|
|
Nothing So Simple
by Nicola
Rating: NC-17
Note: This story is set in the recent past, while Straylight Run were supporting Brand New on tour. Except I expanded the tour a little for my own purposes.
It was late afternoon, and sunshine was spiking over the parking lot's surfaces, blinding Jesse as he walked toward Straylight's tour bus. He'd finally finished all the scheduled interviews, but everyone else seemed to have scattered in his absence. He was aware that he was still caught up inside his own head a little; the smarter, cooler, more magnanimous Jesse still feeding him perfect, pat answers to unasked questions.
So what is your relationship with John Nolan?
Jesse shook his head a little, hoping to clear it. There still weren't any answers to that question that didn't make his skin crawl. He grimaced, and carried on walking.
It was a mark of his temporary self-involvement that he didn't notice Michelle until he was a few feet away from the bus. At first glance she appeared to be leaning without purpose against the steel casing. Light flared fleetingly around her silhouetted form, the wind lifting the ends of her hair slightly. For a moment he wondered if she were merely there for aesthetic value. Like a magazine photo pasted onto reality.
Then he noticed the cell phone pressed to her ear, and heard her soft murmurs, almost entirely wrenched away by the breeze. Jesse continued walking, slowing his pace as he neared the bus. Michelle's eyes fixed on him briefly, her gaze coolly appraising. "Yeah, you could say that," she said in a low voice, and it was a second before Jesse realized she was still speaking into her phone. "I know, but maybe there's something else…"
Jesse nodded uncertainly at her, and to his surprise she smiled quickly at him, brief warmth displayed like a tiny gift. "Yes, I know what you mean," she continued, still addressing her cell phone; her precise, self-assured words to someone else providing a bizarre counterpoint to their exchange.
Jesse wrenched open the tour bus door, clambering awkwardly inside. He was faintly surprised to find John alone on the bus. He was sprawled out, his attention focused on the television screen fixed near the ceiling. Jesse wondered vaguely why Michelle had chosen not to take her phone call inside the bus; he still couldn't entirely figure out the dynamics of her relationship with John. Jesse had brief, sharp memories of their screaming arguments as teenagers. That raw antagonism seemed to have crystallized with age into an odd formality, balanced always by a sweetness and protectiveness, but constantly belied by the strange tensions that would emerge for no real reason.
"Hey," said Jesse, standing uncertainly at the threshold of the bus.
"What's up?" John said a shade too loudly. His eyes were still fixed on the TV, although he enthusiastically motioned Jesse over to where he was sitting.
"Not much. Just killing time before soundcheck," Jesse replied, still feeling faintly abstracted. He sat down on a wide seat across from John.
"Uh huh," said John. He'd given up even the pretence of looking at Jesse now; the fullness of his gaze distracted by whatever was on TV. His smile was big and unexpected; slightly manic, slightly wonderful.
Jesse couldn't help but smile, too. "What are you watching?"
"This daytime… chat show- thing. It's crap." He shook his head, clearing the smile. "It's crap! I should turn it off."
"I should leave you to it." Jesse shifted.
"No, look… it's ending. About time. That's an hour of my life I won't get back." John laughed ruefully. He reached for the remote and clicked off the TV. The sudden silence after the tinkling chatter seemed a little too loud.
"What time is it?" John asked after a pulse too much pause. "I'm not supposed to be somewhere, right?"
"No… we have some time." Jesse shrugged. "Who's Michelle talking to?" he asked, for lack of anything better to say.
"Oh, whatshisname. The boyfriend." John's expression darkened, and he rolled his eyes. "They talk for hours. About what I couldn't even guess."
"Peace in the Middle East?"
"Yeah, probably." John's eyebrows raised, and his mouth quirked slightly. "Surefire economic solutions. A quick fix for endangered species."
Jesse grinned in response, and the ensuing silence was easier.
"Oh," John said, as if it had just occurred to him. "Adam called. Earlier. I don't know why. Just to say hey, I guess." He gave Jesse a sidelong look, leaving unspoken a joke, a sardonic or scathing comment.
"Yeah?" Jesse mustered, his tone mirroring John's strained nonchalance.
"Not much to say, really." John's mouth twisted. "He has his own thing now."
Silence resumed, shakier than before. Jesse was suddenly aware of a need to be kissing John. It should have been a smooth segue; a force driven by reaction. A quick reminder for them both. Because Jesse was the one in John's life now. The one at the edge of the stage every night as John sang sad, not-quite-love-songs about boys who weren't quite him. Adam was just a phone call. He was irrelevant small talk; the dead click of a hotel room receiver far away.
It should have been a smooth segue, but it wasn't. John was looking away, as if expecting to find Adam perched on his shoulder as a dark fairy. Jesse walked, tripped and half-fell towards him. He sank on top of him, careful to trap him only lightly; their entangled limbs resolving as only a loose approximation of a lovers' embrace.
Beneath him, John smiled thinly, pushing away his glasses and acquiescing to the movement of Jesse's hands. This new passivity in John unnerved him slightly; his calm these days was purposefully shatterproof. Jesse kissed him, finally, and found himself irritated by John's response (no urgency; all delicacy and slow warmth). Jesse kissed him back harder, faster. The earlier, purer desire for contact was hardening into a need for sex.
"Oh!"
The exclamation was soft and startled, and Jesse was reminded of a bug hitting the windshield. He and John fell apart naturally, and Jesse's head rose to see Michelle at the bus's exit. "Sorry," she said impassively, and turned to leave.
"Shit," mumbled Jesse, smiling in spite of himself. The mood (was there even one to begin with?) sagged perceptibly.
John fidgeted absently with a button on Jesse's shirt. He seemed less amused. "She… she saw you come in here, right? You talked to her?" he asked.
"Uhh…" Jesse recognized the thread of white-hot anger in John's voice. He found himself a little intimidated, a little turned on.
"What the hell?" John murmured, his voice rising and fading as he fell over the words. "She should… fucking learn to knock. I remember . . . when we were, what? Fourteen. You and me were smoking weed in my bedroom. Like every other goddamn fourteen year old boys in the country."
Jesse nodded in response, feeling the dizzy echo of intoxication. John was yanking at his buttons now, burrowing further inside his shirt.
"She charged in without permission and caught us." Caught. The implication of crime. Jesse followed John's thought process: drugs, sex; all the same. Sinful and wrong.
"She made such a big deal out of it. Threatened to tell mom and dad . . . for months afterward." John's lips continued to move slightly, but he found no more words. His anger seemed to be fading, visibly.
In truth, Jesse did not remember this occasion, in particular. His recollection of that time was a haze of warmth and easy dissoluteness (the endless hours holed up together . . . what did they talk about? how was it even possible for them to have sustained so much time together?). The specific memories that endure are of first kisses; first… other things. Laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. More: breathless kisses.
"Don't worry about it," Jesse said ineffectually. "It doesn't matter." He kissed John again, quickly.
"Yeah," John agreed grimly. His eyes were still far away; still replaying events best forgotten.
Jesse lifted himself up, pressing against John's shoulders. He hesitated for a moment and then got to his feet. Michelle's fateful little appearance was as good a reminder as any: when he screwed around with John, things went straight to hell.
"I should get going," Jesse said, gesturing vaguely and pulling at his rumpled shirt. "Vin started drinking when the reporter asked about our feud with Taking Back Sunday. I should check he's not passed out somewhere." He grinned sardonically and added: "Or… worse."
John inclined his head slightly, and Jesse hesitated again. "Unless you want me to stay?"
"No," said John decisively. He frowned indiscriminately into the middle distance.
Jesse hated that about him: the ability to drive needles through his heart without noticing. "Catch up with me later, yeah?" he said tightly. He paused and forced an evenness into his voice. "Tour's almost over. We should make the most of it. Celebrate… I don't know."
"Sure," John replied blankly.
Jesse climbed down from the tour bus, tripping over his feet a little as something urged him to walk faster. He did not look back.
*
Michelle arrived back at the tour bus a precise two minutes after Jesse had left. John frowned at her, but he found it difficult to retain his petulant, teenage fury. It was just as he failed to accurately recall the fierceness of the passion and jealousy he had once felt for Jesse. Time had worn the sharp edges of their relationship smooth. A core wretchedness removed, their friendship felt simultaneously stronger and hopelessly fragile.
Michelle was impassive and unrepentant. She flopped down into the same seat Jesse had taken, folding her limbs together with careless, unthinking grace.
"How's Jesse doing?" she asked innocently.
"Why don't you ask him?" John replied in a low voice. He cast his eyes out the window, at a parking lot darkened by tinted glass. Jesse was long gone.
"You guys are… impossible." Exasperation created a single crease between her eyes. "Why don't you just… work it out? Give us all a break."
"Sorry, Michelle. I didn't know my personal life was such a burden on you."
"Fuck you," she said squarely, with the same small exactness she'd used age 12. "It's not like it's a secret, John. You treat it like it is; you've always done that." She paused and exhaled loudly. "Admit something's going on, at least," she finished, seeming dissatisfied with her conclusion.
An angry tirade passed momentarily across John's face, fading to a resentful tautness. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said.
Michelle pulled her legs around, balling herself up like a wounded rodent. "Right," she said quietly, her chin disappearing between her knees. "It's not like I know anything. It's not like I used to watch you two together—" She exhaled, and then produced a small smile, her lips twisting around the words: "And I was so jealous. The way he looked at you. Like you were the only person in the world. The only one that mattered, anyway. His heart would break all over his face for you. I wanted that. We all did. But it was all yours.
"You used to inhabit the same skin or something, slipping in and out of it." Her eyebrows quirked. "And I wasn't worthy. None of us were fucking worthy. Not when the two of you were planning to take on the world."
"It wasn't like that," said John hollowly.
"It's always been like that, John," Michelle said gently.
"Maybe it was like that once," he conceded grimly. "Maybe we fit – once. But we're not…" John trailed off, searching for the words. "We're not. Eighteen anymore. The world took us on and we lost."
The silence between them seemed to hum, as though something had been stretched to breaking point. Michelle moved her head slightly, letting her hair fall in her face. John thought he saw her roll her eyes.
"Just… grow up, John," she said at last. Ten years ago she would have screamed it; now she just sounded tired.
"I think that's the problem," he said softly. "I did."
There was more to say, John was sure – but he couldn't seem to form it into words. Michelle climbed slowly to her feet. She turned, as if to leave. Then she sighed and walked over to where he was sitting. She hugged him quickly, choking him with her hair and perfume.
"You're both total idiots," she whispered. "You know that, don't you?"
John smiled crookedly as she pulled away. "Yeah. I know."
*
The crowd was rowdy and impatient: a manic sort of exuberance lifted from them like steam in the enclosed space. The venue was too small, packed with bodies; the air seemed to strain with the mix of pent-up emotions, like a corked bottle ready to explode open.
Straylight Run played a short set, and John felt contaminated. Light-headed irreverence burned through him; adrenaline replacing reason, music replacing thought. It was like a slow motion crash; hitting that brick wall, only to be thrown back, again and again. They left the stage deafened and torn apart, dizzy and ecstatic.
Backstage, Jesse was bouncing off the walls. He literally seemed to vibrate as the howls of the crowd floated through to the backstage area. Their eyes met for a second, before Jesse's gaze flickered away. John wanted to say something, but all the right words had been chased away. "You're on," he managed finally, but even that was swallowed up by a swell of noise.
Jesse brushed past him as Brand New prepared to go on stage. John thought he had gone, but a moment later he felt a hand circle his wrist. John turned, his arm being pulled as Jesse walked toward the spotlight. Jesse was still in profile, his gaze focused on the looming crowd, but his fingers swept across the palm of John's hand. Jesse lingered a moment too long as their fingertips touched. Then he was gone.
The opening bars of Sic Transit Gloria crashed over John.
*
After the show there was a shared feeling backstage of wanting to sustain the exhilaration. Jesse was still wired, John could tell. He wanted to reach out and feel the humming across Jesse's skin; he wanted to place his hand on Jesse's chest, feel the beat of his heart. A sheen of sweat glimmered on the surface of his skin in the half-darkness; John wanted to lick it away. Jesse's voice echoed in his ear; the same sore tone as when he came and said John's name.
John slackened, leaning against the wall. He could still hear the crowd, muffled and a short distance away, emptying the venue. The others were assembled and talking about what they should do next.
"So are we going out?" Michelle asked buoyantly.
"Definitely." Shaun was seated beside her on a dilapidated leather couch, his arm cast casually over her shoulders.
"Yes! You losers can buy me a drink," Vin chipped in. He and Shaun were exchanging naughty-boy looks as Michelle began talking with Will.
"What about you, Nolan?" Vin continued distractedly. (Shaun was still looking like he was just about to drop a spider down someone's back.)
"Sure, whatever," John replied blankly. He could see the scene already: bars, clubs, anyplace where they could do their damnedest to cause a spectacle. John would find a girl, one who recognized him or one who didn't— it didn't really matter; he'd still forget her name in the morning.
"—Jesse?"
"Yeah, I'll catch you guys up. I left some stuff downstairs," Jesse was saying. John tried to catch his eye, but he had already turned to leave.
John surveyed the others, most of whom were drifting about the backstage area, either talking and laughing or poking at instruments. He hesitated for a moment, and then ducked out the door. As he began to walk away, he heard a light-hearted scream from Michelle. (He guessed that Shaun and Vin had succeeded in their prank of over-turning the couch— with Michelle still on it.)
John went after Jesse, taking a narrow staircase down to the venue's basement floor. A row of open doorways revealed a storeroom, a disused kitchen, and a series of dusty dressing rooms. John chose the door that emitted a dim light. He found Jesse inside, with his back turned and his attention occupied.
The dressing room was painted a lurid shade of green; its walls almost metallic in appearance. John was amused to see that one of the mirrors was mounted with an arch of light bulbs, in true Old Hollywood-style— albeit featuring several smashed lights and a sheen of dirt. John closed the door with a small click. He moved toward Jesse, arms outstretched. Jesse allowed himself to be pulled away from the garish stage mirror, sinking into John's embrace.
John kissed Jesse with all the fervour he'd denied him earlier. He worked his tongue hard inside Jesse's mouth, twisting and teasing with his mouth as if they were fourteen years old again— "because this is the way it's done, Jess"—
They broke apart breathlessly, and John glanced over at what Jesse had been busy with. The counter was empty. In fact, the whole room looked as though it hadn't been used in months.
John's lip curled. "There wasn't anything for you to collect in here, was there?"
Jesse met his eyes, perfectly guileless. "You knew that. You came anyway."
"You manipulated me." John couldn't help but grin sourly as Jesse maintained his expression of doe-eyed innocence.
"That's how it works with us— didn't you know?" Jesse spat, his face crumpling. He moved to the door, grasping at its handle. "Or are you leaving? Don't you want what you came for? It's been a few weeks—" He let go of the door handle. His hand moved to his hair, fidgeting with its tufts and kinks. "Months, maybe."
"Since what?" John said dully.
"Since you wanted me. Since the last time you felt horny and nostalgic."
"That's all you think this is?"
"No." Jesse was suddenly very close again, his sarcasm reverberating in John's face. "I think you just stuck your tongue down my throat because this time you're sure we have a shot at working things out."
Jesse exhaled hard, falling away from John. He continued wearily: "I can't… I can't tell. What you're feeling, where you are." He pressed his hand to John's chest, his palm flattened briefly against his heart. Then he pulled away, shaking his head. "I just— I miss you, John. Even when you're right here."
Jesse turned away. John heard the anger as his voice dropped to a mutter. "I miss you," he repeated.
John recalled his earlier words to Michelle. Maybe we fit – once. "Things… things change. Things always have to change," he said, feeling frustrated at such an inadequate response. "Fucking hell." He mouthed the words, and it translated into warm breath on the back of Jesse's neck. John reached out to touch his hair, gently, fingernails digging into the nape of his neck, where the hair was beginning to grow back soft and curly. His other hand fitted around Jesse's shoulder.
"You're inside of me, Jesse," John said at last, leaning his body against Jesse's back. "All the fucking time. So much so that I can't stand it." He rolled his hips against Jesse, pressing into him more firmly. "You have to know that."
"I don't." Jesse's voice was slow and drowsy; a heavy note of resentment weighing it down. "I know I loved you when I was fourteen and too scared to do anything about it. I know I loved you all those years, all the times you betrayed me, the tiny stupid things you'd do that would hurt me. And the big fucking monumental time—"
"That's right." John's grip tightened. He yanked at Jesse's hair with one hand, the other twisting him closer still. "Always the victim, Jess," John murmured. "Does it feel good? Being so constantly wronged."
John's hand slid down the front of Jesse's body, his fingers finding the roughness of fabric instead of skin. He smoothed Jesse's shirt taut against his abdomen.
"Feels pretty good," Jesse said ambiguously. John's fingertips brushed the waistband of Jesse's pants. Jesse's breathing amplified as the blood pounded in John's ears.
John tried to remember the last time— the last time he had felt, as Jesse put it, 'horny and nostalgic'. The memory faded back into his consciousness like the forgotten feel of sunshine-warmth on his skin. February. They'd been touring California. Set adrift by a couple of cancelled shows, they'd left the others in Los Angeles and driven south. They had checked into a motel just off the highway— been able to fuck in a real bed for once— had even woken up together.
For a few hours at least, they had almost been a real couple. Not just best friends who liked to fuck, but real lovers. They'd taken showers in the morning and had clean, leisurely sex on cotton sheets. They'd fought over the room service menu. Drank orange juice for breakfast instead of beer. Done an awkward dance around the bathroom mirror as they shared the sink – and then shared chaste, minty-fresh kisses.
In the dark dressing room, John fumbled with buttons and zippers. The delay – tensed, ecstatic – was almost better than the moment when he finally pushed inside Jesse. The steady heat began to build further as he thrust deep into the other man, finding a rhythm. Jesse's fingers curled around his wrist as he was pressed against the door. Their hands tangled together and scratched at the door's crack. He felt Jesse's fingernails on the skin of his wrist as they threatened to draw blood. John let his head fall into the hollow of Jesse's neck. His skin tasted metallic; its bitterness settling at the back of John's throat.
As John fucked Jesse harder, he couldn't help but smile grimly. Because this was better than cotton sheets. Better than orange juice and toothpaste kisses. Better than a simple, clean, everyday kind of love.
They were better than that.
May 2005
|
|
|
|
