eyes and bringing out his cheekbones. Jesse wants to stop the flashes of memory that are taking over his conscious thoughts. He just wants to stop missing John.
"You would have been our first choice, if we knew it was you teaching, Jess," John says. Jesse flares inwardly at the use of 'we'. "And hey," John continues, "You'll probably be teaching little Peter in a few years."
"Peter?" Jesse asks. He doesn't want to hear that John has other children. He doesn't want to think about John fucking some girl, or John holding her hand through labour, or telling her he loves her.
"Jeff and Michelle's kid," comes John's response. Jesse is visibly relieved. "Peter Frampton."
And here is where Jesse can forget about his overwhelming angst, and how bitter he is and how much he loves John. "They named their son Peter Frampton?"
"Daughter, actually." John looks appropriately amused. Jesse looks appropriately horrified.
That should have broken the tension, for good, but instead it did the opposite. It was like a trip back, to remind them who they ought to be.
"So," John says, breaking Jesse away from his reverie.
Jesse clears his throat repeatedly, and shuffles with the papers on his desk, trying to figure out how he managed to misplace his folder on Anne-Marie. He doesn't find it, but he speaks anyway. "So, Anne-Marie," and Jesse's words are sharp and awkward, "is a very good student. She seems passionate about her work-- especially English." Jesse smiles when he says this, even if he doesn't want to.
"Jess, stop" John intervenes. Jesse obliges. "You don't need to tell me all that. It's sweet and all, but I can gather all that from Anne-Marie. I came here to talk to you."
"Fuck," Jesse says, and just like that he's throwing away his chance to make up with John. "This is it? I almost went on Maury for you!"
There is a twist of confusion across John's face, but it is soon covered up by shock, as Jesse's hands find his shoulder. Jesse's fingers are digging deep into the flesh, trying to find their grasp within hard bones, and Jesse is pulling John forward in a rough whiplash movement.
Those hands are strained, and John's face is pulled tight, close against Jesse's. It would be easy enough for Jesse to kiss him, but it would also be easy to punch him, and Jesse isn't sure which would be more appropriate. His confusion is only made greater by the excitement and lust in John's eyes, and really, it just makes Jesse want to hit him and hurt him and make sure he knows what he did to Jesse. But he can't do anything except press his lips against John's.
It's overzealous and there is too much teeth behind it, but it's the first kiss they've had since they were teenagers, and Jesse wants to believe it's amazing. And it is, for Jesse, because he knows it's his. John wouldn't kiss Camille like that; it's too powerful and masculine and too angry.
The desk ought to be an inconvenience, and it is for John. He's stretched out over it, stomach and chest resting on paperwork and paper weights, with the sharp edge digging into his hips. It's just painful enough to be pleasurable, and Jesse is thinking about how he wishes he was in a position where he could see it. Then he's thinking about pounding into John from behind, fast and hard, until that sharp, sharp edge digs in too deep and breaks skin.
That about settles it.
"Jesus Christ," Jesse breathes, and he's not even looking at John, but he's certain John knows what he is thinking. Jesse is getting up out of his desk, struggling, and he barely avoids tripping over his chair. It isn't an ideal moment to be embarassed, but he is, only vaguely.
John is smirking, and John is free. As malicicious and awful as he feels, he knows that he's getting what he wants.
There is a place in the back of Jesse's brain that is saying 'Oh fuck, lube' and wondering why he doesn't keep a bottle of lotion in the classroom, because it would make this so much more convenient. Then he reminds himself that he teaches six year-olds, and keeping something like lotion around could be downright dangerous.
It must look fairly comical, because John's smirk has grown, and he looks like he's opening is mouth to laugh, but instead he says, calmly, "I have lube in my back pocket." And he does; Jesse can see it. It's hardly inconspicuous, and Jesse wonders momentarily if anyone noticed it.
"Doesn't it come in smaller bottles? Maybe you could have just brought some Vaseline or something." Jesse wants to stop talking, really, he just can't.
"People find Vaseline more suspicious than lube, Jesse."
John is standing now, facing Jesse, and looking like they've only been having a casual conversation. He'd always been good at snapping back to nonchalance, acting normal. It had been the only thing to save them from getting by Michelle on more than one occasion.
Seconds drag on and on, and Jesse notes that this is probably the most awkward he's ever been around John. Memories are trekking through his brain, in a slideshow of his history with John. It's his life flashing before his eyes, and his brain is laughing, joking about how it's fitting, because the tension is killing him. Jesse has never been a very funny man.
A wave of Jesse's hand is all it takes for John to know they're getting back on track. He places the bottle of lubrication on the desk and sets to work on undressing. It's clumsy and fast, and a little embarassing for Jesse to even watch, but he has gotten used to that feeling around John, despite the years without him.
John fully removes his pants. He has to take his shoes off beforehand, and it does look a little ridiculous. He's standing, bent slightly over the desk, in a tshirt and socks-- unmatching, which seems surprising and rebellious even considering his position. But then Jesse hesitates to take off his clothes. He likes it better this way, with John awkward and exposed, alone in that. Even when Jesse does move to take off his pants, he only slides them down to his ankles. It hinders his movement, but he doesn't care. They cover his socks and shoes.
There's some surprise in John when Jesse slips inside him, and the bitter part of Jesse is feeling elated. He's simultaneously loving and hating the fact that John is so unused to bottoming, after all those years fucking his wife. Jesse doesn't wait to move-- he's never been a patient man, and he has always been a selfish one-- and the fact that John is shifting in discomfort has some slight appeal to it. John came prepared, he knew what to expect.
John's hands are gripping onto the desk, trying to take the pressure off his pelvis, and his long fingers are white from lack of blood flow.
Quiet, quiet John is letting out tiny little grunts, and Jesse mirrors them into his ear, lips pressed too closely to the flesh in a way that muffles everything. The desk repeats after them, shuffling forward along the carpet in time with Jesse's thrusts. One of the drawers is loose, and rattles. It feels to Jesse as if the entire world is running in time with them.
It doesn't feel like sex, to Jesse. It's more like beating off on a hot summer's day, nestled in your leather chesterfield, which is just flesh to begin with. The only problem is that the sofa is sweating all on its own. It's John-flavoured sweat, that makes him hard to hold onto, like he's just Jesse's cheap, vinyl blow-up doll, complete with those awkward plastic noises everytime Jesse thrusts into him.
And then Jesse comes. There's no warning, and when it happens, John tenses up, tightening around Jesse and if Jesse were capable of coherent thought, he'd probably be pissed that John hadn't done that when it mattered.
After Jesse pulls out, he does little else. John pulls himself up off the desk, standing in front of it, and he's fully hard, probably painfully so. His dick is standing at the edge of the desk, like a performer in a puppet show.
"Well, go on then," Jesse says, motioning toward John's cock. He's circling back around the desk, sitting in his chair, for a better view.
John scowls, but there's a smile somewhere behind it. "You're doing an awful job of getting me back," he says. Jesse concurs.
Jerking off doesn't take long for John. It's the same as he probably does it in his tour bus, fast and silent. Jesse is watching John's cock raptly. There's something about it that makes the whole situation seem fake. The intense bruised colour of John's dick stains the insides of Jesse's eyelids when he blinks, and when John comes the semen is a sharp, milk white.
A knock sounds at the door, presumably for Jesse's next appoinment, which was supposed to have started long ago. Jesse almost laughs. John does. It's a giggle: sharp and fast, and much too high. He takes the chair, which had been previously cast aside, and sinks down into it, still fighting off bubbles of laughter.
Jesse isn't laughing, but he's smiling, because he's far from angry now, and he realises he needs this. His internal monologue is speaking directly to John, saying, "We still have a chance. We could live like this. Let's start again, like we were in high school. You don't need that woman, really" And he knows John can hear it, just as clearly as if he'd spoken the words.
"Jesse, no." John says, and Jesse wants to misinterpret him, completely misunderstand, but he gets it. Camille comes first. Jesse is never going to have John, not the way she does. She looks good in public, and if Jesse isn't content to share-- and he never will be, Jesse and John both know this-- then he gets nothing.
John Nolan is milkweed: he's common and plain. He's just a weed. No one expects him to be poisonous.