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Your apartment is barely big enough for the distance you're both pretending to keep.
Too cramped.
After his knee knocks into the coffee table for the third time, Jonny points it out.
"Your furniture is really out to get me," he says.
"You're just tall."
He gives you a look from the far end of the couch — it is much too small — which is hardly far at all. His green jacket is thrown over the back of a chair, brown hair curling loose around his face because he keeps running his hand through it. He looks tired.
The movie on the TV is terrible. Jonny picked it, which means he is convinced it is meaningfully bad in some way.
A woman in a torn prom dress screams at a creature made of pond weeds.
Jonny sits up a little. "See, the lighting here is actually—"
You reach across the couch and tug him toward you by the wrist.
He stops talking.
For a second he lets you pull him. Then his body realizes where it is going and turns awkward, all elbows and hesitation.
"Newman."
"Come here."
His eyes flick to your face. "Why?"
You smile at him.
That is enough. It usually is, and it delights you every time.
He makes a low sound, something trapped between a sigh and a complaint, but he moves. At first he moves slowly, as if the couch has rules he is trying not to violate. You shift back against the armrest and guide him down until his shoulder is against your chest, his head tucked near your collarbone, his long legs folded badly because your couch was never built with Jonny in mind.
He goes still.
You can feel him thinking. That is the funny thing about Jonny — They move through his body long before he ever voices them: in the tension of his shoulders, in the hesitant hover of his hand above your waist before it finally settles, in the careful way he angles his neck, as if trying to take up as little space as possible.
"You're allowed to lean on me," you tell him.
"I know that."
"You don't look like you know that."
"Shut up."
You slide one arm around his chest, the other over his shoulder, and settle your hand in his hair. His breath catches when your fingers touch the curls at the back of his head. Then he lowers his face a little, hiding it against your shirt.
Oh.
That is new.
You keep your hand there and say nothing.
The movie keeps going. Someone on screen declares that the swamp has a living consciousness. Jonny would usually have an opinion about that. He stays quiet this time.
His hair is softer than it looks, sliding between your fingers. You comb through it gently, carefully working out the tiny knots, feeling the last of his resistance slowly melt away.
First his shoulders, then his jaw, and finally the hand at your waist, which curls lightly into the fabric of your shirt.
"You okay?" you ask.
He nods, then seems to remember you cannot see his face well. "Yeah."
"You're quiet."
"You're doing something weird to my head."
"Petting you?"
"Yeah. That."
"You don't like it?"
A pause.
"I didn't say that."
Your mouth curves before you can stop it.
That strange warmth blooms in your chest again. You have known hunger before — sharp, wordless, ravenous. You have known curiosity, pleasure, and desire — all those fleeting human emotions that drift through this borrowed body. But this is different. When Jonny leans into you like this, the warmth settles low and quiet behind your ribs. A soft, aching tenderness. Almost ridiculous.
He is twenty-seven. He is taller than you. He has a mouth full of complaints. He is not a child, and you are not anything that should be trusted with softness.
Still, you want to hold him until whatever is sharp inside him forgets its own edge for a while.
Maybe that is a kind of monstrosity too.
You bend and press your mouth to his hair.
Jonny makes a small, startled sound.
You feel him lift his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide in that way they get when you catch him somewhere undefended — annoyed, embarrassed, pleased. All of it tangled together.
"What was that for?" he asks.
"Wanted to."
He stares at you.
Then, because he is Jonny and he cannot leave anything soft in the room without poking at it to see if it will bite, he says, "You're gonna make me miss the swamp waking up."
"But you've already seen this movie."
"Exactly. I know what I'm losing."
You touch his cheek with the back of your fingers. He goes quiet again.
The light from the TV moves across his face, pale blue and green. It traces the line of his nose, the tired shadows under his eyes, and the faint flush.
You think of every person in St. Georges who has looked at him and decided they knew exactly what he was. Freak. Clerk. Leech. Bitter thing behind a counter. Someone's difficult brother. Someone's bad twin. Someone to laugh at, needle, or leave alone.
You draw him closer.
His forehead touches the base of your throat.
"Y/N," he says, very quietly.
You like when he says your name like that. It has less defense in it than Newman. Less distance.
"Yes?"
He does not answer at first. His fingers tighten in your shirt for a moment, then relax.
"You're going to fall asleep sitting like that," he says.
"That's what you wanted to say?"
"…No."
You wait.
He exhales, annoyed with himself. "I don't know. Forget it."
You look down at him. "Jonny."
He shifts but does not pull away. That is how you know he wants to say it, whatever it is. He presses his mouth into a thin line, eyes on the TV even though you doubt he is actually seeing it.
After a while, he says, "This is nice."
The words come out stiff, almost reluctant.
Something inside you goes very still.
He immediately adds, "Don't make a thing out of it."
"I won't."
"Come on, I can hear you smiling."
"Can you?"
"While I'm lying on you? Unfortunately."
You cannot help laughing, and his face goes even redder.
You keep one arm around him, fingers threading gently through his hair again. This time, he closes his eyes.
The monster rises from the swamp on screen, a blurry, mournful mess of rubber and mist. Outside the apartment, a car passes by. The fridge hums. Jonny's breathing gradually evens out, warm and steady, his weight becoming real and solid in your arms.
You could break many things.
You know that all too well. If you wanted, you could devour everything on this small planet.
Instead, you hold him carefully.
After a few minutes, Jonny murmurs, "If Roach ever finds out about this, I'm killing them."
"Huh. They'd probably call it body exploring."
Jonny opens one eye. "I changed my mind. I'm killing you too."
You kiss his forehead before he can hide.
He freezes.
Then he groans, long and suffering, and turns his face back against you.
"Screw off, Newman."
You smile into his hair.
"No."