Sid/Andy fic - To the Dogs or Whoever

[snooter]

Here's the sequel at last! Thanks to everyone for the supportive comments and for keeping the fandom alive.

Title: To the Dogs or Whoever
Author: snooter
Pairing: Sid/Andy
Rating: R
Word Count: ~23,000
Summary: Sid can't go home again, but Andy does it all the time.
Notes: This is a sequel to Under the Table and Dreaming. I retconned Andy's college choice in that fic and this one based on some research - he's at UCLA now.



The first fifteen times Andy asks Sid to make the trip home with him, Sid says no. Andy doesn't pressure him, and he pretends not to notice the new tattoos that Sid has every time Andy returns from one of these homecomings. Three years pass, and by the time Sid says yes, he's got two full sleeves that are beginning to creep onto his chest and back.

"You could write those things off as a work-related expense," Andy says. Sid halfway knows what he means. Something to do with taxes, which Sid has never filed. He gets paid under the table at the clubs he works, and tells Andy that he needs more tattoos so he can be a more intimidating bouncer. It's partially true.

"I guess I'll have to cover these up while I'm being a good house guest," Sid says when they're in the shower together, two days before they leave for what could technically be referred to as Sid's hometown. He flexes one arm, and Andy reaches up to squeeze his bicep.

"What, the tattoos?" Andy says. Sid just came off shift, but Andy is still half-asleep, not due in his morning classes for another two hours.

"You think your mother will appreciate them?" Sid says with a snort.

"She'll just be glad you're there," Andy says. "And I won't have to answer five thousand questions about you and how you're doing. You can tell her yourself."

"Yeah, great."

"It won't be that bad," Andy says. He presses against Sid, begging with his whole body. It's usually a good look on him, but he's begging for something that Sid doesn't want to give him, which has never been the case before.

"It's not like I'm going to see my old man or anything," Sid says. He peels Andy off of him so that he won't feel Sid's heart pounding. Sid keeps catching himself thinking they're going to visit that house Andy lived in when they were little kids, the one next door to where Sid's father may or may not still live.

"I wouldn't expect you to," Andy says. He plasters himself to Sid again, pressed against his back this time. Sid picks up the shampoo and snaps open the cap before remembering that he already washed his hair. He pours some into his palm anyway, and turns to rub it into Andy's hair as if that was his plan all along. Andy grins and closes his eyes. He likes being taken care of. Sid kind of gets off on it, too.

"It'll be fun," Andy says. "You'll see."

Sid grunts and works his fingers harder against Andy's scalp. Andy keeps his hair just long enough to cover his ears, and Sid's has been buzzed short since they came to California, Sid with nothing to show for the first seventeen years of his life except a stolen laptop and Andy's inexplicable devotion. He told himself that he'd mostly left the state with Andy to get away from his father and start a new life somewhere else, but Andy is the beginning and end of him, and Sid would have stayed in that shithole suburb forever if Andy had wanted him to. He would have stayed anyway, waiting, even if Andy had moved on without looking back.

Sid is starting to fade by the time they get out of the shower, his just-home-from-work adrenaline burning off. Andy is still yawning but beginning to come fully to life, rubbing himself against Sid's side while the electric toothbrush whirs in his mouth.

"I offered an hour ago," Sid says. He pinches Andy's ass and walks out of the bathroom. "You snooze, you lose."

"C'mon," Andy says, his mouth still full of toothbrush. "I like it when I can smell you on me in class."

He's pretty good at breaking Sid down, especially when it comes to sex. Sid flops onto the bed and maintains the position: on his back, stroking himself, Andy grinning from the bathroom doorway.

"Fine," Sid says. "But you have to do all the work."

"As usual," Andy says, and Sid snorts. Andy flips the light off in the bathroom and their apartment is almost dark again, dawn glowing just faintly through the blinds. It's Sid's favorite time of day, the only hours when their schedules effortlessly overlap.

Andy climbs on top of Sid and bends down to kiss him: he's always been a big kisser. Sid never had much use for it before Andy, but trying it with him rearranged Sid's every particle in an instant, and the memory of what that felt like, sweet little Andy opening his lips for Sid's tongue, has made Sid a big fan of this stage of sex. He reaches down to grab Andy's ass with both hands, and Andy laughs into Sid's mouth when he squeezes.

"I thought you were just going to lie there limply?" Andy says, pulling back. His eyes always look so blue at dawn.

"Limply?" Sid says, bucking his hips so that his erection slides against Andy's ass. Andy gives him a brainless grin and sighs, rolling his hips back for more contact.

"Motionlessly, I mean," Andy says.

"That what you want?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

Sid was going to lie back and get blown, let Andy ride him, but suddenly being on top seems like a great idea, and he swipes the lube from the bedside table as he pushes Andy down to the mattress, kneeling up over him.

"I guess there won't be any fucking while we're there," Sid asks. He eases Andy's knees apart and leans back to look at him, shaking his head. "A whole week," he says.

"We can do it while we're there," Andy says. Just the mention of his childhood home and having sex becomes doing it. "Quietly."

"I'm not the one who has problems staying quiet," Sid says.

"So gag me," Andy says. He's actually blushing, and Sid knows he's picturing his mother downstairs, wondering what that thumping sound is. He fucks Andy especially hard, thinking about the days ahead when he won't be able to. Andy squeaks like a mattress spring and clings to Sid's shoulders, already quieter than usual.

Afterward, Sid is quickly close to sleep, and he lies on his side letting Andy lick his cheek with sated gratitude. The sun is coming up steadily now, and Andy will have to dress for class soon. Sid slings an arm around Andy's back and holds him in place. It's stupid, but he hates this part. It seems like one of them always has to be somewhere else.

"You need to shave," Andy says, running his fingertips over the stubble on Sid's cheek.

"Would that make me look like less of a convict?" Andy's mother is going to wheel backward when she sees him. He's six foot four now, thick with muscle, a thimble-sized tattoo of a skull on the back of his neck. Andy says it looks like a button, and he presses his thumb against it sometimes in bed, making a sound like a doorbell ringing.

"You don't look like a convict," Andy says.

"Your mother will think I do," Sid says. He's not used to caring what mothers think. He has only one memory of his own: a flannel nightgown he was once pressed against after a bad dream.

"Mom and Molly will love you," Andy says, and he seems serious, so Sid laughs.

"They already don't like me for taking three years to come out there."

"Well, whose fault is that? It'll be fine. Just be nice."

"I'm always nice."

Andy snorts and rolls out of bed two minutes before the alarm starts blaring. Sid slaps it off angrily and watches Andy dress, his eyes slitted. He thinks about Andy in his geology classes, smelling like sex, smiling to himself as he jots notes. For the past three years, Sid has worked to support Andy, but when Andy finishes school it will be the other way around. Sid isn't looking forward to being a kept man, a curiosity among Andy's straight-laced, college educated friends. He fantasizes about kicking their asses, but none of them has given him a good enough reason yet, though one called Greg has come close.

"You could start packing for the trip," Andy says as he's zipping himself into his jeans.

"We don't leave for two days," Sid says. He's not ready for packing. He might back out of the trip at the last minute. The thought that he could makes him feel giddy and sick.

"Never too early to start packing," Andy says. He leans over the bed and kisses Sid's ear like Sid is his invalid son. Sid closes his eyes so he won't have to watch him walk out of the room. Ten minutes later, the front door opens and shuts, and there's the scrape of Andy's key as he locks it behind him.

Sid dreams that he's imprisoned in a cedar box with a velvet interior, just the glow around the rim of the lid for light. It's not a coffin, more like a jewelry box. He's comfortable but anxious, pacing around and wondering when he'll be released, and what dangers the world outside the box will pose now that he's been miniaturized.

*

On the morning that they leave, Greg comes over to the apartment to get instructions for watering Andy's plants. They have a little balcony that overlooks the building's crummy courtyard pool, and Andy has a large assortment of cacti out there, along with the beginnings of a lemon tree and two narrow troughs full of herbs.

"The cacti should be fine," Andy tells Greg while Sid leans in the patio doorway, trying to look threatening. "And the lemon three shouldn't need a ton of water, just make sure the pot doesn't totally dry out. The herbs, well - it's summer, so - once a day, if you're in the area."

Andy is visibly nervous, looking at the giant basil plant that he always bends down to sniff when he walks out onto the porch. Sid usually takes care of the plants while Andy is away. It's the only time he touches them, except to poke at the tiny lemons that the tree produces. Andy wants to plant it in their backyard when they have a house. Last year it grew one very sour lemon that was big enough to actually consume, and they split it in a couple of glasses of iced tea.

"I can come every day," Greg says. His smug smile is almost reason enough for Sid to clock him. "It's no problem."

"I know it's a lot to ask for some herbs," Andy says. "I really appreciate it."

Greg wants to fuck Andy. Sid could see it within the first five minutes of their initial meeting, which was an awkward dinner with Andy's Geology department friends. Sid teases Andy about it like he's not worried at all, and Andy tells him he's crazy.

"I'm glad to help," Greg says. He watches Andy like he's expecting a goodbye hug, then glances at Sid. "You guys have a great trip," he says, and it sounds like a taunt. Sid has often wondered if Andy complains about him to Greg. He won't meet my mother, he got another tattoo, he laughs when I tell him he should get his GED. Greg would reach across the coffeehouse table to pat Andy's hand, would tell him that he could do better. Mothers love douchebaskets like Greg, with their reasonable Toyotas and plans for graduate school. Sid tries to console himself by assuming that Greg has a small dick. If Andy is still with Sid just because he fucks him particularly well, that's fine. Sid will take it.

Andy slides his apartment key off its ring and gives it to Greg. The sight makes Sid queasy, so he ducks back into the apartment and starts hoisting their bags onto his shoulders.

"I can take something," Andy says when Sid is standing at the door with all four.

"No," Sid says, and he can feel Greg's eyes on them. Andy flushes and doesn't ask again. Once, drunk, Andy confessed that he likes it when Sid gives him orders. As if Sid hasn't known that since Andy was six years old.

Greg drives them to the airport. The interior of his car is spotless; Sid sits up front to make Greg nervous, but he ends up feeling nervous himself. He's never been on a plane before. The traffic is terrible and the radio is inane.

"Good weather for it, huh?" Andy says. He's leaning between their seats, and he rubs Sid's shoulder as if to ask him to be a good sport. It will probably happen a lot during this trip. Suddenly Sid has no idea why he's doing this, what the hell he was thinking, and he makes himself turn to look at Andy. There's the face that could make him do goddamn anything, especially when his eyebrows are arched like that, his eyes full of anxious hope. Sid kisses him quick on the mouth, and turns in time to see Greg's hands tighten on the steering wheel. It's enough of a victory to squash Sid's fear of flying until they're unloading their stuff at the curb. Greg wishes them a safe trip, and Sid is glad to be rid of him.

"He's not that bad," Andy says as they head inside the airport.

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

Sid doesn't want to start in on the Greg Conversation right now, so he tugs Andy against him, leaving his arm around his shoulders. It's something they won't be able to do in public once they're back in the Midwest. Sid never expected to grow so accustomed to it, but Andy is always too far away when he's not under Sid's arm, and Sid likes the way his tattoos look against Andy's pastel polo shirts.

"I'm really happy you're coming," Andy says. He actually looks like he might cry, and Sid knows he's just as worried about his mother's opinion as Sid is, maybe more.

"I know you are," Sid says.

Everything about the airport is new to Sid, but he tries not to let it show, following Andy's lead when he takes his shoes off in the line for security. He's not sure if Andy realizes that this is Sid's first ever trip on a plane, in addition to his first ever attempt to make nice with Andy's family. Sid remembers Andy's mother just vaguely, from when they used to live next door to each other: she was small but fierce, and he would sling back talk at her when she peered over the fence to ask him if his father knew he was playing with matches. As far as he knows, Andy has never told her that his mysterious boyfriend is that same scrawny kid who blew things up in the yard next door.

Their seats are near the back of the plane. Sid's heart pounds as he pushes their bags into an overhead bin. He feels like he's about to be asked to do something, to participate in takeoff somehow, like the plane is a Flintstones' car that will be set in motion by the passengers' feet. He anticipates crashing guiltily; if it happens it will somehow be his fault, for being the one person on board who didn't belong.

He gives Andy the window seat and sits pressed between him and a lady who smells like fried chicken. His knees are smashed against the seat in front of him, and his elbows look ridiculous on the arm rests, a spiderweb fanned out over the left one and a galaxy-type design spiraling over the right. He should have worn a long sleeved shirt, but he doesn't own one. Andy pushes the arm rest up and puts his hand on Sid's leg.

"You okay?" he asks, his pinkie finger sneaking over to touch Sid's as the lazy speed of the runway taxi picks up, the engines firing to life.

"I'm fine," Sid says, but when the cabin starts to rattle he grabs Andy's hand and squeezes hard. Andy puts his head on Sid's shoulder and squeezes back, watching the window as the plane leaves the ground. Of course he knows that Sid has never flown before. He's known Sid his whole life.

*

When they land, Sid immediately goes to the smoker's lounge and lights up. He usually only smokes on the way home from his shift, five AM and the streets mostly empty, the windows in the car rolled down. He stares out at a gray Friday afternoon and tries to calm himself down by thinking of those drives home, the sweet anticipation of sliding into bed with Andy before pulling him into the shower, the slow drag of smoke into his lungs and the noise of the club receding to a dull ring in his ears. He turns and sees Andy waiting for him on the other side of the glass box that contains the smokers and their poisoned air. Andy is on his cell phone, grinning, miles away already.

"Mom and Molly are waiting at the baggage thing," Andy says when Sid emerges, realizing too late that he'll reek of smoke when he meets them.

"Terrific," Sid says, and he actually didn't mean to sound so sarcastic. Andy's mouth quirks with annoyance. They're in his territory now.

"Don't be such a defeatist," Andy says.

"I'll try to work on that," Sid says. He's angry and guilty and wants a drink. It's three o'clock in the afternoon, around the time Sid usually wakes up and has a beer with his Tabasco-drenched scrambled eggs, waiting for Andy to get home from class or study sessions with Greg. As they walk, Sid keeps imagining that he sees Greg's face in the crowd, that smirk peeking out at him from under the ball caps of anonymous men. He wishes he were here with me, Greg says. We both know you should be the one left at home with the plants.

Sid recognizes Andy's mother and sister as they approach, familiar to him from the framed pictures on Andy's desk. His mother looks tense and has one of those purses that all mothers have. The sister, Molly, looks haughty in the way that sixteen year old girls do, and much more blond than she does in her pictures.

"Dude," Molly says, walking forward to hug Andy. "Your hair."

"It's not that long," Andy says.

"No longer than it was last time," his mother says as Andy passes into her arms. Molly's eyes sneak to Sid, and some of her self-certainty seems to evaporate. He's not sure if he should speak.

"Mom," Andy says, pulling back. "Molls. This is Sid."

There's an excruciating moment of no one knowing what to do next, then Andy's mother steps forward and stands up on her tip-toes to hug Sid lightly. Sid pats her back, looking to Andy for help, but Andy is looking at Molly, smirking.

"Welcome home," Andy's mother says as she steps back, and Sid feels his face get hot. Maybe Andy has told her more than he thought, though knowing that Sid grew up here doesn't mean she's been informed of his full history as a delinquent.

"Good to meet you," Molly says, putting out her hand. Sid shakes it and nods.

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry, I --" He doesn't know how to continue, so he looks at Andy again. He's not used to being the one who needs direction.

"Don't be sorry," Andy's mother says. "Let us help with the bags."

"It's okay," Sid says. "I've got 'em."

"Don't be silly." She forcibly removes one from his left shoulder, and Molly takes one from his right hand. He thanks them, feeling robbed.

"So you're a security guard, right?" Molly says. She seems less intimidated by Sid now that she's witnessed his awkwardness.

"Sort of," he says.

"He works at a nightclub," Andy says. "Keeping creepy guys from harassing the women."

"Are there a lot of creepy guys in L.A.?" Molly asks, and Sid feels stupidly flattered when he realizes she's directing this question to him.

"Yeah," he says. "But they're all -" He barely catches the word pussies. He's never censored himself before; even in school he said whatever he wanted. "They're no problem," he says. "In terms of, uh. Fighting."

"You fight them?" Molly's eyes bug out, and she grins.

"One time this guy's ring cut him on the cheek," Andy says. "Can you see the scar?"

They all stop and look at Sid like he's one of those pictures that turns 3-D if you cross your eyes right. He feels like he should tap dance or something, but he just stands there looking scary, because it's all he really knows how to do.

"Sounds like a dangerous job," Andy's mom says.

"It's not that bad," Andy says, though he's always telling Sid that it is, and that he needs to get a day job. Sid knows the sort of day jobs that are available to guys without high school degrees: making sandwiches for the Gregs of the world. Beating down drunken hipsters is slightly more dignified.

His home state is just as he remembered it: gray and endless, chain restaurants trying to look cheerful along the highway. The people all have the quality of passengers on a long and unpleasant voyage, not just at the airport but everywhere, as if this is limbo and they're ready to arrive elsewhere. Leaving the state certainly felt that way for Sid, as if he'd passed a grueling test and the rest of his life would be the reward. He'd never even seen the ocean before Andy brought him there.

Being back here feels like tempting fate, as if he might not be allowed to leave again. The ride to Andy's house is quiet, Sid and Andy in the backseat with their bags, Molly up front messing with the radio and Andy's mother at the wheel. The bulky old van she drives makes her seem even smaller.

"Are you guys gonna go to Pizza Planet?" Molly asks, turning back to grin at them. "I used to see you on dates there."

"They weren't dates," Andy says. "I mean." He looks at Sid. "I guess they kind of were."

"Kind of," Sid says. He never thought of it that way, back then. Andy was letting Sid fuck him. Sid was trying not to want anything else.

It starts raining just before they get to Andy's house, and Sid's throat tightens as the driveway comes into view. He used to feel like he was going to have to take sniper fire every time he collected the garbage here. On the morning when Andy walked out in nothing but sleep pants Sid was forced to remember that Andy hadn't been trying to kill him all along. Andy isn't the killing type, and he was so soft and stunned on the driveway that morning, the recycling bin in his hands. Sid wanted to pick him up, put him in the truck and take him home, not even for sex, just for bed.

"Does it look like you remember it?" Andy asks Sid as they carry the bags inside. Behind them, the rain picks up, making the muggy air cooler.

"Pretty much," Sid says as he walks inside. The exterior of the house is the same, but he doesn't remember this: the foyer, the living room - was he ever inside? He must have been, because he remembers Andy's bedroom, the toys on the floor and the wallpaper with the clouds, but no, that was the other house. That was the night when Sid climbed in through the bedroom window.

"Andy's room still has a twin, I'm afraid," Andy's mother says. "So we can set you up down here on the couch, Sid. Unless Andy wants to be a good host and give up his bed?"

"That's alright," Sid says. "The couch is fine." He's not sure why he should feel relieved that they won't be sharing a bed while he's here, but he does. Andy is trying to catch his eye, to communicate his exasperation with his mother's need to separate them, but Sid avoids looking back at him.

"I'm making your favorite tonight," Andy's mother says. She walks to Andy and takes his hands, holding them out as if they're about to start dancing. "Lasagna."

"Awesome," Andy says. He leans forward to kiss her temple before letting go of her hands. There were times in my life when my mom was my best friend. Andy said that once. Sid suspects that those times were the years when Sid wasn't around, too proud and scared to admit that Andy owned him anyway, even when he tried to stay away. He feels challenged, by Andy's mother - hilarious - and by the town itself. He keeps looking down at his arms in surprise, not at the tattoos but at the muscles that he didn't have when he lived here. When he was eleven, he eavesdropped on a meeting between his teacher and principal as they tried to decide whether to suspend or expel him following a fight that he doesn't remember the details of now. The principal had suggested abuse in the home as a root cause for Sid's behavioral problems.

"I don't think so," the teacher said. "As far as I can tell, it's more of a neglectful situation. He's not getting beaten, he's just - weather-beaten."

Sid had looked the term up when he got home from school, following their disciplinary ruling, which was only suspension, to his disappointment. Weather-beaten was defined online as bearing evidence of wear or damage as a result of exposure to the weather. For the remainder of Sid's childhood and adolescence, until he had his first real growth spurt, he thought of himself this way: a skeletal orphan who was always coming in out of the rain, teeth chattering. Pitied.

They all wash up and move to the kitchen, where nobody offers Sid a drink. Andy is only twenty, but Sid turned twenty-one back in November. He does a cursory examination of the countertops and fridge, looking for so much as a Smirnoff Ice, and there's nothing.

"So, Sid," Andy's mother says while she rips chunks from a big ass head of lettuce, tossing them into a silver mixing bowl. "What are your interests?"

"Mom," Andy says, groaning. Molly giggles.

"Here's his number one interest," she says, taking Andy's shoulders and turning him toward their mother. "I can't believe you guys have been together since like, middle school," Molly says, looking at Sid. "That's so romantic."

"Middle school?" Andy's mother says.

"Molly!" Andy says. He's not blushing; he actually looks kind of proud of himself. Sid tries not to think about how old Andy was when he first crawled down between Sid's legs to blow him, but he feels like he has the number fourteen and a lewd stick figure approximation of oral sex tattooed on his forehead.

"You want me to go pick up a bottle of wine or something?" he asks. Moms like wine, he's heard.

"I've got some," Andy's mother says. She looks up from her lettuce, and Sid can't tell if she's annoyed or impressed. "Do you want to open it for me? It's up in those cabinets over the fridge."

"You're like, the only person who's ever opened them without a foot stool," Molly says as Sid reaches up to find the wine. It's one bottle, red, but he'll take what he can get.

"I get some, right?" Molly says. She's improvising what might be ballet steps, twirling herself around like a much younger girl. "Mom? Right?"

"I'll think about it," Andy's mother says.

"It's a special occasion!" Molly says. She stops her dance at the kitchen sink and looks out the window at the rain. She doesn't look much like Andy, but she's got his eye catching butt, which Sid feels guilty for noticing.

They all end up drinking a glass of the wine, which means only one for Sid, which means nothing resembling a buzz. Dinner is fine, except that he's forced to answer the question about his interests. Working out, he tells them. Lifting. Sometimes basketball, if the guys hanging around the court at the gym aren't assholes. They usually are. He censors that part.

"I think he should be a self defense instructor," Andy blurts at one point, close to drunk on a single glass of wine.

"I'm not exactly certified," Sid says. This goddamn conversation again, and here of all places.

"Yeah, but you could be," Andy says. "You're smart enough." He leaves off the rest of that sentence. To get your GED. Silence descends, and Sid knows they're all thinking it. If they didn't know he was a high school drop out, there would be more pointed career questions. He also hasn't failed to notice that the subject of his parents hasn't come up at all. Andy must have warned them not to say anything.

After dinner, everyone pitches in to clean up. Molly hands Sid dripping dishes to wipe dry with a towel, and sweat gathers under his arms when he can't get the glasses dry without leaving ugly streaks. Molly is talking about her last track meet, suddenly Sid's best friend, and Andy and his mother are laughing about some dog they used to have. Sid feels like pitching every dish he's handed to the floor and walking out into the rain, and it's made worse by the fact that he has no real reason to want to flee. These people are nice, they're fine, they're great. They're responsible for making Andy into the one good thing Sid has ever had.

"How about we play Scrabble?" Andy's mother says, and Andy must know that this is like nails across a chalkboard for Sid, because he gives him a sympathetic look and shakes his head.

"I think we're too tired," Andy says. "Long flight and all."

Sid gets the first use of the hall shower, according to house guest etiquette. He feels weird being naked in Andy's childhood home, but he stays under the water for a long time, wishing he was drunk enough to get a number of things off his mind. He's no longer relieved to be sleeping alone on the couch, and he touches his cock glumly. He wants to be back home, on the couch after dinner with Andy stretched out on top of him, both of them staring at the TV as Sid's lazy back rub segues into a proper groping. Sid thinks of Greg there, tending to the plants and snooping through their shit. It makes him feel like his life has been stolen from him, as if some other, truer Andy is back in L.A., watching Greg water the lemon tree.

When he gets of the shower he dresses in the bathroom, which also feels strange. He usually goes straight for the bed after a shower, naked and damp and waiting for Andy to follow. It's not just the sex that he misses, it's the knowing where to go. He feels like an asshole for rubbing his balls dry with the fluffy blue guest towel Andy's mother set out for him.

The house is quiet, and he follows the sound of conversation down the hall, to the half-open door of Andy's room. He's inside with Molly, and Sid lingers in the hallway, not sure if he should interrupt.

“He's cuter than I remembered,” Molly is saying. “But man, you weren't kidding about the tattoos.”

“They've grown on me,” Andy says.

“Does he have one with your name somewhere?” Molly asks.

“No.”

“Why not? Maybe he could get an 'Andy' on the bottom of his foot, like the way you used to write on all your toys.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“Why's it stupid? You're gonna be together forever, aren't you?”

Sid doesn't want to hear the answer to that question, so he makes a big production of walking down the hall, clearing his throat so they'll know he's coming. Andy and Molly are sitting on the bed. Andy is flushed, embarrassed either by being caught talking about Sid or being forced to think about their future.

“I'll give you two some privacy,” Molly says, and Andy throws a pillow at her as she leaves the room. When she's gone, Sid shuts the door as soundlessly as possible.

“Sleep up here with me,” Andy says, patting the bed. He's wearing sweatpants and a too small t-shirt, no socks. “My mom won't care.”

“I don't know,” Sid says, thinking of Molly going downstairs to her mother, the discussion they'll have about him. “I was thinking about going out.”

“Out?” Andy snorts. “Where to? It's raining.”

“So? I was thinking about Jimmy Collins, this guy I used to smoke with. I think he still lives here.”

“And?” Andy scowls in a way that makes Sid think of all their worst fights.

“And I thought I'd go find out,” Sid says, sharply, because that look always makes him claw at the air like a cornered animal. “I feel like getting high.”

“Why?” Andy asks. His face is turning red, like always. The best Sid can figure is that he's humiliated by how disappointed Sid can still make him. “I think things are going really well.”

“Sure,” Sid says, though he doesn't think that. They're being nice to him, he knew they would be, but even if they've been coached not to ask about certain things, they're definitely thinking about them. “What else am I supposed to do?” Sid asks. “Go to sleep? It's ten o'clock. If we were home I'd be leaving for my shift.”

“You could get in bed with me,” Andy says. “It's kind of nice - with the rain - we could, I don't know. Talk.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Sid says, already backing toward the door. “You saw your people, I behaved myself, now I'm gonna see my people.”

“Your people?” Andy glares at him. “You're comparing Jimmy Collins to my family?”

“Closest I had when I lived here,” Sid says. He's halfway through the door before Andy jumps up and grabs his arm, yanking him back inside.

“What are you going to do, walk there in the rain?” Andy asks. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I'm bored,” Sid says. He jerks his arm free. “And I can walk, yeah. It's not far from here.”

“Why are you doing this?” Andy asks, but the question comes out so quietly that Sid allows himself to ignore it. He walks out of the room and Andy follows, stepping into his shoes on the way.

“You're coming?” Sid says. He scoffs as if this is ridiculous. It's actually a relief.

“What am I supposed to do, let you go off by yourself?” Andy looks like he might cry, and Sid is going to back down, but then the scowl is back. “How would that look?” Andy says. “I have to come. I'll tell them we're seeing an old friend.”

“That is what we're doing,” Sid says. “What I'm doing, anyway.”

Andy shakes his head and pushes around Sid, heading for the stairs. Sid follows, feeling as if he's been possessed. He'd rather be in that twin bed with Andy, under the blankets, letting Andy talk about whatever the fuck he wants. Like old times, in Sid's bedroom, when they would lie on their stomachs and Andy would talk while Sid stared at his mouth, wanting to lick his lips apart. But they can't do that here, with Andy's mother and sister downstairs wondering what they're doing, and what Sid is going to do with his life, and why they're not allowed to ask about his parents, unless of course Andy has told them why, which would be worse. Sid will suffocate if he has to spend another full minute in this house, and he's almost jogging by the time they reach the foyer.

“We're going out,” Andy tells his mother, who is setting up a makeshift bed for Sid on the living room couch. “We'll be back - we won't be long - just going to see some old high school friends.”

“Oh.” Andy's mother frowns. “Anyone I know?”

“I don't think so,” Andy says, following Sid out onto the porch. “We'll borrow the van, if that's okay?”

“Of course - ah. Be careful, the storm is pretty bad.”

Andy insists on driving, and he's silent in the car as Sid mutters the directions to Jimmy's house. Sid wants a cigarette, but knows that Andy would make him walk in the rain before he let him smoke in his mother's van. He puts the window down anyway, just a crack, so that he can smell the rain. It was just on the verge of raining that night when they were kids, when Sid climbed up and knocked on Andy's window. He really didn't think Andy would let him inside, but he didn't have anywhere else to go, and it was worth a try. Everything in his life would be different if Andy had left him out there to get soaked by the rain.

"I don't know what more you want from them," Andy says, both hands tight around the steering wheel. "I think they're being great, considering that you haven't even bothered to meet them in three years - or, fuck, ten years, if you could all the ones before."

"You never fucking asked me to meet them," Sid says. "Back then."

"I knew you'd say no. And you weren't even - I was never even sure that you were my boyfriend."

Sid just scoffs and stares out the window, because it feels that way now, again, and he knew that it would as soon as they stepped off that plane. It's the real reason he's never been back here, more than having to make nice with Andy's mother and Molly, who aren't hard to make nice with. Sid has paid for Andy's college textbooks for the past six semesters, but barely six hours back here and he's not really sure that Andy belongs to him.

Jimmy's house looks just like it did back then, and Sid sits staring at it from the passenger seat, surprised that it's still here. This is where he used to come when Andy was inaccessible and Sid wanted to forget his own name. It's strange to be here with Andy, to be here again at all, but everything is fucked up and he might as well go with it. He throws the door open, half expecting Andy to peel away in the van and leave him, but Andy follows him through the rain, toward the door.

"I won't be long," Sid says. Andy doesn't look at him.

"You're not bringing pot back to my mom's house," he says when Sid knocks.

"Duh," Sid says, though that was kind of what he was hoping to do, so that they wouldn't have to hang around with Jimmy.

Jimmy has gained a lot of weight, and he's starting to lose his hair. There's something off about his teeth, though Sid can't put his finger on it in the dimly lit interior of the house, which is as incongruous as he remembers it: Jimmy's mother's cat figurines on top of the television and Jimmy's drug paraphernalia brazenly spread out on the coffee table, amid ashtrays and crushed Bud Light cans.

"Mom's asleep," Jimmy says as he passes beers to Sid and Andy. "She's got to work in the morning." He gives them a warning look.

"I wasn't gonna play my trombone," Sid says. "Just wondering how you've been, and. You know. If you've got anything."

"Nothing I want to sell," Jimmy says snottily. He looks back and forth between them. "Is it true you guys moved to San Francisco and got married?"

"No," Sid says. He digs his cigarettes out and lights up. "That what people are saying?" Not that he cares. Not that any of these assholes would have the balls to say that to his old man, and not that Sid would give a shit anyway. Jimmy shrugs.

They take the rest of the Bud Lights down to the basement, Jimmy's cave. Sid half expects to see the rest of the losers he used to hang out with in high school down there, fatter and balder but otherwise unchanged. There's nobody, just reruns of Fresh Prince of Bel Air on Jimmy's old TV. Sid tries to catch Andy's eyes, but Andy still won't look at him. He's examining the curling posters on the walls as if this is some kind of fucked up museum.

"I've been working up at Yogurt World," Jimmy says. "Assistant manager." He flicks his chin at Andy. "I guess you're a senator or something?" he says, as if Andy snickered at Jimmy's career choice.

"I'm in school," Andy says. He kills his beer and grabs another one. "Sid does private security."

This is what Andy tells his friends, to inflate Sid's station, either for Sid's benefit or his own, Sid can never tell. Sid snorts and leans back onto Jimmy's futon, throwing an arm around Andy's shoulders just to see if he'll shrug it off. He doesn't, but he's tense, despite the beer he's chugging.

"Private security," Sid says, shaking his head, because they don't need to put on those airs for Jimmy, which is why Sid wanted to see his loser ass more than anything else tonight. "I'm a bouncer, fucking graveyard shift. Everyone I work with is an ex-con."

"They know about your situation?" Jimmy asks.

"My situation?"

"The butt buddy situation," Jimmy said, nodding to Andy.

"Fuck you," Andy mutters. He crumples the beer can in his hand and reaches for another one.

"Jesus, what's your hurry?" Sid says, wondering if Andy is just trying to force him to be the designated driver. Andy shoots him a look.

"I thought we came here to get fucked up?" Andy says. He looks at Jimmy. "Certainly didn't come for the company."

"Ha," Jimmy says. "Nice manners."

"Ignore him," Sid says. He pulls his arm from Andy's shoulders and gets another beer for himself. "He's pissed off at me."

"What are you guys doing back here, anyway?" Jimmy asks.

"Visiting his family," Sid says.

"Oh?" Jimmy snorts. "Looks like that's going well. You seen your dad yet?"

"No," Sid says. He can feel the nervous jolt that moves through Andy, even though they're not touching. "I got nothing to say to him."

"We all thought he threw you out," Jimmy says.

"He still living over there?" Sid asks, examining his beer can.

"The fuck should I know?"

"We could drive by if you want," Andy says. "See if his car is there."

"Hell no," Sid says. He stands up. "I need to piss. Bathroom?"

"You seriously don't remember where it is?" Jimmy says, laughing. Sid shrugs.

"My memories of being over are pretty fucking hazy."

"Shit, man. I'm wounded." Jimmy jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Can's over there."

Sid is way too far from anything resembling a high, but the tiny, rank-smelling bathroom makes his head spin when he shuts the door and turns on the light. He wants Andy to be more pissed off than he is, wants to fight and blow up and fly home alone. He thinks of seeing his father's car in the driveway at that old house, and what that would mean. Sid wouldn't be surprised if his father hadn't even noticed that Sid had gone, if he'd just ask him to take out the fucking trash if Sid sauntered in through the front door. That's your life's calling, huh? Right? Your main talent? He imagines a three year accumulation of rancid black trash bags piled up in that never-used kitchen, waiting for Sid to show up and collect them.

When he opens the door Andy is standing there, swaying on his feet. Fucking lightweight. Sid steadies him, and Andy smirks, his eyelids heavy.

"Have to pee," Andy says, slumping against him. "Move."

"Need me to help you get your pants open?" Sid asks, and Andy laughs wetly against his shoulder.

"Uh, no."

Sid waits outside the bathroom door, listening for a crash, but everything sounds like it's in order. He walks back into the main sitting area and stares down at Jimmy, who is squinting up at him, his foot bouncing on the carpet.

"I guess I kind of knew you were a fag," Jimmy says. "You never looked twice at any of the chicks we had over here. You could have fucked Penny Gale," he says, like this might change Sid's mind about everything. Sid shakes his head.

"Yogurt World, man," he says.

"Yeah, well." Jimmy finishes his beer and lets the can drop to the floor. "Here's to realized potential." He looks like he's going to fall asleep any minute, and Sid thinks about all the times he passed out down here in the middle of the afternoon. He would wake up confused, disoriented, wanting to be in his bed with Andy asleep beside him, Andy's fist curled over his mouth and his t-shirt rucked up so that his boxer shorts peeked out. Even if they'd dry humped each other into a stupor before falling asleep, Sid would still be nervous about touching him, as if it wasn't allowed. He would reach over to run his fingertips over the crinkly waistband of Andy's boxers, his heart pounding while he watched for any sign that Andy might wake up.

Andy comes out of the bathroom, yawning and buttoning his jeans. Sid swallows down a shock of panic at the realization that he's brought Andy to a bad place, a trash heap that he's too good to have to see. He sometimes used to wish Andy was here with him, passed out and napping on his chest, but Andy has never needed to erase himself for a whole afternoon they way Sid did when they were kids. He grabs Andy's elbow and pulls him toward the stairs.

"Thanks for the beers," he calls to Jimmy, who waves a hand through the air.

"You're not welcome," he says.

"Why are we leaving?" Andy asks as Sid helps him up the stairs, Andy moving like he's got cinderblocks for feet.

"'Cause you're a cheap drunk," Sid says. He kisses Andy's temple and checks the hallway for Jimmy's mother when they reach the top of the stairs. She used to scare him, not because he thought she would bark at him for smoking or skipping school, but because she was a kind of blank space where an adult should be, which reminded him of his father, who terrified him, back then. Back then, not now - back then.

"That guy's an asshole," Andy says as they push out through the front door, back into the rain. "He said we were married." Andy laughs and stumbles, and Sid catches him before he can faceplant in the muddy grass.

"He's who I would have been without you," Sid says, because Andy won't remember this in the morning. Andy flops against his side, nosing at Sid's neck like he might settle in for sleep right here.

"No way," Andy says. "Don't be crazy."

Andy dozes in the passenger seat on the way back to his house. Sid thinks about turning down Sycamore, heading toward his father's house, but he doesn't, 'cause why the fuck would he? Just to get called a garbageman for old times sake? Or a fag, for a change of pace? It doesn't make any sense, not even his curiosity. He shouldn't even give a shit if the bastard is alive or not.

There are very few things he remembers about his father from before his mother died: a swimming pool, either on vacation or in the Michigan suburb they lived in when Sid was very little. He remembers the smell of his father's chlorine-soaked shoulder, and holding on tight, scared of the water but not of the old man. He was the safe place, once.

When they come through the front door, Sid really doesn't expect Andy's mother to be there, but she is, in the kitchen doorway, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder. Sid and Andy are soaking wet, and Andy is drunk, laughing at nothing.

"He had a few beers," Sid says as Andy's mother walks forward, her frown coming slowly, like she's still fighting her instinct to interpret this badly. Everything about her is miniature, and Sid wants to apologize for being too big, so obviously out of place that he feels like an rhinoceros at a tea party.

"Mom," Andy says, reaching for her. "It's raining. Can I have ice cream?"

“Honey, you're drenched.” She gives Sid a questioning look that breaks him in two. He's never been good with mothers. If Greg were here they'd be on their fifth round of Scrabble.

“No, it's okay, because, um.” Andy laughs, hugging his mother's shoulders. “We drink all the time.”

“Not really,” Sid says, though they kind of do, beers on the couch and gin on Sunday, when Sid is off of work and Andy is finished with the week's classes and homework. It's nice, it's cozy; it's not like what Andy's mother will think, seeing this.

“Okay, let's just - get you upstairs,” Andy's mother says, speaking to him like he's eight years old, which isn't inappropriate considering how he's giggling and flinging water everywhere. Andy is a ridiculous drunk, always has been. Normally Sid loves it, especially on Sundays, when Andy will sit in Sid's lap on the patio and make plans for the lemon tree while the sun goes down over the city. This, however, is excruciating, because they just got here, and Sid couldn't even get through one night without drenching the festivities in booze.

Andy's mother walks upstairs with Andy leaning on her, still talking about ice cream, and Sid is left alone and awkward in the living room. He looks at the couch that's been made up as a bed, the flower print pillowcase and a quilt that looks homemade. He steps out of his shoes, not wanting to get the carpet wet, and wonders if he'll have to put them back on when Andy's mother comes back downstairs and tells him to get lost.

When she returns she's carrying a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt and a towel, everything folded in a neat stack. She presents it to him like it's a birthday cake with glowing candles.

“These were my ex-husband's,” she says, nodding to the clothes. “I don't know why I kept them, but I guess it's good that I did. I don't think you'd fit into Andy's stuff - I didn't want to go through your bags.”

“No - I - thanks,” Sid says, staring down at the stack of clean, dry things. He opens his mouth to say something else, and then it just hangs open. He can feel her eyes on him as he takes the clothes from her.

“It's not a very common name,” she says. “Sid.”

He looks up at her, all the comfort of his size sucked away from him when their eyes meet. He's the orphan again, out of the rain, accepting charity that he doesn't deserve.

“I remember you,” she says. “And your father. Andy didn't want me to tell you.”

“Sorry,” Sid says. He should hand the clothes back to her and slink off into the night, but her eyes hold him in place. They're blue; Andy's eyes.

“No, I'm sorry,” she says. “Andy probably hasn't told you - he protects you, it's sweet, but - when you were kids, I told him he wasn't allowed to be your friend. That was wrong of me. Judgmental, and small, and I'm glad he didn't listen.”

Sid is stripped down to nothing by that, skinned to his waterlogged bones, and he has to look again at the folded clothes, can't meet her eyes.

“Maybe you think we don't talk about you, but he tells me everything,” she says. “He told me you taught him how to change the oil in his car, and you pay his cell phone bill, and you brought him Toaster Strudels in bed when he had the flu.”

“That's -” Sid says, embarrassed, shaking his head. “I just -”

“Go get changed,” Andy's mother says, guiding him toward the guest bathroom. “Before you catch a cold. And get some rest. It's been a long, weird day.”

So for the second time tonight, he's standing in front of a bathroom mirror, dizzy. This bathroom is much cleaner than the one at Jimmy's house, faintly cinnamon-scented, a basket of decorating magazines beside the toilet, but he's no less disoriented. If only Jimmy had sold him some pot. After what just happened, he might have offered to smoke with Andy's mother. He dries off and dresses in the clothes she gave him, which feel itchy and too clean, like someone else's good intentions. He's afraid she'll be there when he walks back into the living room, waiting with more devastating kindness, but the room is dark and empty. He sits on the couch and stares at the cold fireplace for a long time, the rain calming to a patter against the windows. He's got a feeling like he forgot something, a toothbrush or a stick of deodorant, and when he realizes what it is he stands up and heads for the stairs: Andy, he needs Andy.

It's autopilot, the same thing that brought him to Andy's room that night when Sid's father got arrested. He'd woken to the sound of plates breaking, his step-mother shrieking, the growl of his father's voice, and when he heard the sirens he bolted toward the only thing that felt safe anymore. He reaches the door of Andy's room and finds it just barely open, which is enough of an invitation to slip inside, quiet as smoke. Lightning flashes as he closes the door behind him, and he walks toward the bed, where Andy is asleep on his stomach, stripped to his boxer shorts, hugging his pillow.

“Hey,” Sid says, sitting down beside him. Andy moans but doesn't stir. Sid pulls his fingers through Andy's damp hair, and Andy sighs into his pillow.

It rips through him just like it always did, even when they were kids, before Sid knew what he wanted it to mean: you're mine, you're mine, you're mine. Andy's mother might want to give him credit for the Toaster Strudels, fine, but Sid really does all of that for himself. Taking care of Andy is what he's good at, the only thing he really likes to do. When he can't do it anymore, when Andy is a geologist with an office and a salary and a tie rack, Sid won't know how to fill his days.

“'Idy?,” Andy says, mumbling, his eyes still closed. He gropes for Sid, taking a handful of his t-shirt. “Where are you? C'mere.”

Andy is asleep again as soon as Sid rolls him against his chest, but Sid is wide awake, his heart pounding. He tries to lose himself in the smell of rainwater on Andy's skin, and presses his face to the warmest spot on Andy's neck, just under his jaw. He wants to sleep, feels even smaller than he did last time he was in this bed, but it's not as easy as it was that night, when he was still a secret that Andy was keeping. Now he's a known contaminant, bringing Andy back here wet and ragged, trying to pretend that they can live an orphaned life together.

In the morning, Andy is pouty and hungover. How he manages this after three beers and a glass of wine, Sid has no idea. They squirm against each other at dawn, and Sid pets Andy's cheek with his thumb.

"I should go back downstairs," Sid says. Andy shakes his head.

"Stay," he says. "I'm sick."

"You're not sick." Sid puts the back of his hand against Andy's forehead. He does feel warm, but that's only because they're pressed together under the blankets on this tiny fucking bed. He kisses Andy's nose.

"Now you're being all sweet," Andy says.

"I'm always all sweet."

Andy grumbles something unintelligible and nuzzles at Sid's chest, sweaty and bedsheet-scented, making Sid hard inside his borrowed sweatpants. He thinks of waking up here when he was nine years old, humiliated to near death by the memory of crying and letting Andy hold him. Still, he had the feeling Andy would never tell anyone. He looks down at Andy now, and knows he's thinking about it, too.

"Did you climb in through the window last night?" Andy asks.

"Nope. Came up the stairs."

"I don't even remember getting in bed."

"Your mother hauled your drunk ass up here. How do you get that wasted off of that shitty beer?"

"I guess I'm just lucky," Andy says. He winces when he lifts his head. "Also, I drank 'em pretty fast. And I may have sneaked some brandy before dinner."

"Brandy? Where was the brandy?"

"In the dining room," Andy says. He sits up on one elbow and looks down at Sid, studying him. "Should I not have told you?"

"I won't drink any," Sid says, scowling at him. "Unless I'm offered. Which is the polite thing to do, usually."

"Sorry," Andy says. "I was nervous."

"Nervous, what? That I'd get drunk and stupid?" He doesn't have to lie here and listen to this, his growing irritation making his dick deflate. Andy catches his wrist and tries to keep him in bed, but Sid is stronger, and he vaults over Andy like he's a crack in the sidewalk.

"That's not what I meant - shit." Andy sits up and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "My head - can you shut the blinds?"

Sid does so, and exits the room as stealthily as possible, which proves useless, because Molly is in the hallway, smiling up at him while she ties on a pair of sneakers.

"Want to come running with me?" she asks. "I only do three miles."

Sid agrees to join her without hesitation. There's nothing he wants more right now than to run.

They jog down streets that are distantly familiar to Sid, getting close to his father's old house before Molly makes a right turn in the opposite direction. Sid isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed. The air is muggy, making his bones feel heavier than normal.

"When you guys invite me out to L.A., we can run on the beach," Molly says.

"So you got a standing invitation now?" Sid says, and he jabs her with his elbow so she'll know he's kidding. She grins.

"Andy said you were on the track team in high school."

"Briefly. I'm not great with teams."

"Too cool for them?" Molly says, and she gives him an elbow jab. Sid huffs a laugh, embarrassed, because yeah, that was kind of what he was going for, image-wise.

"Race to the end of the road?" she says when they're almost back to the house. Sid doesn't answer, just bolts, and she shrieks with laughter, tearing ahead and beating him easily. She's still spry as hell when they come to a stop, Sid panting and Molly bouncing around like a cartoon rabbit, punching the air.

"What are you on?" Sid asks, bracing his hands on his knees.

"Nothing," she says. "You shouldn't smoke. It shrinks your lung capacity, or something."

"You don't say?" Sid straightens up, a head rush making his vision tunnel for a moment. "Tell me more, doctor, this is fascinating stuff."

"Do you really get in fights at work?" Molly asks. She's still bouncing, throwing a few fake-out punches in his direction.

"Sometimes," he says. He starts walking back to the house, hoping she'll follow his lead, and she does.

"That's so hardcore," she says. "But what if somebody had a knife or something?"

"I'd take it from them."

"A gun?"

"Same deal. They train us, you know. For situations."

"Like, self defense?" She makes a gun with her fingers and sticks it in his ribs. "You're good at it?"

"Yeah." It's the only thing he'll claim to be good at: staying calm in a fight, throwing the other guy to the floor. Last year he started looking into cage fighting, dreaming about the big cash prizes, but Andy found out and forbade it.

"So how come you don't teach a class or something, like Andy said?"

Sid could get pissed off and defensive, but he's too tired, and he can't imagine anyone getting pissed off at this kid. He sits down on a sewer cover that might be the same one he sat on the first time he kissed Andy. Molly sits beside him, tucking her knees to her chest and staring at him, waiting for an answer.

"There's more involved with teaching self defense than just being good at it," Sid says.

"No, there isn't," Molly says. She wrinkles her nose. "What do you mean?"

"Degrees. Certificates. Employment history."

"Uh, you have an employment history."

"Not technically."

"Huh?"

"They give me cash at the end of the night," Sid says. "I'm not on payroll. I don't have health insurance."

"Whoa!" Molly grabs his arm. "Seriously? What if you got hurt, though? Like when you got this." She touches the scar on his cheek, suddenly looking very much like Andy.

"Your brother patched me up," Sid says. He rubs his fingers over the scar while Molly stares at him, her eyes still wide with Andy-like concern. That was actually a pretty terrible night, when he came home from work early with a sliced-open cheek. Andy went white-faced and tried to take him to the emergency room, then turned green when Sid reminded him that emergency trips weren't exactly within his budget. A box of butterfly stitches from the drug store worked well enough, but Andy was in a panic over the whole thing anyway. They fought, and Sid waited to hear that word that had ripped the ground out from under him when he was seventeen: loser, you're such a loser. Andy didn't say it, but Sid let himself assume that he was thinking it, and it made him mean. He heard himself start to sound like his father, and went for a long walk until it passed. When he got back Andy was wet-eyed and quiet, and he skipped his morning classes in favor of curling up in Sid's lap on the couch and letting Sid rub his neck until they'd both stopped shaking.

"Let me see your tattoos," Molly says, and he puts his arm out so she can examine them. She does so with passive interest, turning his arm over like she's reading the life story that is written on his skin.

"I added it up once, and it was like four thousand dollars total for all of 'em," Sid says. He's not sure why he's telling her this, because it's not something he wants Andy to know. He's afraid of the way Andy's eyes would bug out with something akin to betrayal, even though it's not his money, not technically.

"This is my favorite," Molly says. "The fish."

"It's a koi," Sid says. "They swim upstream. It's supposed to mean something about, like. Adversity, I guess."

"That's neat," Molly says. "You should get one, as a pet."

"Andy wants to. He wants a pond full of them. He's got this whole yard planned for the house we don't have." Last year he told Sid that he wants one of those trees with the purple leaves, like the one in your backyard when we were kids, by the picnic table. Sid was surprised he remembered. After Andy moved away, Sid would go out there and sit on the ground under that tree, bored as hell, staring at the loose plank in the fence that Andy was never going to walk through again.

"Andy's got a lot of plans," Molly says. She sighs and picks at some dry skin on her elbow. "Me, I've got no idea what I want to do."

"I know the feeling," Sid says. She looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.

"That's not true," she says. "You've got Andy."

"Yeah. I guess I'll be cleaning scum out of the koi pond for the rest of my life."

"Andy wouldn't make you clean things."

"Why shouldn't he? But you're right, he'd hire someone. He's gonna make big money. Him and his rock loving friends, they're gonna start a surveying company. Maybe they'll let me answer the phones."

"Here, practice," Molly says, making her hand into a phone and holding it up to Sid's ear. She makes a ringing noise that scares a bird out of a nearby tree. Sid stares at her in disbelief, but she just beams at him, waiting for him to play along.

“Hello,” he says, speaking into Molly's thumb. “Andy Davis' office. His servant speaking.”

“No, no,” Molly says. She takes the pretend telephone away and puts it to her own ear. “Say, like: Good afternoon, Davis Enterprises, Mr. Phillips speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Nice. Got a pen? I should write that down.”

Molly smiles. She puts her hands on her knees and studies Sid like her mother did last night in the living room, like he can puff up his chest as big as he wants but he's not fooling her. Sid thinks of Andy in bed, pouting and hugging his pillow, and he loves him so much for being fooled.

“I'm probably gonna be a secretary,” Molly says. “Andy got all the brains.”

“What are you talking about? You're smart.”

She looks at him like he just regurgitated last night's dinner and told her it was caviar.

“I'm failing Geometry,” she says. “Again.”

“There's different kinds of smart,” Sid says.

“I know,” she says. “But I'm still the secretary-becoming kind.”

“So what? My mother was a secretary.”

“Seriously?” She looks down at her chewed-up fingernails. “What happened to her?”

“Andy didn't tell you?”

“Well. He said she died. That's all.”

“There was this blood clot.” Sid touches his leg every time he thinks about it, because that's where it started, working up its murderous nerve until it rocketed up to her lung. His former step-mother was the one who finally told him the details, when he was eight years old. “This totally random thing.”

“Is she buried here?” Molly asks, and Sid appreciates her not saying I'm sorry. Andy said it a thousand times when they first had this conversation, which was an hour or so after sex, naked in Sid's bed on some weekday afternoon, five years ago. Sid had looked everywhere but into Andy's eyes, until he finally did, and he put all that bright blue sympathy into a box that he keeps next to his memory of his mother's flannel nightgown.

“No, her grave's up in Michigan,” Sid says. “I should go. I've never. So.”

Molly is quiet, and when Sid looks up at her she seems like she's elsewhere, her eyes unfocused and her shoulders hunched.

“Did you ever meet my dad?” she asks, like maybe Sid and Andy have tea parties with him out in L.A. Andy never even talks about him, and Sid has wondered if he should ask.

“Nope.”

“Okay, well. He's an asshole.”

“So's mine.” Sid puts out his hand, and they shake on it, then he helps her up.

“Race you to the house?” Molly says. He should say no; he's exhausted and lightheaded, barely slept for two hours last night, but he takes off when she does, and runs full speed until they get there, losing badly again.

*

Part II