Chapter Text
Jess pulls the little scrap of paper from his pocket for the twentieth time that day.
It’s a crumpled, already faded thing, even though it’s only been a handful of weeks since he found it tucked into the spine of his book. Weeks of biting his tongue when Rory asks what he’s thinking about, of ducking into the storeroom or the kitchens at lunchtime so he’s not there to take the construction crew’s order, of nearly busting his speakers trying to drown out the memories, which are only getting more persistent and vicious with time, like shifting, morphing lovecraftian monsters.
The note, though, he hasn’t managed to avoid, much less throw away — or burn, like he should have. He’s always needed something to do with his hands, something to twist and roll, and since it can’t always be a cigarette, it’s been this torn off piece of paper for the last twenty-seven days. Not that he’s keeping track. He fidgets it between his fingers as he follows the hunched over form of Jerry, the custodian, down the echoing hallway, the only sounds their footsteps and the squeaking roll of the mop bucket.
“What was it this time, smoking? Fighting?” Jerry asks over his shoulder, his voice distinctive both for the thick Boston accent and the tone of dull disinterest.
Jess almost grins at his back. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t answer. He spins the note between his fingers. “Truancy.”
Jerry grunts. “You sure it wasn’t theft?”
Jerry turns to face him as they arrive at the entrance to the locker rooms. Jess makes a show of thinking, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t stolen anything from the school — recently. Not in the last twenty-seven days, anyway. Jerry sighs.
“You’ve still got my copy of Cat’s Cradle. It wasn’t a gift, y’know.”
“It wasn’t?” Jess asks, placing a hand against his chest in mock offense. Jerry gives him an unamused snort and Jess drops his hand. He’s still got the note in his other one; it’s worn soft, feels good against his fingertips. He’s lucky he has a semi-photographic memory, or else he’d barely be able to read the numbers anymore — but it’s not like he’s ever going to use them —
Jerry coughs, staring at him with his bloodhound eyes, one eyebrow inching upward. Jess pockets the paper.
“I’m almost done,” he says — and he is. With his second read-through.
“Yeah, sure.” Jerry rolls his eyes. “You better not be scribbling shit in my margins again. I’ve had that copy for thirty years.”
Jess suppresses another smile. Too late.
Jerry waves a hand at the bucket. “You know the drill. I’m not a fuckin’ babysitter. Stop by my office when you’re done, drop off the supplies,” he croaks, already turning to leave. He doesn’t tend to waste words. He doesn’t give Jess that look either, like he shouldn’t be here, serving detention on a Friday afternoon. Or the other look, like it’s the only place he should ever be. It's usually one of those two, from the faculty at this school.
Not Jerry, though. He just grunts again, smacks Jess on the shoulder, and then he’s off, ambling back down the hallway.
Jess strongly considers bailing for a few moments before he cracks his neck and pushes the cart into the locker room. Vonnegut would see mopping floors as something valuable, tangible, honest —
Honest.
He grits his teeth and refocuses, slapping the mop onto the floor and smiling to himself as he drags it along the base of the lockers. Vonnegut would love Jerry.
He hadn’t brought his Walkman because showing up that prepared felt a little too agreeable to the whole forced-labor thing, but now he feels stupid for it, stuck with nothing but his own thoughts as he mops. He manages three swipes across the old tiles before they’re circling like vultures around the same dead, useless shit.
Soft mouth, rough hands. Pale neck, broad back. Clear blue, stormy hazel.
Rory, Dean.
Ever since that night, his brain would take advantage of any idle moment to broadcast their features in a montage, flipping back and forth, like it mattered. Like there was some sort of decision to be made. Like Jess deserved to know what either of them looked like with their pupils blown and their hair mussed.
A sudden cacophony of voices down the hall snaps him out of his swirling thoughts, and he turns just in time to be dropped right back into them at the sight of the person in the doorway.
“Jess?”
Dean stands stock still, a look of frozen laughter melting off his face in an instant.
Jess blinks. There’s not supposed to be any practice on Fridays. That's the whole reason Jerry has him doing the floors today. But there he is, standing in the doorway with his hockey jersey hanging loose around his neck.
He’s panting, his hair sweaty at the roots and pushed back, cheeks flushed. Jess doesn’t move, staring back until Dean opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. Before he can, he’s jolted forward, hit in the back by a hockey player Jess dimly remembers as the one they all just call Hindman, and then again by what’s-his-face from home room with the ridiculous frosted tips, and a final one Jess knows is Todd, Dean’s best friend — or at least the one he hangs around the most — who slings an arm around Dean’s shoulders and jostles him. At that, Dean finally seems to regain the use of his limbs, and the four of them clamber into the locker room in a sweat-stinking clump.
Todd is still laughing, finishing off whatever joke he must have been telling, while Hindman and Frosted Tips snigger along. Jess doesn’t register a word of it.
Todd seems to catch on first to whatever weird energy is permeating the locker room, followed quickly by Hindman, the two of them looking between Jess and Dean in confusion, then recognition as Jess abruptly turns back to his mopping, moving quicker, sloppier. A few seconds later Tips, unsurprisingly slow on the uptake, lets out a low whistle.
“Wait a sec — isn’t this the asshole that stole your girl, Dean?” Tips sounds halfway between laughing and sneering, taking a few steps toward Jess, who tenses, but doesn’t fully look up.
“What the fuck, dude,” Hindman hisses, stifling laughter and shoving Tips, like he worries Dean’s feelings might be hurt. Jess holds back a snort.
“What? I’m just saying, I think that’s the scrawny motherfucker who’s banging Rory Gilmore.” He cocks his head at Jess. “Isn’t that you, scrawny motherfucker?” He asks him pointedly. Jess grits his teeth because her name doesn’t belong in that asshole’s mouth, and he may not be huge, but he’s not fucking scrawny.
“Leave it, Brian,” Dean finally speaks, striding past the rest of them and deeper into the locker room, undoing the laces of his shoulder pads as he does.
That’s it — Brian. Just as forgettable as all the rest of them. Except the one, evidently.
“What are you doing here, Mariano?” Todd asks, sounding uncharacteristically pissy — he’s usually the type to have a braindead smile pasted on at any given moment.
“Extra credit,” Jess mutters, slapping the mop back onto the floor with a wet smack. Because he sure as hell isn’t going to leave now.
“Whatever. I’m hitting the showers,” Todd announces, in a would-be magnanimous tone, like he’s doing Jess a favor. He gives Jess a pointed, disapproving look as he strolls past, and ah, Jess realizes. He’s playing the loyal, protective best friend to Jess’s girlfriend-stealing villain.
“Finally living up to your full potential as a janitor?” Brian says, getting closer to Jess, and well, that’s just fine with him. His hands flex on the mop handle, eager, but Dean’s voice cuts across the room again.
“Brian,” he says simply, voice low.
Jess.
His own name, spoken soft, commanding like that, echoes in his head.
Like an obedient guard dog, Brian backs off with a snicker and starts to change. It reminds Jess that Dean is the hockey team captain, that Brian and the others respect him, follow his instructions like good little sheep, and now Jess can’t suppress his snort.
“Something to say, loser?” Brian turns on him, chest puffed. Jess finally looks up at him, smirking. Just behind him Dean’s shoulders are bare and tense.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Brian snaps.
Jess tears his gaze away from Dean’s traps. “Sounds an awful lot like you’re talking to yourself, Justin.”
“It’s Brian,” he snaps, but Jess’s eyes are back on Dean. On the hint of a smile that just bloomed on his profile.
“Huh.” Jess goes back to his work.
“You know it makes sense, you cleaning up after us,” Brian sneers. “I mean. Given that you clearly like mopping up Dean’s sloppy seconds.” He pauses for a moment, snickering at his own joke, and then he takes a step closer. “Hey, what’s that stuck-up little piece like in the sack anyway? Dean wouldn’t tell —”
The mop handle clatters against the floor as Jess surges forward, pressing Brian to the lockers with a forearm across his neck and locking eyes with the pinch-faced prick.
“Mention her one more time, I dare you,” Jess says evenly, wondering whether Vonnegut would approve of punching Brian Bennet’s fucking lights out. Even pacifists have their limits.
“You have a death wish, you fucking loser?” Hindman spouts off, charging across the room toward Jess, but the quick rush of steps and a hand on his chest stills him before he can get any closer.
“Enough, you idiots!” Dean says, looming over them in all his too-tall, shirtless glory, blocking Hindman from going any further.
“I don’t know,” Jess grits, pressing his arm tighter against Brian’s neck. He’s turning a little red now, looks a hell of a lot less sure of himself. “I’m not sure this idiot’s had enough.”
“Jess.”
Fuck. It sounds even better than he remembered.
Jess gives Brian one more rough push, then backs off, sauntering over to pick up the mop, and then leaning on the handle, smirking at him.
Hindman backs off too, muttering and yanking his gear off, while Brian huffs, swiping a rough hand across his neck.
“That’s right boys, listen to Captain. Wouldn’t want a red card!” Jess says lightly, eyebrows raised, chuckling when Brian lunges at him. Dean curses, blocking him.
“Brian! Go shower or go home. I’ll deal with him. You too, Matt,” Dean says, looking over toward Hindman — Jess honestly can’t say he ever knew his first name until this moment. He won’t remember it.
“Are you kidding me? He’s the one who started it —” Brian whines, and Jess opens his mouth to retort, cause that’s a fucking lie, but once again, Dean is quicker.
“I said I’ll handle it. Go.”
Hindman shrugs, tossing a “whatever, man,” over his shoulder as he heads to the showers. Brian takes a few moments longer, jaw working, but with Dean between them, he seems to sense that anything other than glaring is pointless. He stalks off too, spitting on the floor next to Jess as he goes.
“Missed a spot, jackass,” he says, and then they’re alone.
Well, sort of.
Two more showerheads sputter to life in the next room, and Dean finally looks at Jess, eyes flashing.
Jess just looks back, waiting for Dean to speak. When he doesn’t, Jess sucks on his teeth, dunking the mop back into the soapy water. He doesn’t have a chance to pull it back out before Dean’s in front of him, hand firmly around the mop handle, holding it in place. Jess grins, running his tongue over his teeth as a little skitter of something flares to life under his skin.
“You know, this whole He-Man body barrier thing’s getting a little predictable,” Jess says, then nods at the mop. “Not gonna keep a delinquent from his duties, are you? Here I am trying to make things right, and you’re —”
“Shut up,” Dean murmurs, keeping his voice down. He’s not quite meeting Jess’s gaze anymore, but he doesn’t move. His jaw is working, like he wants to say something. Jess grins wider, leans in and aims his words at Dean’s rapidly reddening ear.
“Are you gonna make me, Captain?” He asks, voice even lower, teasing.
Dean’s jaw clenches, and a huff of air leaves his nose in a rush, but he stays still. Jess doesn’t actually think Dean will do something here, now, with Todd and the other assholes one room away. But the vein in Dean’s neck is pulsing, and this is the most alive Jess has felt since — well.
It’s stupid. That night was a one time thing. A dumb fucking decision, even by his own standards. But here Dean is, red in the face and right in front of him with chest shaking from holding back… something.
So Jess leans in again, refusing to touch Dean, but doing everything but, his lips almost grazing the taller boy’s neck as he speaks.
“What was it you said? You’d deal with me? I'd like to see that.”
Dean visibly swallows, and that’s when Jess notices it; can’t believe he missed it before. A dark red splotch, stark against the smooth skin of Dean’s neck. Jess can recall precisely how that skin felt between his teeth, but that’s not a twenty-seven-day-old hickey.
Something ugly curls in Jess’s chest, irritation overtaking whatever cheap thrill he’d been indulging.
He pulls back, and Dean is staring at his lips.
He sways, dangerously close, but a shout of one of his teammates followed by a quick response and a chorus of laughter echo off the tiles in the next room. One of the shower heads squeaks off.
Jess makes to move around Dean, but before he can, Dean grabs him by the arm, pulling him through the locker room and out into the empty, dark hallway.
He takes a left, then a right, his hand a vise around Jess’s forearm, and he keeps going, rounding a corner and finally stopping once they’re at a dead end behind two snack machines. It’s secluded.
Jess is hot, anger and arousal fighting within him over the tight grip of Dean’s hand, the easy way he practically dragged him. Anger wins, and he snatches his arm away, shoving Dean hard in the chest.
“What the fuck was that, you don’t get to yank me around like some —”
Dean rushes forward, wrapping hands around the back of Jess’s neck and kissing him.
He wants to resist, wants to hang on to his fury, but it melts away embarrassingly fast, and he gives in, sinking teeth into Dean’s lower lip and letting himself be pressed into the corner behind the vending machine.
Turns out, 27 days of avoiding Dean didn’t do shit. He still wants this just as bad.
He drags his hands down Dean’s back, digging in his nails and squeezing at his waist, marveling at the electric feeling of Dean’s warm, bare skin under his hands because he’s still fucking shirtless. He slides his hands lower, palming Dean’s ass, then dragging one hand around to the front of his sweatpants, finding him half hard already, and squeezing.
Dean groans, sagging against him for just a second, and then he jolts. He breaks the kiss and roughly pushes away, inhaling hard and backing up a few steps. Jess smirks and lunges after him.
“Wait, stop!” Dean says, hands out in front of him, like he’s holding Jess at bay.
So Jess stops, trying not to breathe too heavily, trying not to show that he’s just as affected. He huffs a humorless laugh.
“Hey, you’re the one who started it —”
“Not on purpose!”
“Oh you poor thing, did you feel taken advantage of when you tripped and fell onto my face?”
Dean groans in irritation and shoves a rough hand through his hair. “I just mean — I wasn’t even going to do …that, but you — you were fucking messing with me in there, like you always are, and…”
Jess tuts. “Yeah, yeah, it’s always me. What do you want then, Dean?”
Dean looks at him incredulously for a moment before he huffs, dragging a hand through his hair again and then dropping both hands onto his hips. Jess looks away, because again, shirtless.
“Why were you in there?” Dean finally asks.
“‘Cause the shine of freshly waxed floors makes me feel all fuzzy.”
“Were you waiting for me?”
Jess cringes. “Oh Jesus, don’t flatter yourself, you weren’t even supposed to be there.”
“So you know when I practice?”
“I know when to avoid you and the rest of the letterman jackets brigade, yeah.”
Deans clenches his jaw, standing up straighter. “So you have been avoiding me.”
“Okay, I gotta know — does that ego come standard issue, or did your parents pay extra for the hyper-inflated version?”
Dean jabs his tongue into his cheek, sagging a bit and crossing his arms. “We don’t normally have practice on Fridays. I called a scrimmage. I’ve been feeling restless. Had some energy to work off.”
He gives Jess a pointed look, and Jess shakes his head, because now Dean wants to make innuendoes when he was the one who cried “wait, stop”? Jess can’t even call him on his bullshit, given how deep he is in his own.
“Well gee, that must be tough. Shouldn’t you be getting back? Don’t wanna leave Sporty Spice waiting for his leader, he might get lost in the hallways,” Jess says.
Dean’s face breaks into a slow, brilliant grin; it goes straight to Jess’s gut, making something flip, and he bites the inside of his cheek, hard.
“Sporty Spice? ”
Jess nods his head back the way they came. “Your little lackey with the stupid fucking hair.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “I know, I — that’s pretty good. Can I use that? Brian’s such a douchebag, he would hate it —”
Jess rolls his eyes, pushing off the wall to leave.
“Jess, wait —”
“No.”
Dean reaches for him again as he walks past, but he dodges it this time, because they don’t do this. Maybe they aren’t exactly enemies, anymore, after everything, but they aren't friends. And if Dean didn’t drag him out here to fool around, then it damn sure wasn’t to stand around and shoot the shit, laughing at Brian’s hair. He picks up his pace, almost out of the dead-end hallway.
“Did you tell Rory?”
There it is.
Even though he expected it, the question chafes, but he fixes his face into something nonchalant before he turns to face Dean.
“Tell Rory what.”
Dean squeezes his lips tight.
“You know what. What happened, what we —”
“Of course I didn’t fucking tell Rory.”
Dean deflates. Nods.
“Good, that… that’s good.”
His look of relief gives Jess the sudden desire to be anywhere but here, so he spins around and picks up his pace.
“You didn’t call.”
Jess freezes. He almost starts laughing. He turns, half expecting Dean to be. He’s not, though. He looks serious, ears red again and eyes refusing to meet Jess’s. Jess does laugh, then.
“Don’t tell me you’re serious.”
“Wait, that’s not —” Dean stops himself, raking a hand through his hair again. “That’s not what I meant to say. I just…” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You did find it, right? My note?”
“No,” Jess says flatly, staring at Dean like the torn off piece of paper isn’t burning in his pocket.
Dean meets his gaze for a few moments then huffs, looking away. “Yeah, right. I just… I think we should talk.”
Jess’s chest feels like something’s being wrapped around it, tight. Suffocating.
“Talk about what? There’s nothing to say.”
“About — about what happened, about —”
Jess stalks closer to him. “What exactly do you think this is, Dean? I have a girlfriend, and you were the goddamn homecoming king. We’re not friends. We’re not anything.”
“You—! You were kissing me back two minutes ago with your hand on my dick!” Dean splutters, his voice a near-whisper.
“Yeah, don’t worry, won’t happen again,” Jess snaps.
He turns and storms away, ducking into the first stairwell he sees and leaving the building entirely. He didn’t return Jerry’s mop bucket, but, well. Jerry probably didn’t really expect him to.
He heads toward the woods, hands shoved in his pockets — brushing against that stupid note — intent on taking the long way to Luke’s, and then blocking out the world when he gets there. He needs music, a book, and a goddamn cigarette. God, he wishes Luke drank something stronger than beer. He’s almost at the pond when he remembers.
Friday night dinner.
Four hours later, and the mansion’s heavy wooden front door slams shut behind Jess. A nice touch, he thinks. Symbolic. He pauses on the stoop as a wave of anger mixed with a heavy dose of self-loathing wells up in his chest, and then he grits his teeth, stomping back toward his car, which looks wildly out of place next to the manicured topiary trees and gleaming pavestones.
It isn’t until he gets in and the silence truly surrounds him that he realizes there had been a cloying, tinkling classical music coming from somewhere in that godforsaken house the entire time he’d been in there. Which, admittedly, wasn’t long. He checks his watch, and wow, eleven whole minutes!
He curses, starting up his engine. The music had felt like nails on a chalkboard, but then, so had everything else. And anyway, it had fit the mood; matched the delicate clinking of Emily’s fork against her plate, her airy complaints about the hired help, the ornate gold detailing on that ridiculous, massive vase he saw in one corner.
That whole place was ridiculous and massive, and he didn’t fit, not even a little bit. Especially not now that he’d blown his only chance at a good impression; he’d shown up late, he had a black eye, he fought with Rory.
Fucking Rory.
Ambushing him at the door, refusing to let the topic go, forcing him to leave the table to argue, bringing up Dean.
“You fought with Dean!”
No, actually, I sucked his face behind a vending machine until he told me to stop. Then I got attacked by a swan.
A manic need to laugh rises in his chest as he navigates out of the long, winding, outrageously bourgeoisie drive. If she knew the real reason for the bruising on his face, she’d cry laughing.
He tells himself that, to avoid thinking about the other part. The part where, if she knew how far he was from fist-fighting with Dean, she’d just cry. Period.
Jess actually isn’t sure if she cares about him enough for him to be able to break her heart, but he knows damn well he’s being callous with it. Cruel, even.
He just can’t breathe, lately. He just needs a moment to breathe.
When he’s not working for Luke, he’s pulling extra shifts at Walmart. When he’s not there, he’s sleeping through classes or disassociating, killing time with Rory, doing anything to ignore the clawing anxiety in his chest every time he thinks about his schoolwork, or his future, or anything other than right here, right now.
Every day it gets a little harder to ignore, and every day he’s faced with all the ways he’s failing. Failing Luke, failing Rory, hell — even Rory’s rich, uppity grandmother gave him a shot, and he blew it to smithereens, just like he does with everything else.
And then there was this afternoon; the locker room with Dean and the goddamn goonies. Dean’s body pressed against his and then the wait, stop!
The fact that Dean wanted to talk, of all things.
He presses down on the gas pedal harder, racing along the highway, eager to put as much distance between himself and that disaster of a dinner as possible.
Because he hadn’t fit, and it wasn’t just because he doesn’t come from money, or because of his black eye, or because he doesn’t like raisins in his fucking salad because who fucking does that, anyway?
No, he hadn’t fit because his entire presence in Rory’s life is a blight; ugly and unkempt and undeserving. And the worst part is, he’s not even sure that he cares if she notices it anymore.
He slams the car into park when he arrives in front of Luke’s, the music he’d turned on to shut up his brain still rattling his windows.
He looks up at the apartment, grimacing as he sees a warm yellow glow emanating from the windows. Luke’s home.
He’s gonna see his face. He’s gonna wanna talk. He’s not gonna take no for an answer.
Jess eyes his glove box. He has three-quarters of a joint in there, from when Luke came home early from Nicole’s a couple nights ago, and he had to cut himself short.
A bad idea starts forming in his mind, and his car’s back in drive before he can think twice. He turns onto Peach Street, cutting his lights and feeling like a goddamn fool.
He’s out of the car and up the tree before that feeling can convince him not to be.
Dean’s there, at his desk, hunched over a textbook in the low glow of his lamp. Of course, he’s working on his homework on a Friday night. His pencil’s not moving though; he keeps fidgeting — stretching his back, scrubbing a hand over his face, running a hand through his hair. Jess raps on the glass.
Dean jumps, turning sharply toward the window and standing up. He has a bemused half-smile on his face that fades as he closes in and is completely gone by the time he recognizes Jess and wrenches the window open. Jess tries not to dwell on that; on who Dean must have thought it was at first. On the reason Jess even knows which window is his.
“What are you doing?” Dean demands, voice quiet, crossing his arms over his chest.
He’s frowning, a bit pouty. It’s cute.
Jess shrugs. “Playing gargoyle.”
Dean snorts before he can catch himself, finally looking at Jess properly and then drawing his eyebrows tight together.
“Jesus, what happened to your eye? Did — did Brian—?”
“No — hell no!” Jess says, shooting Dean an offended grimace, because he could whip Brian with his hands tied behind his back. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Dean gives him a dubious look, but seems to decide to drop it, shaking his head and digging his tongue into his cheek.
“Whatever. I thought you made yourself pretty clear, earlier. We’re not friends. We’re not anything. So what are you doing here?”
There Dean goes again, remembering exactly what Jess says. Repeating it back to him, making it abundantly obvious how often Jess lies to himself and everybody else.
“Wanna go for a drive?” Jess asks.
Dean gives him an incredulous look. He uncrosses his arms. Scoffs. Crosses them again.
“With you. You’re joking, right? Like I’d ever get in a moving vehicle with you.”
“I’ve got my papers. Passed the vision test and everything. They really try and throw in some curveballs with those unlabeled road signs, but —”
Dean squares his jaw, gaze going flat.
“Oh. Right…that.” Jess clicks his tongue softly, looking away. “Shame, that was.”
Dean huffs, looking properly angry now.
“Shame? You crashed a car I built by fucking hand!” He whisper-shouts, slapping his hands onto the sill and leaning toward Jess, breaths coming fast.
Jess studies his face, trying not to smile. He may have been a bit hasty earlier, with that whole “won’t happen again” thing.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his used joint, twirling it for a moment and raising an eyebrow in invitation.
Dean scoffs again, standing back up. He frowns, jaw working for three seconds before he’s striding decisively across the room, locking his door from the inside, grabbing a jacket off the hook by the door, and climbing out the window.
“What,” Jess asks for the third time, and Dean swivels his head forward, doing a pisspoor job of pretending he wasn’t staring for the third time.
“Nothing.”
“…‘Kay,” Jess says, half smiling and taking another drag off his cigarette to hide it.
“It’s just — I just — where —”
“Take it slow buddy, words are hard.”
“You —!” Dean cuts himself off this time, looking moodily out the passenger window. It’s down, just like Jess’s, blowing damn near freezing air in their faces. Jess left his coat at the mansion, but there’s more than enough to distract him from the cold. The way Dean’s hair whips across his cheekbones and the back of his neck, for one.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” Dean finally finishes.
Jess gives a hum and a nod. “Been told that once or twice, yeah. Personally, it feels a bit hyperbolic, but I tend to have that effect on people. Just ask Lorelai.”
Jess finally finds the spot he’s been looking for, an overlook he discovered a few months ago that’s just remote enough he feels like he’s not suffocating in Pleasantville anymore. He pulls off the road, cuts the engine, leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and just…breathes, for what feels like the first time all day.
It lasts about three seconds.
“Um. What are you doing?”
Jess sighs, rolling his head to look at Dean. “Plotting how I’m gonna hide your body. You’re big. Might have to chop you into pieces.”
Dean snorts, but he still looks a little freaked, and Jess is pretty sure it’s not because he just threatened to kill him. It’s a worn out old threat anyways.
Jess pulls the joint back out of his pocket, lights it up and takes one drag, then another, then holds it out to Dean.
Dean looks at it, chewing on his lip.
Jess cocks his head to the side. “Swear I won’t tell Coach. Scout’s honor.”
Dean blows air through his teeth, reaching out and yanking it from Jess’s hand, fingers brushing across Jess’s as he does.
His first toke sends him into a coughing fit, and that sends Jess into a laughing fit, and just like that, the energy is… different. Not as tense, not as heavy.
Jess clicks on the radio again. His usual station is lost to the interference of the woods; now it’s playing something garbled that sounds like old country music. They pass the joint back and forth until they hit the filter, until the tightness in Jess’s chest finally eases, just a bit. Three-quarters of a spliff split between them doesn’t do all that much for him, even if he did smoke more of it, but Dean looks a little looser, his jaw soft and eyes unfocused as he leans back in the seat. His legs are spread wide but his knees are pressed against the dash, legs too long for Jess’s old car.
Jess can’t think of a single damn thing to say. He wants to kiss him again, his promise that he wouldn’t from earlier knocking around uselessly in his brain.
“You’re never in class anymore,” Dean says suddenly, looking out at the dark, evergreen-studded hills in front of them.
Jess blinks. “Hm?”
Dean turns to him, gaze catching on Jess’s neck, his lips, finally his eyes. “We have three together,” he says. “Home room, econ, and history. You hardly ever show up.”
“Miss me?”
Dean smiles. “What’s there to miss? You walking in tardy, mumbling something sarcastic, then falling asleep on top of your desk?”
“Wow, that dreamy Dean Forrester really does notice me!”
“How could I not? You’re disruptive.”
“You sure that’s all it is?”
“You’re disruptive, and you have a nice ass.”
Jess punches him in the shoulder and Dean giggles, collapsing against the car door.
“You’re fuckin' high, fuckin' lightweight,” Jess says, biting down his smile. He rolls the filter between his fingers, shaking his head and looking out his window. “Why do you care whether I show up at that place anyway? Does breaking the rules really bother you that much, boy scout?"
When he turns back to Dean, he catches a flicker of something in his gaze, and the pink of his tongue darting against his lip — and then it’s gone, and he’s shaking his head and shrugging one shoulder.
“No. But, I thought I was just sort of being a dick, when I said you weren’t gonna graduate. But…you’re really not, are you?”
“Don’t act like you give a shit,” Jess warns.
“I’m not! I don’t! I just… I mean, you’re kind of throwing away your future, aren’t you?”
Jess clicks his tongue in disgust. “Jeez, what after school special did you crawl out of?”
Dean cringes. “Alright yeah, that sounded cheesy, I’m just saying —”
“Well, don’t. I’ll be fine.”
Dean shakes his head again, waving his hands vaguely toward Jess as he speaks.
“You know, this whole bad boy, leather jacket, rebel thing. Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s real or if you’re just…”
Jess rolls his eyes. “Just what?”
“Scared shitless of turning out just like everybody else.”
Jess scoffs. Everybody else isn’t a screw up whose parents would rather live without him, who torments a guy for a year just to steal his girlfriend and then turn around and hook up with him.
“I don’t think there’s a risk of that.”
“Is that why you never show up for school? Because it would be too mainstream to graduate?”
“I don’t give a damn whether something’s mainstream.”
“Oh bull shit,” Dean says, stretching the word out and actually slapping his knee as he cackles. He points at the radio. “I bet you can’t stand the fact that we’re listening to Hank Williams right now.”
“I don’t care if something’s mainstream, I care if it’s good, and this shit is terrible!” Jess insists, raising his voice as Dean suddenly croons along to the crackling song, miming a microphone in his hand.
“Heeyyy, good lookin’, whaaaaat you got cookin’?” Dean warbles, off-key as hell, a dopey grin on his face.
“Shut the fuck up, I’m gonna turn it off,” Jess says loudly, but he’s smiling, and maybe he is feeling the weed a bit, because he lets Dean finish out his performance.
The song changes to something by a woman, slow and sad. Jess is pretty sure it’s Emmylou Harris, not that he’d ever admit to knowing that — not to anyone except Lane, maybe. Dean’s hands fall to his knees, and he props his head on the headrest, watching Jess.
“What happened to your face?”
“You, apparently,” Jess says with a resigned huff, and there go the pinched eyebrows, the innocent confusion on the perfect face.
“Huh?”
“Nothin’.” Jess shakes his head. Decides to be honest for tonight and shrugs one shoulder. “Got attacked by a swan.”
Dean is silent for a moment, then lets out a breathy chuckle, flopping around to lean his head against the window, tracing his fingers through the fog forming on it. “Dunno why I even asked.”
For the sake of his pride, Jess chooses not to point out that he actually gave him a straight answer, for once.
“Why am I here right now?” Dean asks then.
“‘Cause I kidnapped you. Bet there’s a search party already. You think Patty keeps a collection of pitchforks for that kinda thing, next to the batons and feather boas?”
“Fine. Don’t answer.”
Jess looks at him, shrugs again. “You said you wanted to talk—”
“And you couldn’t run away fast enough. That’s not why I’m here,” Dean says, voice suddenly steely. He turns to face Jess again, and Jess’s breath nearly catches because his eyes have taken on that edge again, the one that makes Jess’s skin prickle.
Jess wets his lips. “Well, maybe I felt like being honest again.”
Dean exhales, eyes on Jess’s mouth. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“Knew you found it. My note.”
“Mm. Tucked into a book. Very Casanova.”
“Why didn’t you use it?”
Jess fiddles with the filter some more. “It’s not that simple.”
“What, like it is for me?”
Jess laughs softly, gaze sliding to the roof of the car. “I have no fucking idea what it’s like for you, Dean. You dated Rory for years. You could have your pick of any girl in the goddamn school and you know it, the entire cheerleading squad follows you around like you’re their messiah. What, did you just wake up one day and decide your life was too perfect? You needed to fuck it up by sticking your dick into a guy you don’t even like?”
Dean’s face flashes with irritation, and something that Jess might identify as… hurt, if he didn’t know better, before he turns his head away, chewing on his lip. After several long moments, he turns back, fixing Jess with a rueful look.
“You know, you have a real thing about me and cheerleaders.”
Jess pauses for a moment, caught out, and then he snorts. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m wrong. Tell me,” he says, jutting his chin toward Dean’s neck. “Which one of ‘em gave you that, huh? Was it the redhead? She looks like a biter —”
Dean inhales sharply, raising a hand to cover the mark. Jess can’t be sure in the dim light, but it almost looks like he’s blushing.
“Come on, ‘fess up, Romeo,” Jess says through a smile, hoping the ugly, twisting thing in his chest isn’t showing on his face.
Dean just shakes his head, looking out the window. On his knee, his hand curls into a fist, then stretches out, then curls up again, nails digging into his jeans.
“You’re…”
Jess rolls his eyes. “Oh, what now. I’m annoying, impossible, an asshole? Messing with you?”
“Still with Rory!” Dean says sharply. His expression is lined with guilt, a hint of anger.
Jess deflates, twisting his mouth and facing the front again. “Yeah.”
A heavy silence settles between them, and Jess lets himself stew in it. In the strangeness, and the guilt, and the fact that Dean hasn’t asked him to turn the car around and take him back to Stars Hollow yet.
Dean shakes his head a bit, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. “So neither of us know why we’re here, do we?”
“Guess not.”
Dean’s hands are twitching on his knees, still curling into fists and then stretching back out. Jess can still feel the phantom touch of them on his neck, his sides, his cock. He wrenches his eyes back to Dean’s face to find him staring out the window, looking almost determined.
“I don’t know what’s going on with me,” he says after a moment, and the words sound raw, forced out of somewhere deep. “I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I keep…”
Curl, stretch, curl, stretch.
“Keep what,” Jess murmurs, and it triggers a shaky inhale and exhale from Dean. If Jess wasn’t such a coward, he’d tell Dean that’s why he’s here. That sound, right there. Dean licks his lips.
“I should hate you, you know? You took everything from me.” Dean laughs, dry and humorless. “You took everything from me, and you don’t even want it. I should want to stay as far away from you as possible, but —”
A wretched little thrill flares to life inside Jess.
“But?”
Dean cuts him a sharp glance, and holds his gaze. “I don’t know anything, anymore. All I know…is that I can’t stop thinking about it, Jess.” His eyes trace down and back up Jess’s face. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
The thrill burns hotter, heat unfurling in Jess’s gut.
“I know,” he says.
It’s a lie. He didn’t know that Dean was caught as bad as he was in the memory of what they’d done. It shouldn’t please him as much as it does to hear that he is.
Dean swallows, his eyes taking on that dark, predatory glint that’s featured in every one of Jess’s dreams since that night. The air is tense again, whatever lighthearted energy they’d reached with the banter and the teasing evaporating into something thick and heavy, making it almost hard to breathe.
Dean reaches over hesitantly, wraps a hand around Jess’s wrist. When Jess doesn’t stop him, he rubs his thumb along his pulse point and then pulls, and Jess follows the gentle tug until he’s inches from Dean’s face. Another hand winds its way slowly around his jaw to the back of his neck, and Dean’s eyes search his own, his gaze suddenly questioning.
“What the fuck are we —”
“Shut up,” Jess whispers, and then nothing is slow anymore. It’s ridiculous, really, how fast things get, how rapidly the remaining space between them vanishes. It’s almost like they’re something inevitable, and not just something inconceivable.
Dean drives the anxious thoughts from Jess’s mind a lot better than heavy metal does, with the hot, insistent press of his tongue, and the way he twists his long fingers into Jess’s hair and uses it to wrench him closer. Jess matches his ferocity, yanking against the lapels of Dean’s jacket, wishing he could rip it into tatters. He reaches beneath it, rucks up Dean’s shirt and runs his hands against the muscles of his abdomen, biting his lip and savoring the noise that tears out of Dean’s throat.
“Please, please, I —” Dean pants, not giving Jess a second to respond before he covers his mouth with his own again, sucking, licking, greedy. Jess pulls back, taking Dean by the jaw and turning his head. He scrapes Dean’s earlobe with his teeth and then chuckles.
“Please what, baby?” he says, voice pitched low and mocking, and he feels Dean flinch. He wonders if he’ll call foul, if he’ll push him off, but when he checks Dean’s expression out of the corner of his eye, it’s lost to pleasure, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks flushed. Jess drops his hand from his jaw and traces it up Dean’s thigh instead.
Dean huffs. “Can we —” He cuts off with a startled, breathy little moan, because Jess has gripped him by his hard on, squeezing it punishingly through his jeans.
He noses softly along Dean’s cheek. “Can we what?” he wheedles again, readjusting his grip, and Dean grunts, the hand Jess had forgotten was in his hair tightening until little pinpricks of pleasure race across his scalp. Dean cranes his neck, his heavy gaze landing on Jess.
“Can we do it again, please, I need —” he breaks off into another moan, as Jess’s fingers slip under his waistband, just brushing the tip of his hard, trapped cock.
“Right here? Right now? You want to fuck me in my car?”
Dean groans, eyes falling shut again at Jess’s teasing fingers. “Yes.”
“No.”
Dean’s eyes snap open, a look of pained confusion breaking across his face. Jess almost feels bad.
“I don’t have condoms, or lube. Remember? It might be news to you, golden boy, but you can’t just stick your prick wherever you want, whenever you want.”
Dean huffs, nostrils flaring. “Don’t need a condom. Or lube, I’ll — I’ll eat you out, make you wet, I’ll do whatever —”
Jess kisses him roughly, both to silence him and to hide what the shock of those words did to him. His cheeks must be flaming red, if the tightening of his balls and the molten feeling in his lower belly is any indication. He pulls back, taking Dean’s jaw in his hand again, and if he had time, he’d marvel at how pliant the other is being.
“I know you think you know what you’re doing, after one measly screw,” he says evenly. “But that’s not gonna work.”
“Th—then what—”
“Get in the backseat.”
If Jess wasn’t so turned on he’d laugh at the way Dean scrambles through the slim gap in the front two seats, nearly too lanky to fit at all, but eventually he does. He throws himself onto the bench seat, turning around to look at Jess, panting, expectant.
Jess gives him a slow, one sided smile, and then he opens his car door, gets out, and opens the door to the backseat.
Dean flushes immediately, eyes wide, clearly embarrassed, and Jess doesn’t let him look away. He slides in calmly, closing the door behind him and keeping one eyebrow quirked at Dean the whole time.
“Eager, aren’t we?” He says, and it has the desired effect. Dean grinds his teeth together, the embarrassment fading from his expression in favor of irritation. Jess doesn’t let it fester long, leaning close and giving the tent in Dean’s pants another firm squeeze before unbuttoning them with unhurried, precise movements.
Dean lets out a startled, relieved little gasp when Jess bends down, freeing Dean’s cock and sliding it straight into his mouth in the same movement.
“Ah, shit,” he mutters, hands flying toward Jess, one landing in his hair and the other gripping his shirt. His airy moans fill the humid air of the cab, sending throbs of heat to Jess’s dick, spurring him on as Dean weakly rocks his hips in time. “You’re so — why are you so good at that?”
Jess pulls off, snaking a hand around the thick length, all slippery with spit and precum. He peers up at Dean, mouth falling into a crooked, open smile as he shrugs.
“Practice.”
As expected, Dean’s hands tighten on him. Jess laughs meanly, even though his voice is a little hoarse.
“Uh oh, is baby feeling possessive again?”
Dean pulls him up suddenly, holding him in place centimeters away.
“Stop fucking calling me that,” he hisses. Jess chuckles again, breathless, reveling in the vitriol, in the fingers squeezing him hard enough to bruise.
“Give me something better to do with my mouth, then,” he suggests, laughing wildly as Dean growls and shoves him back down. He’s worked up now; thrusts deep into Jess’s mouth, silencing him, making him gag, and it’s —
Jess hates the way it’s perfect.
Everything with Rory is so — so tentative, so slow — but no, don’t think of her right now you fucking asshole — and then he can’t anymore, can’t think of anything, his eyes watering and throat burning as Dean pumps his hips, faster now, more insistent.
He’s burning alive, skin thrumming with pleasure and stomach twisted with guilt, but it doesn’t matter. In the midst of the wrongness of it, he finally fits.
At Dean’s request, Jess stops the car two blocks away from Peach.
“It’s just. It’s late now, and my parents…” Dean trails off at the deadpan look he gets from Jess. “You don’t care.”
“Look who’s catching on,” Jess says, pulling out another cigarette. He’s had too many tonight, his stomach roils a bit at the thought of having another, but his fingers are itching for something to mess with, and he can’t very well reveal that Dean’s note’s been in his pocket this whole time.
Dean’s hesitating, hand hovering over the door handle, and Jess looks over, hitching a brow.
“What, you want a goodnight kiss?”
Dean scowls, running his tongue over his teeth, jiggling his leg for a moment, and then finally speaks.
“It was Lindsey.”
“Buckingham?”
“What?”
“I don’t know, what the hell are you talking about?”
“My neck! The—the hickey. It was…her name is Lindsey,” Dean says in a rush. Jess gives him a blank look, but he keeps going, looking determined. “She goes to our school. And for your information, she’s not a cheerleader — not that it would matter if she was — but. She’s not. She asked me out, and I said yes, and we went on a date, and that’s where it’s from.”
“Well…I sure hope you used protection, since you seem to think you don’t need it.”
“Now who crawled out of an afterschool special?” Dean quips. “Besides, it wasn’t like that. We didn’t even — all we did was make out.”
“Is there a point to this story?”
“You asked who gave it to me! I just… I thought I’d be honest.”
There’s that word again. It’s starting to grate on Jess’s nerves. He can’t even argue with Dean, because it’s true, he did ask.
He spins the unlit cigarette. “She asked you out, huh?”
Dean looks down at his lap then, smiling to himself a bit, and if that doesn’t smart. “Yeah, she did. It was…cute.”
“And you said yes.”
“Obviously.”
“So is she your girlfriend now?” Jesus, Jess is such a fucking hypocrite.
Dean looks at him. “No.”
“Do you want her to be?”
“I don’t know! I —” he sucks on his teeth. “We…” he looks at Jess out of the corner of his eye and then away again. “That night happened, and then I didn’t hear from you, not a word. You weren’t even around. And then she came up to me and…I don’t know, it was nice, I guess. To feel wanted. To not feel like someone’s mistake, or second choice, for once. And you know what? I don’t know why I’m explaining myself, cause you just blew me in the backseat of your goddamn car and you’re still with Rory.”
“Hey, you’re the one who walked into the confessional, Dean, I could care less,” Jess says.
“Fine, forget I said anything!”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Dean scoffs. “So that’s it then?” His voice has gotten higher-pitched, louder, while Jess’s has dwindled to little more than a disinterested murmur. That seems to incense Dean even more. “You know what, Jess? The next time you want to climb up my fucking tree in the middle of the fucking night, just don’t!”
“Fine.”
“Fine!” Dean snaps, launching himself out of the car and slamming the door shut behind him.
Jess purses his lips, pockets the cigarette, and leans over to roll down the passenger window. Then he cruises up next to Dean where he’s walking — storming, really, with his shoulders up by his ears and his hands jammed in his coat pockets.
“‘Til next time, baby,” Jess calls, and Dean spins, furious, but Jess is already picking up speed, grinning to himself as he turns the corner.
Jess tugs on the locker door, cursing as it stays resolutely shut. It’s his third try, and his patience was wearing thin before he even started.
“Mr. Mariano!”
Perfect.
“Mr. Merton,” Jess says, wishing like hell his shoulders hadn’t just tensed up. He swears the old bastard gets off on shit like that.
“That’s Principal Merton, but you knew that, didn’t you? Smart kid like you.” Merton shoots him a grim smile, eyes flicking down to where Jess’s fingers are spinning the dial on the lock. Again. “You’re not the type to forget things, are you?”
“Mind like a steel trap,” Jess says with a sarcastic tilt of his head. He yanks on the door again. Nothing.
“Forgot the code?” Merton asks.
Hell, Jess isn’t even sure he’s at the right locker. He gives up.
“Nope. Just lost in thought,” he says, turning to the principal and tapping a finger against his temple. “Ms. Okafor’s econ lecture today sure was stimulating. Got the gears turning, you know?”
“Did the gears happen to remember we had a meeting scheduled this morning? I arrived early. I can’t say I expected to see you in my office, but still. A man can dream.”
“I was busy. A man’s gotta work, too, or so Ms. Okafor says.”
Merton tilts his head, mouth flattening. “Of course. And you work…at your uncle’s diner, yes?”
Jess eyes the last few clumps of students heading to their next classes, shooting him and the principal sly looks and whispering to each other.
“Yup.”
“Surely he would have let you off early, if he’d known you had a meeting with your school principal, wouldn’t he have?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Oh, I could, believe me. But contrary to what you may believe, I’m a quite reasonable man. You’re an adult, Jess. A young one, but still. I was hoping to treat you like one. Hence the meeting I scheduled with you this morning.”
Jess grits his teeth. “Well, we’ll just have to reschedule, Sir Merton.”
“It’s Principal —” the man straightens then exhales sharply through his nose, pasting an irritated smile on his face. “I’m free now! How about it?”
“I have class.”
“That’s never bothered you before.”
Jess works his jaw, hiking his backpack further up one shoulder.
Merton looks at him, gaze scrutinizing. “Fine. After school, then. Enjoy your next class…?”
“History,” Jess grits.
“Excellent. Better not keep Mr. Clarke waiting. I’ll see you at 3:50. Sharp.”
“Aye aye, Captain Merton,” Jess says with a little salute, walking backwards for a few steps before spinning around. His original plan was to sneak down a stairwell, after he retrieved the spare pack of cigarettes he stashed in his locker, but first the locker wouldn’t cooperate and now he’s being watched.
He gives up, ducking into the history classroom just as the bell rings. From where he sits at his desk in the front of the class, Mr. Clarke looks up at him, a note of mild surprise in his coke-bottle-glasses magnified gaze.
Jess slips into a seat at the back, then surveys the room, eyes catching on every garish display of red and white wool until he finds the one emblazoned with “Forester” across the back, a couple of rows up and to his left.
Dean’s facing forward, leaned back with his legs stretched out in front of him, the picture of unbothered confidence. But he’s tapping his pencil on the edge of his desk just a bit too rapidly to be casual. Jess smirks, looking down at the top of his desk.
“Alright, class!” Mr. Clarke announces, standing up. “As promised, today is a work day. Please find your assigned partners for your Decade of Change project and spend the class time working together… Yes, Mr. Forester?”
“Matt tore his ACL at our game on Saturday. He’ll be out for the next few weeks. Should I join another group?”
“Ah, that’s right. I was at that game! A thrilling match! You boys put up a good fight. Awful about Mr. Hindman’s knee, though. Will he recover?”
Dean nods once. “Yes, sir, but it’s gonna be a while.”
Mr. Clarke clicks his tongue. “Hockey is a very dangerous sport, isn’t it! You boys are very brave.”
Jesus, the man is practically drooling.
“Um. I guess, sir,” Dean says awkwardly, and Jess chuckles under his breath.
Mr. Clarke’s eyes snap to him. “Ah, Mr. Mariano! Perfect. Unless I am mistaken you were absent last week, when we chose partners?” A sinking feeling of realization creeps over Jess as he continues. “We’ve an odd number anyways. I had planned to have you join another group — with some added assignments, of course, for fairness — but this is serendipitous, and much simpler! You’ll pair up with Mr. Forester in Mr. Hindman’s place.”
Someone stifles their laughter to Jess’s right, and a few whispers break out among some girls in the front row. Jess runs his tongue along his back teeth, staying silent. He watches Dean, who looks like he’s still trying to process Clarke’s words.
“Hm? Alright?” The small man chirps, looking between them. After a few more seconds, Dean nods, slow. Jess shrugs. Clarke claps his hands. “Excellent! Okay everyone, pair up!”
Jess leans back in his seat, waiting for Dean to look back at him. When he finally does, Jess catches his eye, quirking an eyebrow, and Dean scowls, looking away immediately and reaching down for his bag. He's not quick enough though, for Jess to miss the blush that spreads across his cheeks. Jess chews on the inside of his lip, warding off a smile. Maybe it won’t be so terrible.
“Well, that’s a terrible fucking idea,” Jess says approximately five minutes later, after Dean finishes explaining the concept of the project and the work he and Matt had done so far.
Dean huffs, looking up from his notebook irritably. “The assignment was to choose the decade in American history that was the most transformative.”
“And you chose the nineties?”
Dean presses his mouth into a thin line. “With the invention and widespread use of the internet, the world —“
“Will be just as overcrowded and over polluted as before. All the internet did was make it even easier to commodify basic human needs, and give oppressive governments one more weapon of control. Besides, you’re saying life has changed that much since ‘89?"
Dean sets his pencil down, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. What would you have chosen?”
Jess lifts an eyebrow, shrugging. “Literally anything else. The 1770s when the country actually became a country. The 1860s; the civil war, the abolition of slavery. The 1880s, with the start of the American Industrial Revolution. The 1960s — come on, the sixties; the invention of the birth control pill, the civil rights movement, the Vietnam war protests, the disillusionment and the collapse of the American dream…”
He snaps his mouth shut when he sees Dean’s expression; it was closed-off and annoyed at the start of their conversation, but now it’s wide-eyed, his mouth drawn into a surprised little pout.
“But sure, let’s talk about Beanie Babies and Boyz II Men,” Jess finishes lamely, crossing his arms and looking away. “Y2K didn’t even matter,” he grumbles after a moment.
Dean purses his lips, tapping his pencil again. “Okay. Well, um. I suggested the 1990s, and Matt thought it was a good idea. Plus we already submitted our outline, and Clarke accepted it. Everyone else has picked too, so I think it’s too late to change.”
Jess rolls his eyes. “Whatever, it’s not like it matters. What now?”
Dean looks like he might say something else, but he just shakes his head, looking down with a rueful twist of his mouth and pulling over a printed rubric. “There’s a 3,000 word essay, and a ten minute presentation. We’re supposed to partner for both, so we each write half of the essay, and each take five minutes of the presentation, or we alternate. Matt and I were going to —”
“Why do you call him that?”
Dean looks up from the rubric. “What?”
“Matt.”
“…why do I call him by his name?” Dean looks to the side for a moment before looking back at Jess. “See that’s sort of the funny thing about names, you —”
Jess sits forward. “Hindman. That’s what everyone else calls him, right? His last name. But you call him Matt. How come? Are you two close?”
“I guess?”
“What about Todd?”
“What about Todd?” Dean asks, shifting in his seat and tapping his pencil faster.
“Thought he was your best friend.”
“How would you know, Jess? It’s not like —” Dean stops abruptly, seeming to change course halfway through his sentence. “It’s not like you’re ever here to know,” he finally snaps.
“Uh oh, trouble in paradise?” Jess mocks. “Or is Matt your favorite now, since he thinks you have such good ideas?”
Dean looks around, because they’re gathering a bit of attention now. He lowers his voice to a cutting murmur.
“What's your problem? You got me, I chose the wrong decade, I call my friend by his name. Why do you have to poke at every little thing?” Dean looks away suddenly, squeezing his pencil so hard his fingertips turn white. “Why is everything a game to you?” He finishes, almost a whisper.
Jess twists his mouth, sitting back. Truthfully, he’s not sure why he’s being such a dick, other than habit. Sure, he’d been trying to rile Dean up a bit, because it is a bit of a game; seeing the taller boy’s face get a little more flushed, his jaw clenched…and maybe it was something else, too. Something about Dean and his hockey buddies, all effortlessly friendly with each other in that testosterone-fueled, high school jock camaraderie way that Jess had never been a part of, and never would be. Not that he even wants to be, but it’s one more place he doesn’t fit, isn’t it?
But he hadn’t meant to truly upset Dean, not really. They did this all the time, didn’t they? Hell, they’d even used arguing as foreplay. He opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, when he’s interrupted.
“Everything alright, gentlemen?” Mr. Clarke asks, standing before them, magnified eyes glancing between the two of them. Jess hadn’t even noticed him walk over.
“Peachy,” Jess says, eyes on Dean.
“Mm,” Mr. Clarke hums, mouth a flat line, before he turns to Dean. “Mr. Forester, I have quite a bit of paperwork for your teammate. Graded work to return, as well as some amended assignments for the next month, to ensure he doesn’t fall behind. Might I talk them through with you, and entrust you with their safe delivery?”
Dean blinks a few times, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. Jess can’t blame him; Clarke has the unique talent of overcomplicating everything he says.
“Yeah, sure,” Dean says.
“Now, then?” Mr. Clarke asks, turning to Jess. “I’m sure you’ve had enough time to explain your outline to Mr. Mariano. He can begin on his own?”
“He’ll be fine,” Dean says, standing and sending Jess a dark look, then following Mr. Clarke up to his desk.
Jess doesn’t wait for him to return. When Clarke’s back is turned, he makes for the hallway, slipping down a side stairwell and out the door, meeting with Merton be damned.