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It is really no secret that Jim hates formal affairs, always has done.
As a kid, he despised being dressed up stiffly like a dolly in “cute” little outfits that made his sensitive skin crawl and dragged around to parties he was far too young to participate in, but far too old to get out of.
He didn’t understand the conversations, politics, stock markets and who slept with who in the office became white noise in his cotton stuffed head, the younger kids wanted him to play until they didn’t, because he was quiet and weird and they didn’t like him.
So he stood in corners, strangers pinching his cheeks, “my, my, you’ve grown!” people he doesn’t remember ever meeting told him.
He didn’t like being touched.
It felt wrong, he wanted to scrub his face.
Instead, he clutched his plastic cup of orange juice and counted to 100.
Then he was a teenager, going to prom with a girl he didn’t much care for, the expensive suit he hired was pressed almost solid, far too tight, “you’ll look so handsome” they had said.
He didn’t feel it, he felt constricted, robotic.
He didn’t feel like ‘Jim.’
The strobe lights hurt his eyes, the thumping bass made his chest rattle, in a bad way.
Someone spiked the punch, of course they did, and he can’t drink it.
The girl, he doesn’t remember her last name anymore, long gone somewhere in the dark, yelled at him because he didn’t smile in the photo and it ruined her night.
She didn’t know Jim doesn’t smile in photos very often.
He didn’t like her, anyway.
She felt wrong with her arms around his waist.
Instead, he clutched his plastic champagne flute of orange juice and thought about his top 10 movies, in order.
Now he’s here, as an adult, and he still hates it.
His skin is still sensitive, his suit still feels too tight, everything still feels wrong.
It shouldn’t take him this long to button up his shirt, but the reality is, he simply doesn’t want to.
He hadn’t worn a real, proper, smart shirt in years, either never needed to or chose not to.
Pretended the sighs and pitiful looks didn’t get to him.
Lazy, they’d said. He doesn’t care, they’d moaned.
Sure, Jim was, is, a pretty aloof guy, he goes through his day on whatever whim strikes the most urgent. He likes to laugh, goof off, hang out with his friends.
When he’s got the energy.
Another two buttons done up and he’s thinking of his friends. The best people in the whole world.
They’ve stuck by him for so long, cleaned up his apartment when he’s been too tired, wrapped him in blankets and watched ESPN quietly with him on the bad days, taken him on a walk around the block when they know he’s been cooped up inside too long.
His hands are moving slow, he can’t will them to go faster anymore.
He’s tired, so tired already and they haven’t even left the house yet.
Fuck it, he slips his blazer on, hates it, but it’s one step closer to being dressed, buys him time to work up to buttoning his shirt fully.
Running a hand through his messy blonde hair, he looks back up at the mirror and feels pathetic.
Here he is, an adult, his shirt half open and wrinkled from worrying it. His hair is now sticking up at all ends. He looks so drained, pale lashes blinking slowly against his cheeks.
Through the mirror, he sees his bedroom door, ajar, hears the music from down the hall coming through it, sees a familiar, toothy, beaming grin.
“Juice!” The grin calls out to him. “You ready? Heading out in 10, man!”
Dustin, Jim thinks. His, well, best friend.
Dressed as smart as Jim has ever seen him, a perfectly fitted black and silver pinstripe suit, clinging to his tall, soft frame, with matching silk bowtie that somehow makes his smile look-
The grinning dimmed a little as Dustin looked around the room.
The unmade bed, strewn with clothes, cold cups of coffee sitting sadly on the dresser and desk and Jim, stood in the center of it all, looking about as abysmal as he felt.
He bore no expression on his face, couldn’t even bring himself to smile at the nickname, but after all these years, there was no fooling Dustin.
Dustin walked into the room, the plush rug dipping under his shiny shoes, Jim could count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Dustin wearing something other than sneakers, slides or nothing at all on his feet, and rested his hands on Jim’s biceps, squeezing softly.
Like he just knew what his, friend, needed.
“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper, “wear what you want, alright? It’s cool.”
Jim looked up at him, nodded once, slowly, like it took all his effort, but didn’t move. And Dustin knew it was because Jim didn’t think it was cool, he was worried about what people would think of him.
It was just a dinner party at Leva’s place, no big deal, right?
No, Dustin knew him better than that, knew that any time he left the house was a big deal and he was proud of his friend for even agreeing to go tonight with only minimal begging.
He walked over to Jim’s wardrobe, mindful of the squeaking noise the hangers make against the rail as he looked for a good outfit, not caring what anyone thinks of his- of Jim.
Finally, he found what he was looking for. A pair of pale blue, denim sweatpants that he pulled out alongside a matching jacket and t-shirt, soft and stretched from multiple wears and washes. It was that kind of night, he knew it.
Setting the chosen outfit down on the bed, they’ll clean up the rest together later, he turns to make sure Jim is okay, not feeling like he’s being babied or anything.
“This good?”
A pause. “Yeah. ‘s good.” Another. “Thanks.”
Dustin grinned again. “Alright! Yeah, c’mon, let's get you out of that shit.”
And that made Jim smile, finally, as Dustin helped ease the blazer off his shoulders, already seeing the tension begin to ease off.
Time was ticking, deciding it was quicker just to lift the shirt off, tapping Jim’s arm until he raised them up high, watching the buttons didn’t get stuck in his hair as he tugged and shimmied until Jim was finally free and he looked away quickly before those droopy blue eyes started to make him-
“Cool, uh, I’ll let you get changed. Meet ya downstairs?”
Jim gave him a thumbs up, clearly not very talkative tonight, but he’s smiling so it’s a start and it makes Dustin’s heart-
Nodding and flashing a thumbs-up back, he jogs down the stairs, waiting by the front door and shooting a text to Leva that they’re running five minutes behind, nothing’s wrong, just a little delayed.
Dustin would never put the blame on Jim for this, not anything like this.
Minutes later, Jim finally emerged on the stairwell, looking so much better already, looser, less rigid, sunglasses atop his head even though it was 6pm.
Dustin would never question or ridicule that which makes him feel comfortable.
“Lookin’ good, man!” And it was the truth. No fancy suit could ever look as good on him as this outfit does, like he was made to be in it, comfy, cozy and warm. Safe.
Jim blushed, soft red on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, bringing out the golden blonde of his hair.
God, it’s so cute how he does that-
“Ready to go? Car’s all warmed up.”
“Yeah.”
Nothing more needed to be said.
Jim clutched his glass of orange juice.
He didn’t want to be here.
He liked Leva, she’s his friend and all, but it’s too loud.
Chattering of party guests, clinking of plates, knives, glasses, music playing nonstop, why is everyone looking at him?
“... Juice? You good in there?”
“Huh?”
“I asked who you think’s got the better dick, Reynolds or Gosling, shit head.”
Jim grinned. “Didn’t”
“Nah, you’re right.” Dustin shook his head and looked down at Jim’s hands, faintly trembling around the crystal glass. “You wanna bounce? Netflix and chill?”
Jim glanced over at the clock on the wall to his left. 9 pm.
“‘s early though.”
Dustin shrugged. “Dude, if you’re not good, don’t make yourself stay, Leva’s cool. I’ll make up something good.”
Before Jim could protest, Dustin was gone, putting the charm on Leva, looking apologetic though he couldn’t make out what he was saying as he downed his glass for something to do before Dustin came back, smiling all warm and fuzzy-
“Told her I wasn’t feeling good and you offered to take me home, just in case.” He winked.
Jim wasn’t a fan of bullshitting, but he guesses it was close enough to the truth, though Dustin didn’t have to take the fall for his own stupid brain.
As they drove back, Dustin filled the silence with anything that came to mind.
Not that it was awkward or needed filling, but that Dustin liked to talk and Jim liked to listen to him, resting back in his seat, sunglasses over his eyes because he hates the flare of the streetlights, anyone else would think he was asleep, but Dustin knew he was paying attention, Jim focuses better like this. Just another little thing that makes him, him.
And so he talked, and Jim listened, nodding along where appropriate, humming in thought when asked a question or given a completely off the wall fact about something, anything, everything.
For all his jokes and boyish giggles, people didn’t know just how smart Dustin is beneath all that, but Jim knows, he listens, he stopped shaking once the car started going.
Dustin threw the keys into the bowl by the door while Jim shrugged off his jacket and toed off his shoes, tucking them both away on the rack and taking a moment to feel the plush of the carpet beneath his socks, just another Jim thing that pulls on Dustin’s heart-
“Phew, alright. I’m gonna change. Put a movie on, bud, I’ll be back in a sec.”
Jim nodded, not looking up from his wiggling toes, hands in his sweatpants pocket.
Dustin sighed again, he knew what to do as he jogged up the stairs and Jim shuffled into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa, stretching out while he still had the room to.
He was glad to be home, but something nagged at him, like it always does when he fucks up a social event.
He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Dustin walk back into the room, dressed now in baggy basketball shorts and a soft, oversized tank top until he over-the-top cleared his throat.
Smirking and leaning on the door frame, he waited for Jim to look up.
“No, seriously, Reynolds or Gosling?”
Jim rolled his eyes and sat up enough for Dustin to sit beside him. “You suck.”
“Pretty sure I’m the one asking you that, man.”
“Fuck you, dude.”
“That a threat or a promise?”
Jim blushed again, deep red this time all down his neck, the prettiest thing Dustin had ever seen-
Dustin laughed, crossing one leg over the other as Jim settled back down, resting his head on Dustin’s chest.
This was nothing new, and yet he still had to remind himself to breathe and keep calm, not wanting Jim to know how much his heart was racing as the blonde flicked on the TV and scrolled aimlessly through Netflix.
Dustin didn’t even realise he was staring until Jim looked up at him, lips parted gently and eyes sparkling again, always fucking sparkling. “Hey, did you eat tonight?” He asked, to break the tension if nothing else.
Jim shook his head.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He laughed, opening his hand to reveal a small orange. “Keep your sugar levels up, man.”
A small laugh fluttered through the air, one that could only come from a decade-old joke between- whatever they were.
“Is she mad at me?”
Well, that took him by surprise.
“What? Nah, why’d you think that? She loves you, man.”
Jim shrugged. “I ruined her party.”
A shake of his head. “She was happy to see you, wants to know if you wanna get lunch next week instead.”
Jim didn’t respond to that.
As Dustin peeled the fruit, Jim settled on a movie, one of their combined favourites, periodically opening his mouth to allow Dustin to gently place segments in his mouth, wiping the juice running down his chin when Jim nuzzled up, so damn kitten-like.
They didn’t talk about this, what it meant, how good it felt.
Didn’t talk about how Jim closed his eyes when Dustin kissed his hair.
The night took a rocky start, but now they were here, home, limbs tangled in limbs.
And Jim smelt of oranges.
And maybe things were going to be okay.