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Caesar hates summer. Although, he doesn’t dislike it for any normal reason; not the heat, nor the bugs. He doesn’t mind the sun, either; being Italian means his skin can handle a little extra UV. It’s his neighbour. His stupid, annoying, British-born American neighbour.
Now, the neighbour isn’t stupid because he’s American. (Actually, that might be debatable.) And Caesar doesn’t dislike him for any logical reasons. It’s not like he throws loud house parties, or because he lets his bushes grow to Caesar’s side of the fence. He doesn’t let his dog shit on Caesar’s lawn and not pick it up. It’s not even like he’s a particularly annoying person.
He washes his car almost every day. In nothing but a pair of red athletic shorts and a shirt so small Caesar can see every dip of his muscles from his second storey neighbouring window. It’s been… distracting, to say the least. Now, Caesar likes to pride himself on his ability to maintain a strict sense of self control. The way he does this? Turning every unsavoury thought into some sick kind of dislike for the guy. Hating him is easier than Caesar admitting to himself he wants to date the guy next door who still lives with his parents.
(Not that there’s anything wrong with living with your parents in college— in fact, Caesar sort of wishes he had that fall back instead of having to scrounge up rent every month, but he finds it hard to imagine in an idealized world where the hunk next door likes men that he would go over to makeout and have to tactfully avoid conversation with the Joestars.)
Naturally, Caesar wallows, watching Joseph wash his car every other goddamn day (who the fuck even needs to clean the car that much?) from his bedroom window, and when he doesn’t do that, he avoids Joseph like the plague. Not that Joseph ever takes a hint.
It’s like he gets off on Caesar’s suffering. Actually, no, he’s not smart enough to realize that he’s the cause of the suffering, let alone get off on it. Maybe that makes it worse. Joseph seems to have no idea that walking around with a sopping white shirt and booty shorts with “Are You Nasty?” written on the ass is basically softcore, and it definitely does way more for Caesar than it should.
He’s always trying to talk to Caesar too. Now, of course there isn’t anything inherently wrong with Joseph making conversation; it’s innocent enough, right? It’s Caesar that’s the problem. In the middle of Joseph talking about goddamn tire rims he’ll find his mind drifting off into some very murky waters.
For example:
Mid-June, around noon. Caesar’s just parked his Mini Cooper in his driveway and is currently moving to unload his car of his weekly groceries. Joseph is outside of course, washing that god forsaken convertible and wearing some shorts and a muscle shirt that Caesar absolutely does not stare too long at, and he’s humming some pop song that’s playing from an iPod dock on the front porch. It’s some new wave shit that Caesar doesn’t listen to.
Joseph waves at him, but Caesar pretends he doesn’t see, filling his arms with his paper grocery bags. “Hi, Caesar!” Joseph calls. He either thinks that Caesar didn’t see him, or he just doesn’t care and Caesar doesn’t know which is worse. He makes a point of not paying attention to Joseph, walking up his front steps. “Hot one today, huh?”
Caesar does not answer. Because he’s an asshole.
“You need help with your groceries?” He’s asked this in the midst of dropping said groceries by the door before he goes back to his car to make his second trip.
“No, thank you, Joseph,” he calls back eventually, realizing he probably shouldn’t come across as a total dickhead. Still, he refuses to look in Joseph’s direction, for the image of Joseph’s side boob would plague his thoughts for years to come. He’d never be the same.
“I told you,” Joseph says, in this whiny tone that makes him sound more stupid than he is. Or, maybe he just is nothing but a ditz. It’s not like Caesar took the time to get to know him that well— God only knows then the infatuation would dip into deeper waters than just surface level attraction and being somewhat charmed by his blatant idiocy. Maybe that’s a little harsh. Joseph is sweet, and that makes things much worse. “It’s JoJo! Only my mother calls me Joseph!”
Caesar props the door open with his hip and shoves all his bags inside. “I’ll see you later,” he says, wanting to go put away his groceries so he can lock himself in his bedroom and think some very unsavoury things about his next-door neighbour. “Joseph.”
If he hears Joseph huff about it, Caesar ignores it.
-
The next few days pass in a heat-muddled blur. Avoiding Joseph seems to be next to impossible, somehow. Caesar’s going to work, Joseph is doing his morning stretches on the front lawn in a tank top and leggings. He’s watering his front garden, Joseph is taking the dog (one of those little fluffy ones that every upper to lower middle class white families have, named something ridiculous like CoCo or FuFu, or Shnookums or something ) (Pepper is her name, Caesar would later find, and it’s equally as ridiculous as the other names because she is white.). And when Caesar is at home, doing whatever it his he may be doing, without fail, every time he looks out his bedroom window Joseph is there cleaning that god forsaken car. He catches Caesar staring and waves, and Caesar pretends he didn’t see it and slides down his wall. The car’s sudsy red sheen shakes its fist and mocks how pathetic he is.
It really is pathetic, too. No amount of measly Grindr hookups can possibly erase the way his mind is always wandering to that uneven haircut and a fading British accent and blue-green eyes. He shouldn't be so down for a guy he hardly even knows— but here he is, rubbing at is eyes with the heel of his hands as phantom images of Joseph squeezing a sponge out onto his front dance behind his eyelids.
There has to be something he can do, right? The house market can’t be too bad; maybe he can move away forever. His mom has been trying to get him to go back to Italy, anyhow— and it’s not like he left for any particular reason. Why shouldn’t he go back there to overbearing nonnas who tell him if he just goes to church he can get rid of his homosexuality?
Yeah, Italy is off the table. There’s definitely plenty of reasons he moved to America. Still, moving can’t be entirely out of the question, right? Alaska seems nice this time of year. Maybe even Canada— he’s always wanted to go to Toronto. Off brand New York, you know.
Caesar puts his head between his knees. He thinks about crushing his own skull, but instead decides to go make a coffee and distract himself with reality TV.
-
Eventually, Caesar can’t take it anymore.
He’d been outside deadheading flowers before their nightly water, and in the midst of this, out had come Joseph, in another one of his too-small shirts and too-short shorts, carrying a sponge and a bucket of water, waving animatedly at Caesar like he isn’t the cause of his downfall. Caesar had, as a good, not assholish neighbour would, plastered on a fake smile and waved back halfheartedly, turning up his music in his headphones so the croon of some old ass Italian shit his mother had sent him over text to “remind him of the good old days” would drown out the trickle of Joseph’s hose and the squeak of sponge on glass.
Of course, this hadn’t lasted long. Caesar can only be in Joseph’s presence for very short amounts of time, and with such close proximity and a front row seat to how Joseph’s shirt clings to his biceps, it’s only natural Caesar would reach his breaking point. He’s honestly surprised he made it this long.
“Why on earth do you wash that goddamn car so much?”
Joseph looks at Caesar like the question is both obvious and out of this world. He pauses scrubbing. Caesar dusts his hands off on his pants. There’s no way he’s going back to gardening after this. Being so close to Joseph has him wanting to hobble away to barbeque his dinner and wallow in self pity.
“It’s a nice car,” Joseph says, like that answers everything. “And it’s good exercise. You think I got arms like these from just eating my greens?”
He flexes. Caesar forces himself to turn away. “Doesn’t it strip away the finish if you wash it so much?”
Leaning against the car, Joseph shakes his head. Like this, Caesar can see completely through the soaked white material of his shirt as it clings to his chest. Christ . “No,” he says, “because I use the right soaps and stuff. And I wax it, too, to keep her shiny.”
“You sure know a lot about this kind of stuff, Joseph.”
“JoJo,” he corrects. Caesar will never call him JoJo. “My dad taught me. Gives me somethin’ to do in the summer, you know?”
“Right,” Caesar says. “Well, I should go. I’m barbecuing tonight, and it’s the first time this season, so I’ve got to get it ready.”
“Oh, really? I love barbecue. Mine’s broken right now, so Dad hasn’t really had the chance to do it. Do you need any help?”
Caesar can’t possibly imagine spending any more time with Joseph than strictly necessary. He just isn’t sure what he’d do. “I’m not going to put you to work. I couldn’t ask for your help without giving something in return.”
“Nonsense!” Joseph says. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, absolutely beaming. “I love helpin’ out! I wouldn’t mind at all. Won’t even make you grill me a dog or something, either.”
A mental image flashes through his mind of Joseph eating a hot dog. Caesar wipes ketchup from the corner of his lips and Joseph takes the digit into his mouth, humming around it as he looks at Caesar through those thick lashes and puppy eyes. His tongue is like velvet and— Jesus Christ. He needs help. Maybe professionally. “No, seriously. It’s fine.”
Joseph sinks back into the side of the car. “Oh,” he says, visibly hurt. His eyes get all soft and his bottom lip juts out slightly— not enough anyone else would notice it. Caesar does though, of course. He notices everything when it comes to Joseph. “Alright, no prob. I just thought, since I’m alone tonight and have nothing better to do.”
Somebody be a nice person and shoot Caesar. Please. Right between the eyes.
“Alright,” he says. “Fine. You can change the propane tank and scrape the charred shit off the grill.”
Joseph’s face lights up. “Really?” he grins, elated. He’s like a puppy, Caesar swears. He shrugs in response, and Joseph fist pumps. “Nice, man! Finally lettin’ me help you with something. Should I go change?”
Caesar makes the mistake of looking at Joseph once more, at his muscled abdomen and thick thighs and the water that’s dried in rivulet shaped streaks all over his body. “Yes,” he decides instantly, looking away. “You probably should. My backyard doesn’t get much sun this late, so you might get cool.”
“Heh heh,” Joseph pokes Caesar’s arm. “Probably right! I’ll meet you at yours, ‘kay?”
God help him.
-
Caesar spends his time awaiting Joseph’s arrival willing himself to act like a normal human being, which is hard, considering the obvious. He paces his backyard, just past what would be Joseph’s line of sight, should he come around the corner, wringing his hands and nibbling on his bottom lip. It should be fine, should it not? Joseph will be in and out; he had said he wouldn’t even ask for something grilled as thanks, which meant he didn’t plan on staying. Casar can be an adult for the twenty some odd minutes it might take for Joseph to help him get ready.
Preemptively pulling out the new propane tank, Caesar sets it in an area easily describable as though not to cause any issues on his part when directing the latter to it. He figures he should let Joseph get the tank himself, so it doesn’t look like he’s trying to get rid of him, though he likely will be. He even pulls the grill brush out of the drawer and hangs it off the hook on the side of the barbecue. Inconspicuous enough to be normal. Not that Joseph will even notice.
He hears Joseph up the side of the house before he sees him, and when the sight is laid before him, he sincerely wishes he hadn’t.
Caesar genuinely does not know if this is worse than what Joseph is usually clad in. He’s in forest green sweats and a grey football crewneck cropped at the base of his ribs, showing off the toned plains of his abdomen and the thin trail of hair that runs from his navel to below the low waist of his sweatpants. The sleeves of the sweater are pulled over his hands, somehow loose despite the broadness of him. He has a typical idiotic smile plastered on his face. The kind of smile that could persuade you to do something ridiculous.
“Hi, Caesar,” Joseph says as he walks through the gate, latching it behind himself. His hair is messy, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after slipping his sweater over his head. Caesar can feel the phantom strands between his fingers, soft despite the chlorine damage. He wrings his hands at his sides, unblinking. Joseph cocks his head. “What?”
Tearing his eyes away, Caesar shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” Joseph has to be doing it on purpose. No, he couldn’t. There’s no way he could possibly know what’s going on in Caesar’s head. “The uh, tank is over there.” He gestures with his thumb. “If you wanna get started.”
“Love to,” Joseph says, breezing by him. The wind that it creates smells of soap and some sort of cologne— like the higher end kind you could find at a drugstore. It’s intoxicating nonetheless. Caesar watches him bend at the hip, the way his sweats hug him, where his muscles strain against the fabric of his sweater as he lifts the propane tank. “So, whatcha grillin’?”
Caesar blinks a few times. “Chicken,” he blurts, a little idiotically. “And asparagus.”
“Oh, I love asparagus,” Joseph tells him. He sets the propane tank by the base of the barbecue and crosses his arms over his chest for a moment. “It’s one of the only vegetables I actually like.”
“You don’t like vegetables?”
“Not… really?” Joseph says, scratching at his neck. “Mum still has to kinda force me to eat ‘em most of the time.”
“Aren’t you an adult?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And your mother still forces you to eat your greens?”
“Well, it’s mostly the texture of a lot of them that I don’t like,” Joseph says. “Cooked carrots make me gag. The texture of boiled cauliflower is icky. I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
Caesar nods, and it’s quiet for a moment. Realizing he should fill the silence, Caesar says, “I have a texture thing, too.” Joseph cocks his head. “Pudding stuff. Yogurt, custard, that kind of texture. Can’t stomach it.”
“We’re a lot more alike than you thought!” Joseph grins, that dumb, kind way he does. Maybe they are. Thinking that way makes it a lot harder for Caesar to pretend he hasn’t wanted to jump Joseph’s bones since they moved in two years ago. If they exist on the same moral ground it becomes impossible for Caesar to rationalize his thinly veiled hatred as a mere excuse for the fact that he is a lonely gay man who hasn’t gotten any ass since his first year of university. He doesn’t answer, so Joseph asks, “So, how do I get the tank in?” and then squats.
Of course, it’s obvious he would need to. The tank is close to the ground and Joseph is over six feet tall. But now, due to the careless drop at the bend of Joseph’s knees, Caesar can see his back dimples and the line where his tan ends and the cool evening air suddenly feels a lot more sweltering. Not that every moment in Joseph’s presence isn’t sweltering.
“Just,” Caesar says, trying very hard to keep his voice level as he imagines pressing his fingers to the dips in Joseph’s lower back, “like, jimmy-rig it. It should just twist in. I’m going to get the food in the meantime.” And wallow in self-pity goes unsaid, but Caesar feels like he might as well have.
Joseph doesn’t answer, and unable to bear being in his presence for a second longer, Caesar shuffles awkwardly to his kitchen, where the food lay prepped on the counter. Even in his house, he can hear the tinkering of Joseph at the barbecue through the screen door. Caesar grips the edge of his counter and heaves a shaking breath, letting his eyes close.
“You whore,” he tells himself aloud, though quiet enough Joseph wouldn’t hear it. If only his taste in men weren’t tall, thick, and idiotic. He’d suffer much less grief.
Plates in hand of chicken and vegetables alike, Caesar makes his way back outside, now somewhat less disturbed by his inappropriate line of thought, or at least now doing a better job of disguising it. He finds Joseph standing with his hands on his hips, grinning triumphantly with the empty canister at his feet.
“Managed to get it in okay?”
He nods. “I’m a capable man, Caesar.” If only Caesar were so inclined.
“Okay, well, if you wanna just scrape it down that’s all the help I’ll need.” It’s code for ‘Please hurry up and do this thing so I can cook an underwhelming dinner where I sit and do nothing but think of this interaction and then lock myself in my bedroom so I can do some very unsavoury things.’ Obviously he couldn’t say this out loud.
“‘Kay,” Joseph says, picking up the brush.
Except: he drops it.
His face is plain, expressionless, dull and out of character when he says, “Oops,” and bends down at the hip to pick it up. Instead of crouching. Because he is a heathen.
Bent like this, Caesar can see how narrow his waist really is, the way the fleecy material of his sweatpants really makes his ass stand out that much more, and those god-forsaken back dimples once again. Some higher power must be testing him. Caesar can’t take this anymore.
He laughs, albeit a little dull and awkward to cover the fact that he feels like each coming word might be followed by bile, and scratches his neck. Joseph is still bent over. Almost like he wants Caesar to look. “If I didn’t know any better,” Caesar manages, voice sounding as tight and strained as it feels coming out, “then I’d think you dropped it on purpose, Joseph.”
Joseph does not correct his name, but he picks up the brush and turns to Caesar. “Yeah,” he says, setting it on the side of the barbecue. “I totally did.”
What. What?
Caesar’s expression is washed with that of inane confusion.
“And everything else I’ve done has been on purpose too,” Joseph adds.
“I beg your fucking pardon?” seems to be the only thing Caesar can manage, so that’s what he says. He’s been right this whole time? Joseph is doing everything on purpose? What does that even mean?
“You know, I thought I was supposed to be the dumb one here, Caesar,” Joseph says. “Did you really think I needed to be washing my car so often?”
Caesar is going to cry. Maybe rip out his hair a little, say something stupid and then move back to Italy (it has to be better than this— homophobic nonnas aside), but crying is definitely on the table. “You mean to tell me,” he begins, pinching the bridge of his nose as though it might aid him in getting rid of the newfound tension headache building behind his eyes, “that you have subjected me to this much grief for weeks because you wanted me to notice?”
“Guess so,” Joseph says. “I didn’t know if you liked dudes, so I figured I would just bimbo myself and cross my fingers.”
“Oh my god,” Caesar says, “oh my god. You mean I’m not crazy?”
Joseph grins, holding either side of Caesar’s face. It forces him to look, and yes, Joseph is much closer now than he had been mere moments ago. His hands are warm, broad, and thick, but there’s a certain softness to them, like he occasionally uses cream. “Not crazy,” he supplies, “just stupid.” Very stupid. The most stupid person on earth, even. Caesar’s sure that this display of idiocy will have won him some kind of award, somewhere. “God,” Caesar says. “ God, JoJo. Can I please just kiss you?”
“I’d like that.”
Joseph’s mouth is warm and he tastes like breath mints— he probably preemptively popped a few before he came here, the heathen. Caesar appreciates it nonetheless, as he holds Joseph’s waist and leans into him further.
“You called me JoJo,” says Joseph as they pull apart.
“Did I?” He thinks back. Yeah, Caesar supposes he did. “Guess that’s what happens. Next you'll be calling me darling all fake posh.”
“Is that a suggestion?”
“Please, dear god, no.” Joseph laughs, stepping back. Caesar’s mouth curls into a smile. “I know you said you didn’t want any compensation for your labour,” he starts, “but I have two chicken breasts I was going to grill… And I know how to cook asparagus so it doesn’t get tough.”
“Okay, Caesar,” Joseph says, matching Caesar’s grin. “I’ll have dinner with you.”
Maybe Caesar doesn’t hate summer as much as he thought.