Chapter 10 Henry #4
Well that memory sucked some of the enjoyment out of the moment. I felt myself deflate. “I don’t think so,” I said, unable to hide the glum note in my voice.
He frowned, pouting slightly. “What just happened?” He paused the movie again and focused his attention on me. “We were teasing and then you went all emo.”
“I’m not emo,” I protested hotly. Didn’t emos wear dark colors and lots of eyeliner? Or was that goths? Or maybe both, I clearly didn’t pay enough attention to trends. “I was just remembering…you know, never mind.”
“Nuh-uh.” He shook his head and set the remote down. “Talk,” he ordered.
Great, back to making things uncomfortable. Great work, Henry. “It’s really nothing,” I attempted. “Just a bad memory of someone who basically told me I was the opposite of a romantic.”
Jamison pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Ok, look, I don’t know you that well,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “but we have talked a lot over the last couple of weeks and I feel like I know you enough to say that you’re hardly the he-man, no-emotions type.
Are you all hearts and flowers? No. But you’ve got a squishy center.
” As if to illustrate his point, he poked me in the gut, where I was, indeed, a little squishy.
I yelped at the sharp contact and pulled back slightly. “Hey!”
“Ticklish?” He grinned and went in for the kill with both hands. “I’ll tickle you until you admit you’re not anti-romantic,” he informed me as I whined and laughed at his tickling. Curie gave us a peeved look and jumped off the couch before she could get caught between us.
“I didn’t say,” I gasped, “that I thought I was. Just that someone told me I was. Stoppppp.” I attempted to pry his hands off me with no success.
“So you admit you have a marshmallow center?” he demanded, not letting up.
I was man enough to know when I was beaten. “Fine. Fine!” I surrendered, and his tickling slowed down. “I’m…squishy.”
“Hmph.” He straightened up, removed his hands from my stomach, and straightened his t-shirt fussily. “Good boy. Opposite of romantic, my left asscheek.”
Oddly specific, but ok. I straightened my own clothes, which had gotten rucked up under the onslaught, and caught Jamison eyeing me as I did it. “What?”
He winked. “Just enjoying the show.”
Right, the show of my soft belly being tucked away under my baggy sweatshirt. Uh-huh. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the remote from him, pressing play and then setting it down on the coffee table. “Still think the rival is a nice guy,” I couldn’t resist needling him as the action started again.
“Hmm.” He took a sip of his Coke. “It’s because you’re too nice,” he decided after a moment. “You can’t hate anyone.”
I snorted. “Oh, believe me, that is false.” I was totally capable of hate. Well, strong dislike. I definitely strongly disliked my ex, the cheater. I disliked all cheaters. Did that count as hate?
“Oh yeah?” Jamison challenged. “Who do you hate, and why?”
I couldn’t hold back a wince at the memories that assaulted me.
Coming home early to find that my door was unlocked - yay, Ramsey stopped by - and then hearing odd noises from my bedroom - did he get started without me?
. Following the noises excitedly, only to find that Ramsey wasn’t alone in my bedroom. That fucker.
“You’re growling,” Jamison observed, a note of wonder in his voice. “I’m not sure whether to be turned on or scared.”
I blinked, realizing that I was, indeed, making a low rumbling noise of rage in my chest. I cleared my throat. “Uh, sorry.”
He took a sip of his Coke, then turned the can in his hands reflectively. “Bad memories?”
“You could say that.” I sighed. Might as well tell him, if he was having to sit through my angry-bear impression. “I was thinking about my ex.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The ex who told you you were an anti-romantic? And then cheated on you? That dick?”
I nodded, sighing.
“Grrr.” His attempt at a growl was sort of adorable, but I didn’t think laughing would be the appropriate response, so I held it in.
“I hereby approve of hating that dickhead. You get a pass on the not-hating thing for him. But I maintain that you’re not a hateful sort of guy, generally speaking. You’re too nice.”
Too nice? That sounded…somehow like damning with faint praise. Nobody who accused me of being too nice was going to want to spend more time with me. Too nice was boring. Intimidating. “I’m not that nice,” I protested weakly. “I have a temper. I do,” I emphasized when he looked skeptical.
“My dude, you’ve been hanging out with me repeatedly and you have yet to chuck anything at my head. I’m gonna go ahead and say your temper is about as long as tempers get.”
I blinked. What was he talking about? I’d been having fun with him. “Why would I want to throw things at you?”
“Uh.” He blinked back at me, apparently as taken aback by my protest as I had been by his assertion. “Because I can get annoying?”
“Who told you that?”
He snorted. “Everybody who’s ever met me. I’m, like, the quintessential hyper-twink. Full of energy and attitude.”
That was what he thought of himself? I frowned, not liking that at all.
“Ok, I’ll admit you sort of have the ‘twink’ aesthetic going,” I said, “and you’re fairly energetic, but I haven’t found you annoying at all.
Well, except when you tickled me,” I added.
“That, I could do without. But otherwise, I’ve been enjoying talking to you. And you’re far from a gay stereotype.”
“Aw.” He reached over and patted my hand. “You’re sweet. But I mean, I wanted to play with your hair. I wear eyeliner. Hi, walking stereotype.”
“That’s bullshit,” I protested. “Just like stereotypes usually are. You’re…you’re…” I struggled to find the right word. “You’re you,” I finally finished lamely.
“I mean, I didn’t say there was anything wrong with being super-twink,” he pointed out. “There’s always gotta be some of us.” His gaze dropped, and I noticed that he was wringing his hands in his lap around his soda can. “And, you know, a lot of guys are into people like me anyway, so it pays off.”
I felt my lips tighten at the notion of other guys wanting him. That wasn’t cool; Jamison was my…my what? Your nothing, I reminded myself. Just a friend. Friends didn’t get jealous about other friends being desirable. I had no right to him, especially after blowing it so badly the night we met.
“Whatever just went through your head, avoid it in the future,” Jamison spoke up, startling me out of my thoughts.
“What?”
He smiled slightly. “Your face got all scary. Whatever was going through your head was clearly bad news bears.” He lifted a hand and traced one finger from the edge of my lips to my cheekbone. “Your smile went all…hard.” His hand returned to his lap.
Poker face: I clearly had none. I suppressed a wince. “Sorry. Was just…thinking. I, uh…” What was a plausible excuse? I fumbled around for one. “I really don’t like that you think of yourself that simplistically,” was what I came up with. It was weak, but it would do. It was at least on-topic.
“Aww.” He lifted his hand again, this time to boop me in the nose. “You’re adorable and this underlines my determination that you’re too sweet to be hateful. Except toward your fuckface ex,” he added before I could protest. “But he deserves it.”
I couldn’t help but smile then. “We’re like a two-person support group right now,” I said with a small laugh. “‘You’re great.’,” I mimicked theatrically. “‘No, you’re great.’ ‘Don’t listen to the mean people.’ ‘No, you don’t listen to the mean people.’”
He grinned at me and took another swig of soda, emptying his can, which he leaned forward to set on the coffee table.
“The beatings will continue until morale improves.” He sat back against the couch and sighed.
“Would it be crazy to say I actually feel surprisingly comforted by this conversation? I mean, I honestly don’t mind being a twink or having people notice me as one.
But it feels nice to hear you say you don’t just see me that way, too. ”
I shook my head. “No, that makes sense to me. It’s always nice to know when someone sees you for you.
People look at me and see a bear and expect me to be all growly and dominant and…
yeah, no. I’d much rather hang out with someone like you who takes the time to talk to me and, yes,” I admitted, “thinks I’m ‘too nice to hate anyone’. ”
“Look at us, having a lovefest.” He smirked. “We totally forgot about the movie. You need to see if the rival gets a second chance at love, remember?”
I blinked, looking from him to the television, which was frozen where we’d left it a good half-hour ago when we’d paused for drinks. “Oops, guess we got sidetracked.”
“Sidetracked by trading compliments.” He picked up the remote and pressed play. “I’ve had worse afternoons. Way worse.”
I took the last sip of my soda and set the can alongside his on the coffee table, then settled back to watch the rest of the movie. It wasn’t like we both didn’t know exactly how it was going to end - these movie plots were hardly nail-biters - but still, it was always nice to watch them get there.
Half an hour later, I was absorbed in the denouement of the movie, watching Main Character 1 dramatically agonize about whether to go after Main Character 2, who had left to go back to the city, convinced MC1 didn’t love him, when I felt a pressure on my shoulder.
Figuring it was the cat climbing off the back of the couch, I looked over and down and was surprised to find that rather than a furry body, the weight on my shoulder was Jamison’s head.
Was he snuggling with me? No, he’d probably fallen asleep.
I craned my head slightly forward so I could see his face and check whether he was awake.
He wasn’t. Or at least, his eyes were definitely closed. Poor guy was clearly either bored stupid or just exhausted. Either way, I wasn’t going to wake him up. I smiled to myself and turned back to watch the end of the movie.
Shocking approximately no one, Main Character 1 chased after Main Character 2 and confessed his love. MC 2 tearfully shared that he had been without hope, MC1 assured him that hope sprung eternal, and they kissed.
On my shoulder, Jamison was drooling slightly.
I could feel it soaking into my shirt. Curie had climbed into my lap at some point during the climax of the movie and was purring comfortingly.
So basically I couldn’t move, even to pick up the remote, or I’d dislodge either human or feline and lose the pleasant warmth they were both giving me.
Lacking any other options - because moving really wasn’t one, thank you very much - I rested my head against the back of the couch and closed my eyes.