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A day after arriving in Alaska, Jesse’s feeling cautiously optimistic. It’s a cold sunny day in his little cabin about an hour out from Anchorage. He slept pretty well the night before, all things considered. A nice soft bed after literal days of traveling tends to make sleep come easy. Stomach growling, he takes one look at his empty refrigerator and decides to make a grocery store run. He’s tense the entire time. Constantly looking over his shoulder. He sees a kid staring at him, and smiles, and she turns to her mother and makes some comment about his scars. He ends up thinking about that look on her face the rest of the day. And night. Sleep doesn’t come so easily.
A week after arriving in Alaska, Jesse can’t bring himself to get out of bed. He lies there staring at the ice crystals crusting on the filthy window and waits for them to melt. There’s this rusted knot of grief deep down inside his chest, poking and prodding at his insides and tearing him open. He can’t say who planted it there. He doesn’t cry, at least not in a way that makes any noise. The tears just sort of overflow silently, dampening his pillow beneath his head. The sun is setting before he realizes he hasn’t moved at all.
Two weeks after arriving in Alaska, Jesse starts the morning with a cold bottle of beer. He watches reruns of Jeopardy on the shitty black and white TV he picked up in a thrift store. When he loses interest in that, he lies down and tries to sleep again, but can’t. He thinks about calling his parents. Thinks about turning himself in. Then he calmly gets up out of bed and rummages through his things until he finds the little snub nose pistol he brought back from New Mexico. He puts it in his mouth.
He’s ready for it.
Then a familiar voice echoes in his head. If you do this, it’ll all be for nothing.
Good , he thinks. You’d hate that, wouldn’t you? For me to steal any meaning from that shit you pulled.
The voice doesn’t respond, because of course it doesn’t.
Jesse takes the gun out of his mouth, anyway. He slides it across the floor, then sits there on the floor pressed up against the wall, breaking down completely. He can’t stop crying and if he had to say why he was even doing it, he couldn’t say.
“You fucking asshole,” he says to no one. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
*
Jesse meets Andrew at a hardware store.
The guy doesn’t talk much. He’s got a rugged, scary look to him but he’s soft-spoken beneath the beard and untidy hair. Andrew helps him get his one-bedroom cabin hooked up to a propane tank for heating and shows him how to do basic maintenance—there’s a lot of it. Living off the grid alone in a strange new state (practically a different country ) is not as easy as it looks. Jesse doesn’t even know if he can get internet or basic cable hookup way out here. But it's nice to have something to break up the monotony–something to focus on.
He still thinks about killing himself. Probably a few times a day. He doesn't, though, maybe out of spite or maybe because he's scared. Maybe because he wants all of it to mean something.
“Go ahead and call me if you have questions,” Andrew says, there in the foyer-kitchen-dining space that Jesse is already mind-numbingly familiar with. Andrew hands him a piece of paper with his phone number written on it.
Jesse takes it, folds it politely, shoves it in his pocket. Shakes Andrew’s hand, even though he’s still a little wary of him.
“Thanks,” he says.
If Andrew notices that he doesn’t meet his gaze, he doesn’t say anything.
*
He forgets about the phone number, and it goes through at least one load of washing before he remembers it on a night when binge-drinking and staring at the ceiling isn’t cutting it. The writing is blurry but still legible.
It’s only when Andrew picks up that Jesse realizes calling a stranger at eleven at night is insane.
“This is Andy,” he says, voice sleep-rough and smoky.
Jesse considers hanging up.
“Uh, hey, it’s me,” Jesse says, stupidly. “The new guy. Listen, um, I know it’s late but I’ve got kind of an emergency here and you’re the only person I know that might be able to help. Actually you’re kind of the only person I know, period. So.”
Andy sighs. Jesse hears a dog barking in the background.
“Is something on fire?” Andy asks, sounding bored.
“No, nothing like that—it can wait until tomorrow,” Jesse says, then racks his brain as he tries to think of whatever issue it is he was hoping to use as an excuse. “So I noticed my water was tasting funny, and I don’t know shit about wells, man. I was hoping you could maybe take a look at it when you get a chance? I can pay you.”
“I hope so,” Andy says. Then he sighs again. “I’ll swing by tomorrow. Boil it for now.”
“Sure,” Jesse says. Except it's a kerosene stove and he's fucking terrified of using it, but whatever. “I’ll see you then.”
*
After Andy’s determined there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the well and that Jesse’s drinking water should be reasonably safe, he packs up all his tools and then looks like he’s about to hurry to leave. Jesse doesn’t know what comes over him, but he finds himself asking if he’d like to have a beer with him.
They find a football game on the old radio Jesse managed to snag at a Wal-Mart on his monthly trip to Anchorage. Neither can really tell what’s going on; the signal’s bad, and it’s dark and cold in here even with the heater going. It’s kind of miserable. It's the best time Jesse's had with anyone in half a year.
Jesse sips at his beer, appreciating that he has company at all.
“So, uh,” he fumbles, trying to make any kind of conversation that won’t get too personal. “You have dogs?”
“Yep,” Andy says. “Three huskies. They’re rescues.”
“That’s really cool,” Jesse says. “Like, legit. I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“You’re welcome to come by and meet ‘em,” Andy says. His tone is detached, as if he couldn’t care less whether Jesse wants to come over or not, but Jesse finds that oddly comforting. There are no hidden motives to the guy. What you see is what you get.
“Maybe,” Jesse says, pretending to be disinterested. “I’ve got a lot of settling in to do still. Need to find a job, for one.”
Andy grunts. Jesse expects him to ask questions—like, who the hell are you, what are you doing in Alaska, what did you do before that? But he doesn’t.
“Trucking pays decent,” Andy says. “Got a lot of demand for it, too. But I figure you probably aren’t the type to want to spend a lot of time on the road.”
“Yeah, no,” Jesse says. “I’m stuck here. For better or worse.”
Andy tips his beer bottle at him.
“For better or worse,” he agrees.
*
They start hanging out more after that. Sometimes Jesse goes to his place, and they watch Netflix and drink beer. Andy cooks him dinner and Jesse plays with his dogs. Sometimes they chill at Jesse’s, listening to that shitty radio and chatting idly about life—or what little Jesse can tell him of it.
Andy used to be in the army, or marine corps, or something. He was honorably discharged and spent a lot of time traveling the continental US before finally settling down here. He doesn’t talk to his family anymore. He has a kid from a previous relationship he hasn’t seen in eleven years. He likes hunting and exploring the wilderness, but he has back problems, so doesn’t get to do it as much these days.
He shows Jesse an album he’s put together of photos he’s taken on trips. He’s a pretty good photographer, but admits he’s never taken it too seriously or tried to make any money off of it. He just likes taking pictures.
Jesse runs his fingers over the polaroids. White-tailed deer, birds, wolves, sunrises and sunsets, snow-capped mountains. They’ve all got this dreamy, quiet quality to them.
“Were you always alone?” Jesse asks.
“No,” Andy says, taking the album from him and flipping forward. He shows him a polaroid of himself with another man. They’re posing on a mountainous overlook, golden-yellow sun spilling light on their shoulders. “I had Louis with me most of the time. He passed away a few years ago. Stomach cancer.”
The c-word. It fucking haunts him. Haunts everyone. Jesse nods, not sure he’s understanding the weight behind that. “Were you guys like—how did you meet?”
“He was my partner,” Andy says. He closes the album and puts it away, leaving Jesse standing there feeling uncomfortable. He seems to notice. “Look, I don’t want to make this a huge deal. It is the way it is. Does it bother you?”
“No,” Jesse says, too quickly.
Andy sighs. He opens up another beer, then sits on the sofa. “Look, Carl. This—what we’re doing? I like being friends with you, okay? That’s all it is. I promise.”
Jesse hates not hearing his own name anymore. It feels beyond wrong. He runs his fingers through his hair, and thinks about leaving. He changes his mind and goes and sits next to him on the couch, deliberately sitting right next to him, like always. Proving that, no, this doesn’t bother him—not for the reasons he thinks.
Andy turns on the television. Flips to some Netflix show Jesse’s never heard of.
“There’s just--a lot you don’t know about me,” Jesse says.
Andy gives a little hint of a smile. “Everyone’s got something.”
*
Jesse gets a job at the hardware store stocking shelves and staying out of everyone else’s way. Andy picks him up in the mornings, gives him a ride to and from work. Andy has a pride sticker on the back of his pickup truck. It’s small and barely noticeable.
He’s never thought a lot about his own sexuality or felt the need to put a label on it. Back in Albuquerque that kind of thing might have gotten him killed. So yeah, he’d messed around with some guys, and kept it to himself. Don’t ask, don’t fucking tell. It was easy.
And the thing he’d had with Mr. White, it—well, it was so fucked up and so completely insane that Jesse hadn’t even thought of it as a gay thing at the time. It just was. But maybe that’s just what he’s been telling himself to avoid having to look at it too closely.
Alaska brings clarity though. No one gives a fuck here. It’s so completely removed from anything that two dudes boning is like, the most inconsequential thing.
So one night he and Andy are on the couch watching TV and the dogs are all asleep and Jesse feels warm from the beer and thinks, okay.
He tucks up against his friend in the dark and puts his head on his shoulder. Andy tenses a little, but doesn’t push him off, or even acknowledge it at all. They just keep watching TV like that, Jesse curled up against his body. Even dozing off at one point until Andy finally shakes him awake.
“You okay?” Andy asks.
Yeah.
He’s okay.
*
Jesse knows Mr. White loved him. He felt it in the way he touched him, but only ever whenever they were sleeping together. Mr. White kept all that tenderness and affection behind closed doors. He’d hold him too close and fuck him like he was killing him. Sometimes Jesse wished he would have.
Jesse’s thinking about Mr. White the first time Andy kisses him, and the shock of it makes him break down into tears.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says, at the concern on Andy’s face. He tries to hide from him, expecting to be pulled back, expecting to be told how pathetic he is. Andy lets him go. “It’s not you. It’s—fuck. I’m sorry.”
“You’re okay,” Andy says. He’s always so calm, so collected, even when Jesse feels like he’s literally being torn apart. “You’re okay.”
*
He barely dreamed at all before his captivity. Sleep was an empty, warm, comforting void he gladly fell into after a bender. Then, during, he was grateful to get three or four uninterrupted hours at a time. He remembers crying and pleading with them to please just let him fucking sleep, please for the love of God let him rest, and then they'd laugh and dump cold water on him from above or make him stand in the yard.
It's different now.
He sleeps over at Andy’s one night, figures he won't have any night terrors because he feels safe with him and nothing bad can reach him now. He doesn't even remember what the dream is about, just that he's in that hole again and it feels so real.
He wakes up screaming, with Andy gently shaking him awake–saying the wrong name.
“I'm sorry,” Jesse says, trying to force down his sobs but the more he suppresses it the harder it is to breathe. His ears are ringing. “I'm so sorry. I should leave.”
Andy doesn't even argue with that. He gets up out of bed, and Jesse's afraid it'll be to grab his things and kick him out. Instead he returns to the bedroom with all three of the huskies. He has them all hop up on the bed.
Jesse can't help laughing at the absurdity of it. Stop crying, here's some dogs. It works though. He buries his face in their fur until he stops shaking.
*
When they do get around to it, and Jesse stops being a fucking pussy, the sex is pretty goddamn good. Andy doesn’t ask invasive questions about why Jesse always needs to see his face, or why he doesn’t want his hair touched, or why he’s sometimes completely disinterested in doing it at all. Andy likes watching him fall apart. Calls him baby . Asks him if he's okay, always checking in.
They’re soft in the afterglow one night and Andy’s arms are around him. And for some reason Jesse's thinking about that little girl in the supermarket from months before. He still can't look at himself in the mirror.
“I'm sorry I look like this,” Jesse says. Not knowing why.
Andy doesn't try to reassure him, or deny it. He just says, “What do you mean?”
“I used to be pretty,” Jesse says. “Well. The guy who did this to me thought so, anyway. He said he wanted to make sure no one else ever did.”
He feels like an idiot for admitting all of that, because Andy’s not going to have any idea how to respond. What can he possibly do? Say sorry? Lie and tell him he's beautiful?
Andy just sighs, kissing his hair. His voice is gritty with fatigue.
“Jess,” he says, “it's eleven at night, sweetheart. We can count each other's scars in the morning.”
*
On his twenty-sixth birthday, six months after arriving in Alaska, Jesse makes them both breakfast. For the first time in a while, he doesn't think about Mr. White, and he doesn't think about dying.
It's a beautiful morning.