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Jonathan wanted to kiss Argyle. It was beginning to be a bit of a problem, actually, as he desperately wanted to pay attention to what his friend was saying, show him that he’s not blankly nodding and that his bizarre conversations really mean something to him. Unfortunately, at this moment in time, Jonathan was failing – humming filler phrases in the appropriate pauses instead.
The issue was that Argyle was just so interesting to look at – long eyelashes framing eyes that were perpetually catching new things to look at, hair that looked so, so soft, like running your hand through it would be like combing spun silk, shirt just stiff enough to reveal an inch of suntouched skin beneath. Jonathan wanted to trace every detail, every blemish and childhood scar, every beautiful thing that made his friend.
It was like Argyle put a magnifying glass in front of Jonathan’s eyes – everything was too in focus, things he never really looked at suddenly a whole world in their own right. When did pores and peach fuzz and eyebrow hairs become so interesting? He wanted to look for hours, without the needling in the back of his head that if you keep this up Argyle’s gonna think you’re a creep.
He needed air.
“Sorry man, gotta step out for a sec-” and the door almost slammed behind him. Jonathan’s hand darting out with a mind of its own, catching it in time to let it close gently. Don’t want Argyle thinking he’s mad or something.
Fucking fuck.
Deep breath. In and out. Another. In, out. And another. Jonathan filled his lungs, each breath through his nose doing the opposite of calming him down. It felt like pressure building, an explosion ready to rumble through his chest, something to be screamed out. He tried to tap his fingers on his knees, vibrate the nervous panicky energy out of his system, but it did little to break the dam.
Man, I’m so fucked, Argyle’s gonna think this is weird, this IS weird, friends don’t do that shit, man oh man oh man oh ma-
Jonathan jumped out of his skin as a hand brushed his shoulder. He flinched away automatically, turning to face his best friend who immediately looked apologetic.
“I'm so sorry man, didn’t realise you were cooped up that much,” Argyle looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands – awkwardly hanging by his sides, the conversation nor company warranting his usual expressiveness.
Jonathan opened his mouth, then realised he had nothing to say, really. After a shifting awkward silence, he thought fucked it again, and finally spoke.
“No worries dude, erm, was getting warm in the van – heh – must’ve zoned out a bit there, wasn’t expecting it, that’s all,” he stumbled his way through a semi-explanation, hoping to all hell that Argyle wasn’t going to probe.
But of course he didn’t. His friend was either intrinsically gifted at careening past potential awkwardness or too blazed to really think about the reality of the past five minutes. Or both. Or neither, and maybe Jonathan was overthinking how awful it really was. Yeah. Probably.
Argyle nodded sagely. “Yeah man, too warm for November, it's like the van’s a sauna. Wanna go for ice-cream?”
The grey sky and his woollen jumper didn’t exactly scream ice-cream, but Jonathan nodded anyway.
“Sure.” Anything with you.
Anything with you. It was eleven forty seven and Jonathan couldn't get the thought out of his head. It replayed over and over, blasted over the music in his ears, interrupted the dinner table conversation, crooning behind every other thought. It would not leave him alone. How dare his brain think that? What was he, twelve? Or fucking seventy-five, reminiscing his life-long lover?
As if. Argyle was a good friend, great friend, and Jonathan was making it way too weird. He liked him, a lot, sure.
But these love-sick rambly thoughts? No way. Jonathan did not like Argyle in that way. Argyle was just a really good friend, probably his first friend ever (and wasn't that a miracle), and he put up with Jonathan's jankiness like no one else before, and he was a guy. Argyle was just doing best-friend-things and of course Jonathan couldn't take that at face value being the eternally doomed loner that he was.
His thoughts quickly turned back to that afternoon, the sunlight dappling over his friend’s face, quiet contentedness enveloping the pizza van, frail threads of conversation jumping from topic to topic, shoulders relaxed in an ease Jonathan’s not sure he’s ever really felt much, he wanted to kiss Argyle.
(Anything with you. Especially tracing your face and kissing you to the mixtape I made you and eating your mom’s tamales and driving to Oregon and tucking your hair behind your ear and)
Okay. Okay.
Jonathan had to be honest with himself before the fantasies became too idyllic. Maybe he did like Argyle in that way. A little bit.
Deep breath in. He probably sounded insane to anyone who might be listening in at the door – headphones at maximum volume and sighing as if lead weights were sinking him into his bed. They may as well be, then he’d have a reason for never showing up to school again.
Jonathan exhaled, a small burst of amusement sparking through his body. Hah. Stupid idea. He’d never ditch Argyle like that, the guy was his best friend. He gets worried when Jonathan steps out of a car suddenly, let alone skipping school. He could deal with his own issues without dragging his friend through the proverbial mud too. He would have to.
The amusement faded as quickly as it came as reality sunk in for the third time today, gentler than before but no less earth-shattering.
Jonathan felt like crying. He wanted to kiss his best friend, and Argyle didn’t.
Feelings washed over him like the choking heat spreading across his face. His head filled with the overwhelming, itchy smog of shame-smiley-sad. He felt trapped in his skin, limbs moulded into the mattress, his pillow the only thing stopping his head from sinking all the way down to China. It felt like seconds and hours that he laid there, heartbeat reverberating in his throat, ears afrenzy with the most uncomfortable radio static he’s ever felt, eyes squeezed shut as if to shield from something, anything, only to surge wide open every time he started to dwell on something he didn’t want to think about. Like Argyle sitting next to him. Or his mom's sad eyes. Or Nancy's quiet, relieved exhale on the phone when they agreed that we're better off as friends. Or Steve, and his da- Lonnie, and the word they spat out like burnt tar, sticky and disgusting and wrong. They were wrong- they were wrong... until they weren't. Will. He was too hot all of a sudden, nudging the duvet off the bed, it landing with a barely-audible thump.
With the blanket pushed away, Jonathan worked on pushing his thoughts to the floor too. First went the feelings – zone in on the beat behind the song, re-emerging behind the drone. He let himself float free of any complicated emotions, shoving them away to be dealt with later. Or never. He sat up, head leaning on the wall, hand reaching out to his nightstand to grab the nearest book – something, anything, to stop thinking for a bit.
It was hard to let himself go completely numb, but the tiny fragments of flashing hopeless despair and dreamy melancholy were much more smotherable than the tidal flood of before. He still wanted to cry, and kiss his best friend, but they simmered in the recesses of his mind rather than the forefront of his eyes. Jonathan sighed, the weight lifted temporarily – he could listen to his music and read his book with the constant youlikeArgyleyoulikeArgyleyoulikeArgyle, wailing like an emergency siren in a faraway desert town. Much better than the ambush of confusion and self-loathing and wrongwrongwrong and daydreams of a life in their forties with cups of tea and odd socks.
Jonathan gave himself one very long second to picture the latter, before shutting down any and all wishful thinking with cold, hard truth – it will never happen.
He felt his eyes get uncomfortably warm, the tickly feeling behind his nose betraying his hardest attempts at trying to deal with it. He sniffs, arms curling around his shoulders, he wants a hug, he wants to sleep.
He wants to kiss Argyle and he wants to never want to kiss him again.
The tears fell, blurring the words on the page, and with them slipped Jonathan, down, down until he stumbled into a fitful sleep.