The Connection

MM: what’re you doing on sat?

AR: Mostly homework. I’ll be with Kat’s at 8ish for a horror movie marathon with her and Cooper.

MM: want to hang out? I’ve got horror movies and you wouldn’t be the third wheel :)

AR: You know I can’t.

MM: not yet?

AR: Sorry. Not yet.

MM: I can wait. when youre ready, Av.

________

“Are you fucking serious?”

Avery doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to see the scowl that mars Kat’s otherwise pretty face. He just sighs, regretting his decision to spill Cherry Coke all over his t-shirt, forcing him to strip the old one and change into a clean one. Avery has no qualms about changing in the same room as Kat; and she has no qualms about changing in any room, regardless of who currently occupies it. Even before Avery officially came out to his family a few months ago, he was allowed to spend the night with Kat, and Kat was allowed to spend the night with him. Something Quinn viciously argued.

“What?” Avery grumbles instead, pulling a plain white shirt over his head, effectively covering the massive purple and yellow bruise covering his shoulder. He looks at Kat through the full length mirror hanging over his closet door. Her eyes narrow dangerously behind her dark blue frames.

“I thought since you started talking he stopped?” She hisses instead, yanking her phone out of her hip pocket and punching in the passcode so violently, Avery thinks she might crack the screen.

“You’re not texting him are you?” Avery says dully, yanking his hoodie back over his back. And, yes, hoodies are appropriate in the middle of March. They’re appropriate in the middle of July, too, even though they’re a little uncomfortable. Honestly, Avery just feels naked without a jacket of some sort, be it one of his numerous hoodies, or one of Kat’s too-tight-across-his-shoulder’s flannels.

“Fuck no. I’d make Mr. Macho cry right now. I’m texting Cooper—“

“Your boyfriend.” Avery supplies helpfully.

Kat flushes scarlet, the color in her cheeks clashing with her faded hair magnificently.

“If you weren’t already beat to hell, I swear to God…” Kat hisses venomously, and then seems to think better of it, “He’s not my boyfriend. We are simply friends who are hanging out more, in light of certain circumstances.” Kat says primly, jabbing a message into her phone with lightning speed. Avery rolls his eyes.

“Okay. Then what are you texting your Not Boyfriend?”

“I’m telling him to tell his asshole of a friend to leave you alone. Or I’ll kick his ass myself.” Kat says hotly. Avery can’t help but chuckle.

“You’re five four and about two hundred pounds. Max is like, over six foot and probably two-fifty. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Well, I’m going to do something! I’m not going to let him beat the hell out of you!” Kat screeches, throwing down her phone and glaring hard at Avery. And Avery, despite his annoyance, feels a little pocket of warmth in his stomach. It makes him think back to the first day of sixth grade, when some bully ripped his lunch out of his hands, laughing with his friends and a chubby, blonde haired Kat ripped her PBJ in half and beckoned him over to her empty table. It makes him remember, that even if she is more than a little abrasive, she cares about him.

“Kat…” Avery says, shoving her shoulder gently, and sitting next to her on his unmade bed, “Max isn’t doing this. He hasn’t… done anything since we started talking.”

“Well, you’re not getting bruises from doing charcoal drawings.” She sneers. Avery brushes a hand down his jeans, self-consciously. His Mom always mourns how many times she has to do his laundry; and how hard paint, clay, charcoal and other materials are to get out of the fabric. Avery sighs heavily, falling backwards on to his bed, his head bouncing on the edge of his mattress.

“They’re mostly from Logan Harris and a few of his… I don’t know followers? Minions? I’ve been calling them Goons in my head.” Avery says, lightly. Even though being Logan Harris’ new target is nothing to take lightly. Kat is silent for a while, and then:

“I like Goons, too.” Kat says in a rare soft tone, “When?”

“Second block P.E.” Avery says, staring hard at the smooth white surface of his ceiling, the corner of his vision blurring from the bright overhead light.

“It’s too late in the semester for me to change.” Kat mourns softly, picking at a rip in her jeans. Avery shrugs.

“It’s not a big deal. I can take care of it. Really,” Avery defends, as Kat eyes him skeptically, “I’m fine.”

Kat rolls her eyes and snorts. They sit in silence for a while; Avery feeling stupid and helpless, like a storybook princess and Kat feeling guilty and ashamed she can’t help the only person she can truly call a friend.

“Aren’t you late for a date with your Not Boyfriend?” Avery says glancing, upside-down at the alarm clock on his bedside table. The neon numbers glow dimly in his well-lit bedroom.

“Watching movies in his living room is hardly a date.” Kat replies drily.

“Do you turn the lights off? Cuddle under a blanket? Do you make a repeat performance of his graduation party?” Avery prods laughingly, grinning at his flushed-faced friend.

His loving, protective best friend tries to smother him with a pillow before she leaves.

________

BANG.

Avery blinks back the bright white spots speckling his vision. He can already feel the rise of a lump under his unwashed hair. Logan Harris’ nose is inches from his, as the senior looks down at him. This is one of the rare times that Logan actually does the bullying. Usually, he’s just content to direct from the sidelines, as one of his Goons holds Avery against the frigid metal of the locker, the diamond shaped holes scoring the pale skin of Avery’s back.

As Avery looks up at his attacker, with as much indifference as he could muster with spots dancing at the edges of his vision, he notices little things about the senior. Like, Logan has freckles, too. But they are a reddish color, bordering on orange and stand out harshly against his pale skin. And Logan’s front teeth overlap a little and his harsh breath, inches away from Avery’s nostrils, smells like overcooked eggs and something else decidedly unpleasant, not at all like spearmint toothpaste.

He also notes (as Logan shouts something cruel, slamming Avery into the locker with each syllable), that Logan had the coldest blue eyes he has ever seen. They reminded him of the iciest month in winter, when everything is dead. And Avery finds his mind straying to eyes of deep green, flecked with gold; like looking up at the forest canopy with the summery sun bright overhead.

“Are you listening, you little bitch?” Logan roars, moving one hand from the front of his shirt and slamming Avery’s shoulder into the locker, earning a pained gasp from Avery. Logan yells. A lot. Not like Max, who spoke so quietly you had to stain to listen to him muttering taunts and jeers.

“Answer me, you fucking faggot!” Logan screams, fingers digging deep enough into the flesh of Avery’s shoulder to leave fingertip shaped bruises. That was another thing. Compared to Logan, Max was almost sweet with him. Max rarely called him any homophobic slang, and only occasionally slammed Avery against anything. He mostly just held him against lockers and walls with a heavy pressure. Avery glances up at Logan’s florid face.

“Yes. I heard you.” Avery mumbles. And it’s not his proudest moment. He’d much rather taunt Logan just as he taunted Max. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Avery feels like Logan might be a little less forgiving than Max was… is. Logan grins, hard and almost predatory.

“Good. Remember what I said, queer.” Logan hisses. He slams Avery’s lanky frame into the locker once more, the back of Avery’s already bruised head making painful contact with the grate. He release the ripped collar of Avery’s shirt with a jerk, and Avery stares down at the floor in a submissive gesture that makes him unreasonably angry with himself. Logan jerks his rather stubby chin in the direction of the door. And his two large Goons, follow like little ducks.

When he hears the door slam, Avery finally sinks to the cold concert floor.

________

“I don’t want to.”

Let it be known that Avery William Reeves is not, nor will he ever be above pouting. And, he’s had seventeen years to prefect his doleful, kicked puppy look; and man, does he have a good one. He makes his round blue eyes wider and wet, and then he stick out his fuller than normal bottom lip; not too much, just a barely noticeable jut. He’s mother usually caves with just the eyes. His father and Quinn are a little more of a challenge; him having to work in the lip thing too, to get his way.

“Too bad. You’re coming with me.”

”But Kat,” Avery isn’t proud, he usually doesn’t like to do the whiny voice. He thinks it demeans his fine-tuned craft of pouting. It makes it too childish for Avery.

And Avery is not a child.

“Suck up, Princess. Cooper wants us all to hang out.” She says dully, scrolling idly through her dashboard, stopping occasionally to reblog a visual pun or some sort of fandom thing, or any and all pictures of Misha Collins.

“Why?” Avery whines, wishes his voice would reach into dog whistle pitch. Damnit, Puberty. Kat rolls her eyes, rolling over on her bed, dragging one of her thousands of pillows with her. Avery sleeps with a ton of blankets; and Kat sleeps with thousands of pillows in all shapes and sizes. Avery is sitting in her plush desk chair, eyes running over the familiar set up of Kat’s room.

Kat’s room kind of reminds him of a weird mix between a library and a flea market. Most of the walls are covered in shelves, not one of them matching. And on those shelves are a collection of books and quirky knick knacks that Kat finds at garage sales and flea markets and wherever else you can find a glow-in-the-dark Buddha figurine. The room has a variety of rugs thrown all over the concert floor. Kat says it’s because the basement in which her room is in, isn’t finished, “And the floor’s fucking freezing in the winter.”

Very little of Kat’s dusty lavender walls are visible through the fandom posters and Japanese watercolors she also picks up at garage sales. Behind her headboard, a giant corkboard hangs; on that, there are comics cut straight from the Sunday edition of The Chronicle, fortunes from their adventures to Fast Dragon, and photographs, some crinkled and others yellowed slightly with age. Right in the middle is a slightly curled photo of a thirteen year old Avery, all gangly limbs and huge glasses, smiling shyly and a thirteen year old Kat, blonde and grinning happily, her arm thrown carelessly over Avery’s scrawny neck.

“Because you’re my best friend, dipshit. And Cooper wants us all to be friends, I guess.” Kat says drily.

“I don’t want to.” Avery repeats, whining pathetically now. Kat rolls her eyes, and as usual, resorts to physically violence; flinging a pillow at Avery’s face with impressive force.

“Quit whining. There’ll be pizza, so shut up, come watch movies and eat free food.” Kat says harshly, glancing at the clock, “Now, c’mon. We’re already late.”

She stands, shoving her phone unceremoniously into her hip pocket. The lump is very noticeable in her dark wash skinny jeans. Kat certainly isn’t dressed for a date, but then again, Avery isn’t sure how she would dress for a date anyway. She’s wearing a boy’s My Chemical Romance shirt that she’s owned since, what, seventh, eighth grade? The fabric is light gray and almost see through with age, tiny holes litter the bottom few inches (Kat has a nervous habit of pulling and stretching at the hems of her shirts), the front of the shirt so tight across Kat’s chest that the fabric ripples.

She’s forgone the usually flannel, and her long, slightly faded hair is a frizzy mess with all the early spring humidity, so she’s thrown it up into a high ponytail. But the loose ringlets can still be made out. She slips her socked feet into her standard blue high tops. She’s wearing her usually make-up, thick eyeliner and red stained lips. She looks pretty. Gorgeous, even.

“What’re you looking at, shithead?”

But when she opens her mouth…

“C’mon! We are late. The pizza will be cold.” She says, enunciating each and every syllable, like Avery’s slow, rather than lazy. Avery heaves a theatrical sigh, and stands from Kat’s desk chair. He follows her up the rickety staircase leading from her room to the main part of the house, flipping out the lights as he goes.

“What if they got gross pizza?” Avery tries, following Kat outside, the spring weather crisp and breezy, the temperature dropping steadily as the sun sets.

“Oh my god.” Kat groans, crossing the street to the neighboring street, not bothering to look both ways, and not bothering to look back at Avery.

“It is a logical concern!” Avery cries. Avery only eats cheese pizza with light sauce and lots of garlic butter. He’ll occasionally venture out and eat a slice or two of Canadian bacon, but never pepperoni like Kat (too spicy), or peppers and onions (too vegetal), or Supreme (too… just too much).

“No, it’s not. Cooper doesn’t have to take your idiosyncrasies into account!” Kat says over her shoulder, walking briskly up the steps of Cooper’s massive pillared front porch (again, is that even the right word?). Avery doesn’t have to see Kat’s face to see her very pointed eye roll.

“Yes, he does!” Avery counters icily, as Kat raps smartly on the giant oaken front door. It even has one of those brass knockers, like in the movies. “If he is trying to woo you, he is also wooing me! You and I both!” Kat snorts, raising an eyebrow as they stand on the porch. Avery flushes at the suggested threesome he just made, and wants no part of.

“That’s really weird, Avy. The whole gay thing kind of negates lady things. Like boobs. I have boobs—“

“You have lovely boobs, if I do say so myself.”

Cooper smirks, leaning against the doorway. He too, is dressed far too casually for a date; a simple gray tee and a pair of light wash, baggy jeans. He wriggles his eyebrows at Kat, shoving shaggy blond bangs out of his laughing eyes. Kat snorts, rolling her eyes. She reaches up and shoves Cooper’s shoulder out of the way, slipping past him into Cooper’s house like she’s done this a thousand times. And, Avery thinks, she probably has. Cooper rolls his eyes, but lets his Not Girlfriend pass.

“Gee, come in, Kathrine.” Cooper says drily. From inside the house Kat makes a noise of indignation. Cooper turns his attention to Avery, standing huddled against the crisp spring breeze on Cooper’s doorstep.

“Come in?” Cooper questions, raising an eyebrow, and holding the door open wider in invitation. Avery smiles shyly, muttering a quick ‘thanks,’ before stepping past Cooper and into the foyer.

The foyer looks like his own, but with a slightly classier, a slightly richer feel (no pun intended). It’s wider for one thing, with a higher ceiling. In the middle there’s a small table with… oh Jesus, is that really a bowl of fruit? And a crystal vase of artfully arranged flowers. Kat stands next to something that looks like the cubby holes, like the ones that children in Kindergarten put their backpacks and lunches in; only this one is made of rich, glossy wood. Kat is pulling off her shoes, shoving them unceremoniously into the cubby next to a pair of all black, high top Nike’s, that look fairly new. Avery follows Kat’s lead, and pulls off his own sneakers, placing them in the cubby next to Kat’s with a little more care than she did.

“Pizza?” Kat questions hopefully, looking up at Cooper with big green eyes. Cooper chuckles, giving her ponytail a playful tug. Kat bats his thick hand away, her cheeks coloring slightly. Avery feels warmth in his chest looking at his best friend and her Soul Mate.

“Any time now. He’s on his way now.” Cooper grins, gently pulling the elastic out of Kat’s frizzy hair. This tender gesture makes Avery simultaneously happy for Kat, and a little lonely. Max doesn’t seem like the type for tender gestures and sweet glances.

“Quit it. It’s frizzy.” Kat growls, batting his hand away, the color growing deeper in her cheeks.

“I like it. Makes you look like Hermione. “Cooper smirks.

“That’s creepy. You have a Hermione fetish?” Kat laughs as her blush deepens. Cooper shrugs, finally pulling the elastic free, her runs his hand over Kat’s frizzy mess of curls.

“Doesn’t everybody?” Cooper says drily. Kat scoffs, giving Cooper’s chest a gentle shove.

“Stop being creepy.” Kat says, half-heartedly, glancing at her best friend. Avery watches the whole thing with a huge, laughing smirk plastered on his face. Kat, the meanest, toughest, bitchiest girl he’s ever met, his Kat, being so easily in love with this guy. And, this guy flirting and being oddly tender with her, just as easily. The door behind them opens, with a gentle thump. And that’s kind of weird, don’t delivery guys usually knock?

“Hey, little help?”

And Avery stops cold. Because he knows that voice. The same voice that sounds like it’s just gotten over bronchitis, and just ate broken glass; the voice that used to taunt and tease him. The same voice, now, that he reads sweet, funny, and grammatically incorrect text messages in. Avery turns slightly, hoping that he’s wrong.

He’s not.

Max Matthews stands in the doorway. His freckled cheeks tinged pink from the slight cold, his sandy hair slightly windblown; he’s not wearing the Letterman jacket Avery knows him to wear, but a worn green and yellow flannel, rolled up at the elbows. He balances three large pizza boxes, a bag of bread sticks, and another smaller box on top of the pizza. He’s staring at Avery with wide eyes, chewing on his bottom lip.

He really wishes he would have stayed home.