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The door to Hemingway’s apartment creaks open.
Fitzgerald , Hemingway’s beer-addled mind supplies, rather ecstatically. Hemingway takes a swig of room-temperature beer. The taste of cheap alcohol floods his senses, drowning the unwanted flutter of his chest. He tries to reason that the hypothesis stems from Fitzgerald’s audacity to enter Hemingway’s man-cave at midnight, yet, he knows that to be a fallacy.
The voice in his head now supplies a simple answer: Ernest is infatuated with Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald. This does not sit well with Hemingway. The beer can is empty now. Hemingway reaches over for another can.
“Hey, friend!” Fitzgerald slurs, cheerfully.
“Hello, drunk. I’m guessing something happened between you and that woman .” Hemingway manages to say, not turning away from a television. Hemingway is watching comedy central, and the horrendous stench of chinese takeout, budweiser, and cigarette smoke assault Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald laughs, shaking his head, as if Hemingway jokes. It sounds as if Fitzgerald is laughing at him. Hemingway grits his teeth. He’s thinking too deep.
“Zelda is an angel, Ernest.”
“If you say so.” Hemingway bites his lip and shoves a beer in the direction of his friend, and Fitzgerald reluctantly accepts. There’s a bitterness in the beer that Hemingway has offered Fitzgerald, unrefined yet addicting, like the man himself. Fitzgerald tries to focus on what has been projected onto the small-screened television in front of him. A Marie Curie impersonator and Beyonce impersonator make-out with each other.
The staged, falsetto laughter from the audience disgusts Fitzgerald, yet, it’s preferable in comparison to dead silence.
“Do you mind if I sit next to you?” Hemingway nods at Fitzgerald, continuing to avoid facing his friend.
“Much appreciated..” Fitzgerald sinks himself onto the couch, the soft substance sinking under his weight. Hemingway shifts, and Fitzgerald loses his center of balance. He leans into Hemingway. The younger author pretends to not notice. Fitzgerald wantonly situates himself, looking at his author-friend with half-lidded eyes and pouty lips.
“You’re damn heavy.” Hemingway finally says.
Fitzgerald snorts, then covers his mouth.
"Hell! That was not a very dapper attitude!" Hemingway smirks. Fitzgerald pinches Hemingway’s cheek, and Hemingway tries to stick his hand up the other author’s nose. Hemingway pushes Fitzgerald off of the couch and onto the wooden floors. Fitzgerald dramatically pulls Hemingway down with him with a loud yell.
"You're basically my missing piece, Ernest." Fitzgerald giggles out as they jostle on the floor, two overgrown kindergarteners. Fitzgerald is on top of the broader man, his hands on the other man’s chest. His pale, shaven legs are wrapped around Hemingway’s torso, blocking the young Illinoisan from moving.
Hemingway blushes, then covers his face. Fitzgerald finds it hilarious.
“Nothing can compare with you, my dear.” Fitzgerald lowers his voice, as if seducing the other man.
Hemingway hisses out a curse when he realizes how trapped he is.
"Love you so much." Francis smiles drunkenly. Hemingway sighs.
"You can't say that to every single person you meet."
“Non! Mon coeur, tu es magnifique.” He blows a kiss to the immobilized man.
“That’s the only thing you learned in Paris. Fuck-nugget.” Hemingway deadpans, his voice a cynical tone. Yet, Fitzgerald notices that the other man has tears streaming down his eyes.
Fitzgerald feels like he’s messed up, big-time. Not because Fitzgerald’s sadistic brain has decided to give him a raging hard-on, but because Fitzgerald automatically wipes a tear from Hemingway, and Hemingway replied with a squeal of protest.
Fitzgerald gets off of his author-friend, postulating that the position they are in causes Hemingway pain. Hemingway continues to lament.
“I’m sorry.” Fitzgerald says, unsure. Hemingway covers his eyes.
“I’m really sorry.” Fitzgerald tries.
Hemingway does not reply.
“Come on, Ernest.” Fitzgerald complains, putting all of his bodyweight onto the curled-up ball that is Hemmingway. After a few moments, giving up on a response from the latter, Fitzgerald pushes himself up.
“I’m going to use your shower. Did you remember to buy the shampoo I want?”
The small fuck you from Hemingway makes Fitzgerald smile wider than a school-girl in love.
"Fuck you back." Fitzgerald rushes to the shower-room, still smiling, his blush as red as a flapper’s lipstick.