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"It's not my fault that the guys at that party were losers, dude."
"Y'know what is your fault, though? Us getting kicked out!"
Jesse finds John to be significantly too high-strung, sometimes. Not that he isn't any less neurotic in most circumstances, but he does know that it's nice to not be bitched at 20 times a day. Then again, maybe it's reasonable that John's pissed about Jesse making a fool of himself. Maybe it's for the best—it helps him course correct. He doesn't exactly realize that he's being a dick most of the time.
He did totally realize he was being a dick at the party, though. But the guy was still way too sensitive! You call someone gay one time and suddenly you're homophobic… he loves gay people! Not that he would ever be homosexual. He mentally clears his throat and tugs at his collar as if to say 'It's getting hot in here, huh?'. He never has gay thoughts, ever, is what he's trying to say.
"Maybe you should be blaming him. He's the one who took offense to being called gay! If he was a real ally, he would have worn it like a badge of honor! I find gay people to be charming and fun. Maybe I was calling him charming and fun! It really makes you think."
He should probably be blaming his provocative actions on how drunk he is right now. That might be an exaggeration—he only had a few drinks, he's pretty sure. He doesn't totally remember. He'll settle for saying that he's buzzed. He likes buzzed.
In contrast, he really, really does not like this rain. He's starting to think that he maybe should have thought twice about getting kicked out of the party now that he's getting thwacked with raindrops every two seconds. Now that John is nearly shivering because of it—poor guy.
Whenever he sees John even mildly discontented, he gets this weird feeling in his stomach. This unrest like he needs to solve whatever is ailing him fast, an itch to protect him that he can't exactly place. He thinks it's always been there, even before he met John. Like he was just looking for someone to care for. It sounds gay if he says it like that. But he can care for his best friend. It's fine, 6th grade bully in his head, you can shut up.
He met John through chance. It was coincidence that there were no kids whose names started with M in their third grade class. It meant that Lacey and Nolan had to sit together, had to stand together in line, were not-so-subtly pushed together to be friends. Who was Jesse to defy a path so clearly laid out for him by God? Or by the Levittown Union Free School District. Essentially the same thing.
He and John not-so-naturally became friends. Inseparable. Ever since. They've since listened to 100 hours of shitty Christian rock together, have drifted away from Christian rock (maybe Christianity as a whole) together in favor of Nirvana and the like together, have made what is essentially an Eddie Vedder cover band together. And probably have spent most of their time together since.
He remembers the one thing he learned in the high school Spanish class he was forced to take—that you need 10,000 hours of deliberate, focused practice in something to become an expert. He thinks that he might be an expert on John at this point. After all, he's probably spent way more than 10,000 hours with him. And it's sorta hard to not focus on him completely when he's around. He has a way of drawing Jesse's attention. Deliberate—check. Focused—check. 10,000 hours—check. He might have to put that on his resume next time he applies for a job once this whole music thing doesn't work out. 'Certified John Nolan expert. You can just go ahead and hire me now.'
"Hel—lo? Jess? Are you there?" John waves his hand in front of his face, yanking him by the collar of his (soaked) shirt.
Jesse shoots up from his fugue state. He does that a lot. Gets distracted with his own thoughts, goes on tangents that don't make much sense to anyone other than him. Ends up not paying attention to the world around him.
"Hmm? I'm here. I'm alive. I'm up. What up?"
"I was just in the middle of a whole tirade about how much of a douchebag you are. Did you really zone out through all of it?! Now I'm gonna have to do it all over again…" John sulks.
"You really don't have to. I'm sure I can guess what you said. You do go on similar tirades after… basically, like, everything I do."
"Well, this tirade was special. Because it was going to end with 'also we're at my house and I'm pretty sure you want to get inside now because I'm already catching a cold and I will be extremely pissed at you if I catch a cold because I had to get home on foot because we rode there with someone else and you had to make us leave early.'"
"That is special! You probably broke the record for the longest run-on sentence. We gotta call Guinness." He gives John a goofy smile. He wonders if he looks as enamored as he feels.
"Mhm. Sure. Dear Mr. Guinness, come take a look at my buddy John," He snarks as he gently creaks open the door and walks in with light feet. Jesse follows similarly. They cannot wake Mr. and Mrs. Nolan again—he thinks they might start implementing corporal punishment soon if he's not careful.
"I think he might have started throwing my letters in the trash at this point. I've been submitting your name too much. Still no word on if you've won handsomest guy." John snorts at that. Jesse can die happy.
The Nolans' stairs might be drunk Jesse's worst enemy. He's conquered them many times, nearly every weekend, yet they always seem insurmountable when he's faced with them. He has to cling to John to stabilize himself, arms wrapped around his waist as he drags his feet on the steps.
"Get off me, dork." John shrugs him off and shoves him into his bedroom. Their routine has become nearly ingrained in them by this point. They stumble to John's house drunk and one of them sleeps on the floor while the other sleeps in John's bed. Well—that's how it's supposed to go. Jesse thinks that more than half of the time they both wake up tangled around each other in John's queen sized bed, nearly half the space going unused.
Jesse whines dejectedly at being pushed away, sulking into his room and mockingly wiping some fake tears away from the corner of his eye.
"Oh, boo-hoo. Stop trying to act so sympathetic. You're still on my shit list for the whole thing at the party." He shoulder checks Jesse carelessly—maybe from how much they've both been drinking—causing him to fall onto the bed with a soft thud. He doesn't bother getting up and fighting back. He doesn't even bother responding. The bed is comfy.
He's gonna say that it's the alcohol that makes them feel free enough to start stripping down in front of each other. Not, like, in a sexual way! Not really. It's just the most comfortable way to get to sleep. If that means that they end up laying in bed together in their boxers, Jesse's not gonna complain. He is not going to say a thing.
He stares at John as he unbuckles his belt and breathes a sigh of relief. It occurs to him that he really, really does not want to fall asleep yet. Not when he has John right there, with moonlight streaming in through the open blinds on his window hitting him at just the right angle like some cheesy chick flick. The kind that they'd both scoff at Michelle for watching before going up to John's room and doing cooler things like talking about baseball or platonically wrestling.
"Are you sure we have to go to bed? It's really, uh… It's really not that late." Jesse offers that. God, he is a genius. John will never, ever suspect that he wants to stay up and talk so that they can, gasp, spend more time together. Because he likes him. Which is something that he does not find himself expressing to John enough. Which is not the point of this train of thought.
John looks at him like he's stupid. In all honesty, he probably is. "Yeah? I'm pretty sure. What's the use when we're not at the party anymore?" He really refuses to drop that. Remember what he said about him constantly bitching earlier? Yeah. That.
"Blah, blah, blah!" He shoves a hand out, weakly trying to swat John away from much too far a distance. "C'mon, dude. It's not even that late. We can talk. Remember talking?" He thinks he has a serious problem with making an ass of himself when he's buzzed. And when he's sober too.
His stupid belligerent protests are met with a soft sigh and an eyeroll as John throws his jeans in the vague direction of a hamper on the other side of the room. "Yes, Jesse, I remember talking. Fine. We can talk."
He thinks John gives him too much grace. Which should be oxymoronic, given how he just intimated that John is too high-strung with him earlier. But it's not, trust him. Jesse does a lot of stupid shit and he says a lot of the wrong things and he's, on the whole, pretty annoying. But John always just sort of sighs and goes along with it. With a significant amount of bitching. But he's still going along with it, which is a win for Jesse.
"Can we… listen to music too? Make use of your be—autiful CD collection?" He leans forward from where he was laying on the bed, shimmying his hips up to get his own belt and jeans off with as little struggle as possible. There is still a lot of struggle. Combining alcohol-impeded coordination and significantly damp jeans will do that.
He actually gets a full scoff from that. "You want to listen to music? With my parents asleep in the house? My parents, who will totally kill us if we wake them up?" He seems to wait for Jesse to realize that what he's saying is totally dumb. Unlucky for him, Jesse does not have that feature in his head. Not when he's like this.
"C'mon!" He flops back onto the bed, bumping his head on the wall on the way. He's probably super concussed. "Your house is so—o—o big. The walls are thick! Plus you have a whole room to yourself! We never get to listen to music at my house. Jamey always shuts the good shit off."
Maybe his whining works. Maybe John feels sorry for him after seeing him bang his head. Maybe he's too used to giving into the dumb shit Jesse says. He nods and mumbles something about him being spoiled while rifling through his CDs and carefully turning down the volume on his player.
"Put on something good, please. No metalcore bullshit." He groans and follows John—as much as he can without getting off the bed. He did not lie when he said it was comfy.
"Metalcore bullshit is great! You'd love Ringworm if you'd actually listen to them. But you won't. Because you hate me." He can practically hear John's eye twitching. It makes him giggle.
"Meh. I love you more than I hate you." In a platonic way. He makes sure to clarify that. To himself. It's platonic. And heterosexual. "But not enough to listen to your Atreyu crap."
"I don't even like Atreyu!" He sort of likes when John snaps at him. He's already memorized all the best ways to get under his skin. "Besides, it totally wouldn't fit the mood. Duh."
"What is the mood, exactly?"
The air hangs between them for a second, words caught in John's throat. Jesse stares patiently. "The mood is whatever won't wake my mom up." With that, he puts something easy in the CD player, lets the music play for a second, and shuts the bickering down. Not without starting more, though. "I'm gonna sleep in the bed tonight."
"No you aren't, asshole." He tugs John down onto the bed by the back of his shirt, planning to fight tooth and nail for this. Not because he wants John to be closer to him. Nothing so sensitive. "My bones. They ache. It hurts. No floor. I win."
He startles at the contact, set so off balance that he nearly falls on top of Jesse as he tumbles onto the bed. They both try not to crack a smile to keep the sanctity of their very serious argument. "You lost bed privileges. Do I need to remind you that you—"
"No, I get it! I get it so—o—o much. Jesse Lacey is a douchebag and you will soon kill him. However, he is a douchebag whose back hurts. So… I win?" He nearly sits up to beam at John hopefully.
"No way. I'm older. Shouldn't I be the one with a backache?"
"Older by, like, 4 months! That's nothing!" He scoffs, backhanding John on the chest (softly) for even trying that weakass argument. "My back ages, like, seven times faster than the rest of my body. Because I go to a shit ton of shows where I get thrown around and shit. Without you, thanks. Because you… hate me?"
"Yeah, Jess, because I hate you. Because you're the most stubborn guy in the world. It's my house! It's my bed!" Jesse is dully aware that they're arguing louder than the music at this point, despite it mostly being angry whispers. He finds that they usually get so caught up in each other that they don't realize they're disturbing others. Like they mind-meld so extremely that they don't even remember other people are a thing. Or whatever. Oh, well. Mrs. Nolan can come beat their asses.
"You slept in the bed last time, though!"
"So did you!"
"Pshh! Don't care!" He smacks his hand over John's mouth playfully. They did always play rough. "I deserve it!"
"You deserve nothing." John adds a lot of fake vitriol to that one, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips and slapping Jesse lamely. "I'm sleeping in the bed."
Jesse's brain has already moved on from the conversation, knowing that they're both just going to end up sleeping side-by-side again. He wonders if other best friends also end up sleeping together (platonically) so often. Maybe. They're probably normal. His head has wandered to the music, letting John ramble.
Without warning, Jesse shoots up from bed as if struck by lightning. A newfound energy shoots through him, leaving him standing and pointing at John with conviction. "Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up." He's not saying it to be mean. He's saying it in the politest way he can muster. He just needs proper silence for his genius idea. "Dance with me."
"What?"
"Dance! With me! Now!" He says it like it's already happened. Like how guys in the bible talk when they're reciting a prophecy. 'And on a 1999 night with rain slamming into the windows, no more than a minute from now, John slowdanced with Jesse to some slightly above average emo indie rock crap. Sincerely, God.'
"Just do it!" He grabs John's wrist and yanks him up from the bed. Not exactly the most gentlemanly thing he could have done, but whatever.
John giggles at him, no doubt thinking that the alcohol mixed with him hitting his head has actually made him insane. Or maybe just given him CTE. "You can't slowdance to Braid, idiot. It's not slowdanceable." Like that's the most obvious way to shoot down his idea. Not that they're two dudes and dudes do not typically slowdance together. He thinks that the both of them are a little too drunk to care right now.
"First, you fake fucking fan, it's Hey Mercedes. How do you not know that?! You have the CD!" He shakes his head disapprovingly. He's calling Bob Nanna on him and telling him to not bring any gifts this year. "Second, I can do whatever I good and goddamn please." He lays on a thick southern accent, hoping to catch John off guard while he's laughing and force him to actually dance.
His plan works perfectly. Has he mentioned that he's a genius yet? John breaks down into giggles, leaving Jesse ample room to grab his hand and put his own free one on John's lower back. Ha-ha. John has to be the girl.
It takes them a while to get into a groove. A rhythm that doesn't seem jerky and strange. Maybe that's their uncoordination's fault. It's probably because John was right, as he usually is, and the music is very much not slowdanceable. But Jesse is nothing if not persistent, and he will dance with John. He pulls him closer, grinning into his face. His mostly disapproving face, despite the growing smirk that he's clearly trying to suppress.
Eventually, they reach something that's almost like a real dance. They're almost like real guys. After a while, John gets bored at looking at Jesse's face (which he doesn't fault him for—he's not un-plain), staring at where their hands meet instead. He doesn't know if he can read John's expression. It's vaguely happy. He hasn't felt John's breath rising and falling since a few moments ago. It gets stuck in his throat, he thinks. That happens when John's awkward. Or flustered.
Jesse feels floaty on his feet. He feels like he could stare at John forever. But he takes a chance instead, burying his face into the crook of his neck. Lightly. Gentle enough to not disturb him too much, he hopes. Fitting them together like a puzzle, hoping that it feels natural enough that John won't get disturbed by how tender he's being. He doesn't exactly like being tender—John just happens to bring it out in him.
John's bare skin is cold. Even his hand was, although it's warmed up by now. His neck is particularly cold, though. He figures he'll have to burrow closer to warm him up there too. He pulls him closer from his waist. Just for good measure. Just out of the kindness of his heart. Yeah, he's definitely blaming this on the alcohol. It's most of the reason why he feels free enough to act on all his dumb impulses.
When he breathes in, John breathes out. It's a nice rhythm. It comes naturally. They've mostly stopped dancing, just swaying back and forth on their feet, holding each other close. Not that they were dancing beautifully earlier. It was basically just swaying with more steps. Jesse thinks he likes this better, though. He breathes out through his mouth onto John's neck, enjoying the goosebumps he forms. He's dangerously close to his lips brushing the skin.
The song ends, he thinks. Maybe this was the next song. Maybe the song after. He lost track of time. His mind was racing a mile a minute, too fast to put into words. Or it was frozen on John. Either one works. They're both sound excuses in that they take the blame off Jesse for how distracted he got in the fondness he feels for John.
He pulls away slowly, like he doesn't want to startle a wounded animal. When he does, John is already staring at him. Big eyes of an amorphous color trained on him—they look pretty blue in this light. He's pretty sure they're hazel on his driver's license.
John moves even slower, creeping back to the CD player, hand still lingering in Jesse's as he walks back and turns off the music. He doesn't even take the disk out. Which could easily damage the CD, John. He considers being annoying and nagging him about his carelessness. For once, he doesn't think this is the time for fucking with John.
John holds his hand a little firmer when he returns to his position in front of him. It's Jesse's turn to feel his breath catch in his throat. Platonically.
"Bed?"
"Bed."
They're so drunk. Maybe even more than buzzed.