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It’s been a bad week. The record label has been demanding a date for the next single, and Cecily is too busy dealing with a media shitstorm about dating speculations to handle it, and so Rowan’s been doing all of that work. Jimmy’s been working with the producers and trying to figure out the finishing touches to said single. Lister… well he hasn't done much.
It’s not that he doesn't want to! He really, really does. But seeing Rowan and Jimmy handle all of these things makes him feel a bit useless, and he would never admit it but he wishes he were more like one of them, able to take on more of the job than just singing and playing an instrument. He knows that the other two struggle with their own problems as well, but they’re still able to do so much for the band, so why can’t he?
For this reason and more, Lister has found himself in bed. He’s not laying down, per se, hasn't been all day. He’s sitting up, notebook in his lap and Jimmy’s guitar strewn across the bed. He’s decided that if Rowan can handle management, and Jimmy can handle producing, then he could at least write something for their next album, or next EP, maybe the next single, next collab, even the next unreleased song that somehow gets leaked. Anything, just anything, to make him feel like a useful part of the band.
He has half a mug of cold tea sitting on his bedside table, uneaten toast from yesterday, a water bottle, used tissues, pens, old notebooks… things someone who could write a song would have, definitely not things that someone who can’t get themself to leave their own bedroom would have. Some of it is Jimmy’s things, like guitar picks, rings, and lip balm, small items that have slowly made their way into Lister’s life, just like Jimmy has. His side of the bed is still unmade, left messy when he silently got out of bed so as to not wake Lister when he left for the studio.
As quickly as he has decided to make use of his time, he gets distracted. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, except for the fact that all he’s written down are a few scribbled words scattered across the page in little blurbs, like the small dots of stars that now fill the night sky. Maybe he’ll go into visual poetry once the whole famous band thing slows down.
He groans, throws his notebook across the room, and flops back into bed. The pillows are warm. Inviting. He could just sink in, let sleep take him. The smell of cooking is faintly in the air, there's white noise from Rowan shuffling around downstairs, perfect conditions for sleeping… no. He has to be useful. He has to do something for them. Briefly, the thought of alcohol drifts through his brain, but he quickly pushes it away. No more of that foolishness that nearly got him killed. It’s time to be useful.
Lister rubs his face, sighs, and sits back up. He finds his TV remote on the ground, picks it up and puts on YouTube. He watches other people’s music videos, lyric videos, and visualizers. Halfway through a Billie Ellish video he gets an idea and begins to write it down as quickly as he can, but then stops when he realizes it's quite literally the same idea as the song he’s listening to. He tears the page out and throws it across the room, missing the bin in a way that makes him thankful that he’s alone right now. Although the song would be good, he doesn’t think Rowan will appreciate the lawsuit coming their way if he does decide to write it.
Okay, so clearly the lyrics aren’t going to work at the moment. It's a good thing Jimmy left his guitar in here the other day after trying to teach Lister a few chords, because now Lister can easily write the score of the song. He picks up the guitar, strums random patterns with his fingers before grabbing a guitar pick from the bedside table because wow, that hurts his fingers, and he’s sure Jimmy would want those to stay intact. He tries doing what Jimmy does, messing around with different chords and strumming patterns until something manages to click. He tries to do what Rowan does, writing out the sheet music and trying to connect the dots, but Rowan was always better at music theory than Lister was, and he just can’t get the song to come along the way the other two would be able to. He debates going and stealing Rowan’s fancy notebook with his empty sheet music… but that would mean getting out of bed and trying to decipher the weird language. Plus, Rowan would have his head. So Lister resorts to his method; laying in bed with a hand over his head like a sickly Victorian child, hoping whatever music gods that are out there are feeling kind.
This is the state he’s in when there’s a gentle knock on the door. Four quiet, gentle knocks. The first one is more pronounced, then the following three are in a quick pattern. Jimmy.
“Lis? Can I come in?”
Lis. That beautiful, sweet nickname, the one that only Jimmy calls him. It’s safe. Feels like home. He only started using it once they started dating; never once when they were hooking up. It’s too personal, and the way Jimmy says it always makes him feel tingly inside.
Lister mumbles a half reply, just loud enough for Jimmy to hear. He has a small smile on his face, even though he still feels like shoving his face in a pillow and screaming,
The door slowly opens with a slight creak, and through the darkness Jimmy appears. He’s holding a plate of something and a glass of water. There’s a few pills on the plate next to what seems like rice, or maybe stir fry.
“Hey,” Jimmy says softly. He approaches the bed, and makes room on the bedside table to place down the things he’s carrying. He quickly collects the old dishes and garbage and sets them aside, replacing it with the fresh food and drink. Then, he sits down on the edge of the bed and gently touches Lister’s forehead, as if he were sick. “How are you feeling?”
“Mm, like shit,” Lister smiles, and takes Jimmy’s hand. He presses a soft kiss to his hand. “What have you brought with you?”
“Rowan made stir fry. I think it’s a new recipe, but from what I had it’s good. This is for you.”
Lister sits up. “How long have you been home?”
“About 20 minutes. I got carried away today, lost track of time. I think we finished the song though.”
“Yeah? I’m proud,” Lister says, and subtly pushes his notebook under the covers. He takes the food Jimmy brought him and begins to eat. He hasn’t eaten a single thing all day, so it doesn’t take long for the plate to be finished. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t left his room at all today. Not even to get a drink or say hi to Rowan. Although the two of them have been much better these days, there's still some times when there’s a gap between the two, and today seems to be one of those days.
“I brought your meds too,” Jimmy hands him the glass of water and nods to the small condiment container holding Lister’s various medications. Of course Jimmy knew that he wouldn’t have taken them. Maybe Rowan was paying attention after all and told him. Lister thanks him and takes the pills as Jimmy changes into pajamas.
“So,’ Jimmy asks, as if reading his mind, “What have you been up to?” He settles onto his side of the bed, half sitting half laying down, and looking at Lister.
“Jackshit,” he sighs, and lays back on his side of the bed after putting the plate down. “I haven’t left this room all day.”
“Is there any particular reason why?” Jimmy asks, but not in a bad way, only curious.
“Nope. I have no idea.”
“That’s alright.”
“I never said it wasn’t.”
“You implied.”
“...Touché.”
They reach a stalemate and just smile at each other. Jimmy shifts and rests his head on Lister’s chest, slinging his arm around his middle and curling into his side. It’s one of Lister’s favourite places for Jimmy to be.
He briefly remembers when it wasn’t like this. When one of them would sneak into the other's room, just to end up naked. It would always end in this same position, or Lister being the one with his head on Jimmy, but either way it wasn't the same feeling. The sex was great, unlike anything either of them had ever experienced, but the repercussions were so much worse. He remembers the yelling, the fighting, the arguing… but now Jimmy is with him, safe and sound, and he is free to love him openly. Maybe he could write a song about that, but then the fans would speculate, and the media would find out, and their safe haven would be compromised before they were ready. Maybe he should write about something else.
“Talk to me,” Lister whispers.
Jimmy talks. He talks about his day, about what he did at the studio, about what Rowan did. Although Lister is the more energetic one, the more talkative one, they do this a lot. Jimmy speaks, and Lister focuses on the sound of his voice, the feel of his soft sweater pressed against his body, the taste of his skin on his lips.
“I tried to write a song,” Lister finally admits once Jimmy is done.
“Oh yeah?” Jimmy smiles.
“Yeah.”
“...And?”
Lister sighs. “I didn’t write anything.” He slowly sits up, and grabs his notebook from wherever he tucked it earlier and hands it to Jimmy.
Jimmy sits up as well, and looks inside to see Lister’s scribbled words. “I’m looking at things you wrote, Lis. That’s something.”
“It’s not any good though.”
“Who said it has to be good?”
That makes Lister pause for a moment. Jimmy just gives him a knowing look and puts the notebook down next to the plate.
“Come here,” Jimmy sits against the headboard, making room for Lister to lay between his legs. He does this, and Jimmy begins to play with his hair. Lister absolutely adores this, and Jimmy knows it. “Talk to me,” He echoes Lister’s previous words.
“I’m not good enough,” Lister’s voice is quiet.
“Why’s that?”
“Because,” he sighs, “You and Ro have all these things you’re doing. He’s the one dealing with all of management’s crap, and you just finished our entire single. I haven’t done anything like that. I’m dead weight. I can’t even write a fucking song.”
Jimmy flinches slightly at the curse words, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to soothe Lister with his touch. As Lister huffs, Jimmy begins to braid his hair.
This is another thing they do. When Jimmy was little, back when his hair was as long as the skirts he hated, Joan had taught him how to braid his hair. She would weave his hair into two plaits and then wrap them into a bun. It kept his hair out of his face and his dysphoria away before he even knew what that meant. It would be one of their things. Sometimes Jimmy’s sister would join them too, back when they were close.
Once Joan died and Jimmy had cut his hair short and his sister wanted almost nothing to do with him, Jimmy lost that side of himself. But now, with Lister’s longer hair, he’s been able to bring back fond memories of his grandmother and his childhood. Lister likes having his hair braided, especially because it stays out of his face when he drums, and he always wants to make Jimmy happy. Letting Jimmy do this makes him happy. Maybe that’s what he’s useful for, pleasing Jimmy.
No. Lister has spent a long time trying to debunk the beliefs in his head about himself and his body. He never knew how to be anything but an object. It got better, for a while, but then he and Jimmy were hooking up and… it wasn’t healthy. Even his best friend only saw him as a way to get off, so did he really have any other purpose in life? And maybe Jimmy enjoyed it, having Lister all to himself whenever he wanted; he would always be there and willing. Once they got their act together and started dating, it took a long time for them to be intimate with each other like that, again. Both of them were too afraid to ruin the other the way they had so many times before.
The braiding helps. Jimmy’s hands in his hair, him softly humming, gentle touches and the occasional kiss to his head… It's soft. Intimate. Sweet. Nothing that Lister has ever experienced before. It makes him want to cry and hold Jimmy as tight as he can, even if the other voice in his head is telling him to run. He doesn’t listen. Everyday it gets smaller and smaller, and he knows that one day he’ll always be able to let Jimmy touch him freely with no guilt, no worry.
“I can hear your thoughts,” Jimmy says softly as he sections off Lister’s hair.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Jimmy tilts Lister’s head back so that he’s looking at him upside down. His hands are warm on his face. “You’re not ‘dead weight’.”
“But I am!” Lister can’t help but smile. Jimmy scrunches his nose at him and tilts his head back down to keep working on his hair. Lister knows he’s waiting. “I don’t do anything for the band. Or you. Or myself. I’m the definition of useless.”
“What’s the definition of useless anyway?”
“Me.”
“Ha-ha. French or Dutch?"
Lister’s brain short-circuits for a second, but he remembers that Jimmy is trying to braid his hair at the same time as this. “Oh, uh… Dutch.”
Jimmy begins to part Lister’s hair as gently as possible, only pulling in a way he knows Lister is fine with. “You do a lot for the band, Lister.”
“Like what?”
“Like… all of the social media things you do. You know I’m terrified of that level of interaction, and Rowan has his snobby ego, so you handle most of the social media. You post funny videos, sneak peaks, all the fan service. You’re the reason the fans stay fans when there’s no music.”
“Oh… I guess so.”
“And you’re the one who comes up with most of the drum parts. My brain doesn’t think that way, and somehow you manage to get the percussion perfect for every single song.”
“But you and Ro-”
“Nuh,” Jimmy shushes him, “You are not useless. Even if you just sat and breathed in the same room as me, I would be thankful.”
“Jim-” he tries to turn and look at him.
“Nuh uh, stay still, you’ll ruin the braids,” Jimmy teases lightly.
They sit in silence for a moment. All Lister can think of is Jimmy’s words, over and over again, and how he wishes it were true. Maybe if he were in that room and making Jimmy laugh. Maybe if he were on his knees for Jimmy. Maybe if-
“You know,” Jimmy’s quiet voice filters through the air, “I was talking about you earlier.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Mike, the sound technician, asked if you were coming in. I told him you were busy today, and that you’ll probably come next week,” he pauses for a moment as he ties the first braid. “Anyway, he was sad because they just got those new mics that you guys were talking about last month and thought you could help him set them up for your drum kit.” He starts the other braid.
“Did you ask if he got the Earthworks or the AKGs?”
Jimmy just smiles. “The point is, he was asking about you because he cares about you, and knows that you’re interested in that stuff. He wants your help.”
“...Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh’. People care about you, Lis, more than just us. You’re useful to so many people, not dead weight.”
Lister sighs. Of course, Jimmy is able to break down his walls. It is nice, he supposes, knowing that other people ask about him. That other people care about him, aside from his best friend and his boyfriend. “Can you stop for a second?”
“Yeah, why? Is everything-” Jimmy stops talking as Lister turns and kisses him.
Jimmy sighs into his mouth, still holding the braid with one hand, but not tight enough to hurt. Lister raises a hand to cup his cheek, and deepens the kiss. Sometimes, Lister forgets that he’s dating Jimmy Kaga-Ricci. It’s moments like these where it feels like the very beginning, when he was 16 and his heart fluttered when Jimmy looked at him. Everyday he wonders exactly how he managed to get him in the end, that he wakes up and gets to be his.
Just as Lister slowly shifts and presses Jimmy further into the mattress, Jimmy pulls away lightly, “Wait, can I at least finish your hair?” He whispers it, as if he’s breaking a spell.
Lister laughs lightly, but sits back so that he can. Suddenly his hair is being braided at a much quicker pace than before. Lister just gently strokes his thumb up and down Jimmy’s leg in knowing silence.
“Do you want to keep talking?” Jimmy asks with a light smile as he finally finishes the braid.
“Not for now,” Lister feels his hair, the expert Dutch braids woven into his head. “Unless you want to talk about things, of course.”
“Mm, of course,” Jimmy exaggerates his smile and nods, “I just don’t seem to remember what I was going to talk about.”
“Let me remind you,” Lister grins, and kisses him again. He shifts in his lap, so that they’re fully facing each other rather than awkwardly stretching. Jimmy’s now free hands roam Lister, one tangling in his hair and the other moving across his back, pulling him closer.
They end up tangled in bed, making out for a bit. They don’t take it any farther, because they’re both tired and Lister’s emotionally drained, but the kissing and touching is enough for them both.
“Thank you,” Lister murmurs against Jimmy’s lips.
“For what?” Jimmy asks, a soft, lovesick smile on his face.
Lister shrugs, “For being here. Listening. Knowing me. Caring about me, etcetera, etcetera.” He smiles and tilts his head as Jimmy presses featherlight kisses across his neck.
“It’s part of the package,” Jimmy mumbles. “Plus, you deserve the world and more. I’m determined for you to see that, and get it.”
“I already have the world,” Lister says, as if he’s the lead in a rom-com.
“Oh shut up,” Jimmy laughs and kisses him again.
One of them begins to yawn, and so they get settled in bed properly. They lay the opposite way they did before, this time with Jimmy facing the ceiling and Lister slung across him. Jimmy gently strokes his back, as if trying to soothe away any of his worries. “I love you through it all, yeah?”
“Always,” Lister whispers back.
As his eyes close, and he feels himself getting closer and closer to sleep, he can’t help but think of lyrics for a song. Except this time, he knows exactly what to write.