The Connection

MM: what kind of chinese food do you like?

AR: Why do you ask?

MM: just wondering. its not weird like the pizza thing?

AR: My pizza thing isn’t weird.

MM: sure. its completely normal ;)

AR: Shut up. I like plain white rice, and orange chicken. With lots of soy sauce.

MM: eggrolls, or anything? Or is that too many vegetables?

AR: Har Har. Chinese doughnuts and chicken skewers are about it.

AR: Why??

MM: see you tonight, av :)
________

Avery’s never been much for the weekend.

He isn’t like Quinn, or any other normal teenager, who live for the weekends and all the small breaks in between the hectic schedule of regular high school. Of course Avery likes the weekends; but besides the fact that he can sleep in and he doesn’t have to go to school, weekends aren’t too different than regular week days for him. He does homework that he’s neglected all week, he watches movies in his underwear and he occasionally has Kat over to join in on his Boxer Clad Movie Marathon. But weekends don’t hold the same appeal that the do to people with actually social lives. People like his peers who go out every Friday night and get toasted or go to games or whatever regular teenagers do.

But somehow, Avery has begun to look forward to Friday nights more than usual.

“We are not watching The Breakfast Club.”

Kat glares up from her position, crouched into front of the Blu-Ray player. The blue light coming from the TV makes her pale green eyes glint in challenge. Cooper looks down at her from his armchair, his mouth set in a grim line of determination.

“Would you prefer Sixteen Candles?” She asks, as artificially sweet as sugar free chocolates. Cooper scoffs, and launches into a long winded argument on Why I Refuse to Watch Any John Huges Films with You Ever Again.

Avery has learned, in the past few weeks, it’s better to stay out of Cooper and Kat’s weekly squabbles over movies. He only offers an opinion when asked, which is very rare. So, he doesn’t say anything at all; he just deftly picks up a sticky sweet piece of orange chicken with chopsticks, popping the tender bite into his mouth.

“Is it good?”

Avery swallows the chicken, pushing his glasses back into place. He clears his throat.

“Yeah. Kat and I usually get Fast Dragon. But this is much better, not as sweet at theirs. But not really spicy, like other places make it spicy. It kind of tastes like Panda Express, which I had like once and it was good… so, yeah. It’s good.” Avery finishes lamely, a blush rising in his cheeks.

He will never understand. Never, in a million billion years why he hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash when he was taunting Max with harsh jeers and teases. And when their texting back and forth like they do every single night, Avery has no trouble talking, being sarcastic and even occasionally flirting back with Max. But now, during civilized chit chat, with the warm, stocky body of Max inches away, eating the Chinese takeout that Max bought specifically for him, their knees bumping as they reach forward for their sodas; Avery clams up. Or, at least he wishes he would clam up. No, instead Avery babbles like an idiot. Talking too much and skirting the question and adding stupid facts before he remembers that he’s talking too much.

Max’s full pink lips quirk upwards, in a half teasing smirk, half soft smile.

“Can I?” He asks, holding up his own plastic fork. Avery shoves the white carton emblazed with a red Kanji and a traditional Chinese temple under Max’s nose, nodding quickly. Max quirks a slightly bigger smile, and jabs at a dark and sticky piece of chicken. He pops it in to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment.

“So, good?” Avery questions, tilting his head slightly.

“It’s actually better than I thought it would be.” Max confirms. He looks down at his own paper container, for a second, before tilting it in Avery’s direction with a shy smile, that doesn’t at all look like a smirk.

“Want some?”

Avery peers at the sauce smothered chunks of beef. He takes a small sniff (something that causes Max to snort loudly) and smells caramelized onions and peppers, and something slightly spicy. He shakes his head, his too long bangs flopping in his eyes.

“Nah. I don’t like onions… or peppers.”

Max rolls his eyes, taking his own fork and spearing just a piece of beef (a rather large piece Avery might add). He offers the forkful to Avery, with a raised eyebrow.

“Just try the beef, then. Oh, c’mon. It’s not gonna kill you!” Max adds at Avery’s dubious look at the offering. Avery smirks with an idea.

“Feed it to me.” Avery says smugly, opening his mouth widely. Max won’t, and Avery feels a little victory in that. Max smirks, eyes glinting. And to his surprise, Avery feels the tines of Max’s fork slide gently across his bottom lip. He closes him mouth around the food, more in surprise than anything. Max grins evilly; pulling the fork quickly out of Avery’s pouting mouth.

“Now, eat up, Princess.” He grins, proudly.

Avery begrudgingly does. And… it’s not bad. It’s even a little good. Avery swallows, a blush rising on his cheeks. Jesus, he wasn’t supposed to actually feed him!

“Good?” Max inquires sweetly, a triumphant smirk stretched across his face.

“It was alright.” Avery huffs, like a stubborn toddler. Max chuckles lightly, bumping his shoulder lightly against Avery’s. Avery ignores the warm tingle that passes down his spine at the contact. Nearby, Cooper groans loudly.

“Fine! You win! Sixteen Candles it is!”
________

When the whistle blows Avery almost dies of relief.

The breezy chill of March has faded into the damp heat of April, and any and every PE teacher has taken the opportunity to hold class outdoors as a special treat. And, Avery thinks, it’s not really a treat for anyone, besides the Caches themselves, who get to sit in the bleachers on the softball diamond and enjoy the unreasonable warm April morning and watch a free show. The coaches even heckle like at a regular baseball game; really the only thing their missing is the overpriced soda and hotdogs.
So, when the whistle blows, in the middle of a play; Avery waits in his position of right field, for the majority of his class to drag their sweat sticky selves to the locker rooms before he does. And when he finally trudges into the locker room, yanking his gym shirt back and forth form his chest to circulate some sort of breeze against his florid skin, he gages the sounds he hears.

He’s like a rabbit, he thinks pathetically. His heart thudding against his chest rapidly, as he remains motionless listening for the swearing, cat calls, and good natured ribbing of his predators; and then determines whether the sounds are coming from his locker, the shower, or their own lockers. He hears it (showers), and with practiced speed, he spins in the combination of his locker. Avery yanks his favorite Batman shirt over his sweaty bangs, ignoring his yellow and black plaid over-shirt for now (Kat laughs at him; she says he looks like a bumble bee). With a little effort, he yanks his jeans over his bony hips, as he think dully that either he’s finally gaining a little weight or his mom mixed up the laundry again, and he’s wearing Quinn’s jeans right now. He looks over his shoulder, and sighs in relief; the coast is still clear.

His ratty high tops and bumble bee like over-shirt follow, and finally he slips his precious, although slightly scratched phone into his hip pocket. He frowns, and pokes at the very suspicious rectangle in his hip pocket. These jeans must be Quinn’s, his phone never makes this big of a lump.

“If you’re wondering, yeah, your ass does look gay in those jeans.”

Avery straightens, casting a look over his shoulder, as unpleasant guffawing rings in his ears. Logan Harris stands in the middle of two guys, who must have been held back a year, or five. Harris smirks at Avery, waiting for a response. And Avery knows. He really does. He knows he shouldn’t say anything to make Harris more agitated. He should just bow his head, take the beating, and make a good whipping boy to bolster Harris’ shitty sense of self-worth.

But this is getting old.

Avery’s tired. So fucking tired of being something that Footballers with daddy issues use to take out their frustration. He’s tired of being ridiculed for something like his sexuality, something he was born with; like his pale skin and messy hair. He’s tired of being someone weak and defenseless and easy to beat on because he’s small; both with his words and his stature. Avery is hit so hard with the unfairness that has followed him since eighth grade, first with Max and now with the ginger senior. So, yeah. Avery knows that he should just shut up.

“Thanks. I wanted something that would attract the attention of other gay guys. So they work, yeah?”

But he can’t.

The next thing Avery knows, his smirking face is shoved roughly into his own locker. Harris has a fistful of Avery’s sweaty hair gripped tightly in his hand, and sharp knee pressing painfully into the small of his back.

“You calling me a fag, huh?” Logan questions darkly, his foul smelling breath right in Avery’s ear. Avery gives a weak chuckle.

“Are you confirming it?” He asks sweetly, as the first coppery drop of his own blood, now steaming heartily from his busted nose wets his tongue. Avery is rewarded for his sass with Logan smashing his face into his locker again… and again… and again. Logan spins Avery’s body around, using the grip on his dark hair as a handle, with the other hand Logan, slams Avery shoulder into the grate. The blood from Avery’s nose is flowing heavily now, falling into his open mouth. He fights back tears. Logan’s livid face appears fuzzy around the edges, despite the senior being inches away from Avery’s own face. Distantly, Avery hopes he didn’t break his glasses. His mom will shit if he broke his glasses.

“Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you, you little queer?” Logan hisses, yanking back Avery’s head to the point that Avery’s thin neck feels like it’s going to break.

“Nah. Dumb and ginger isn’t really my type.” Avery chuckles through a mouthful of thick, metallic blood. Logan’s face turns a deeper shade of red, almost purple, his mouth tightening further. Avery giggles thickly, the pain in his nose and face making him impossibly dizzy and reckless.

“Yeah? Well, I bet I know your type, you dirty fucking fag!” Logan roars, as his knee catches Avery in the groin. Avery falls to the filthy concert floor, his already throbbing forehead whacking against the wooden bench that runs down the middle of the aisle on his way down. He gasps for air; his lungs feeling empty and airless.

“Blond hair?” Logan asks, punctuating the question with a sharp kick to Avery’s ribs. Avery hands fly out to protect his tender head.

“How about green eyes?” Another kick.

“Freckles?!” Another kick.

“Perfect pouty lips?!” Kick. Kick. Kick. Logan is screaming now, his shrill voice surely carrying out towards the gym. Avery curls further into himself, his ribs screaming, and his nose bleeding and bleeding.

“Oh! How about has a stupid fucking crush on you, the stupid,” Kick

“Scrawny,” Kick.

“Nerdy,” Kick.

”Faggot!?”Kick. Kick. Kick.

And then, the silent prayer Avery sends is answered. The piercing ringing of the late bell stops the rain of kicks to Avery’s tense and broken body. The hush that follows the bell is only broken by Avery’s sharp, gasping breaths for air and Harris’ ragged panting.

“Hey man, we’re late for Trig. Let’s go.” A gruff voice says to Harris. Avery lays still, arms wrapped around his middle; gulping lungful’s of air into his screaming chest, ignoring the stubborn tears mixing with the blood on his face.

“Yeah, okay.” Logan answers, voice sounding wrecked, like he’d just ran a marathon. Avery waits for the heavy chorus of footfalls to fade away. When the thick wooded door to the locker room slams shut, Avery allows a low whine to rip from his raw throat, and the waterfall of tears to flow freely. After a few minutes, he pulls his aching, swollen body from the chilly concrete on shaking arms. His arms are covered in bright red splotches, and flecks of blood. Avery doesn’t feel like he can stand, not yet, so he sits heavily against the frigid brick wall. He pulls his knees up to his chest, ignoring the jarring, jagged pains that shoot through his sides, back, head and face.

He doesn’t bother to wipe the blood still steaming from his nose.

And he doesn’t bother to look for his glasses.

He curls into himself, his body cold and shaking and so fucking sore. He’s been bullied for the better part of his life, and he has never received a beating liked that. He doesn’t even know what to do. He can’t go to class, covered in blood and dirt. Shaking like it’s the middle of January and not the steamy middle of April. He laughs, a shaky and hysterical sound the middle of a dead quite locker room, as he wonders if he can even walk. He wonders, distantly in a part of his mind not dealing with screaming of his body, how will Quinn and Kat get home? Sure Kat can drive and has her license, and knows the way to Avery’s house, but would Kat be willing to drive his Volvo? She hates the thing, with its stick shift and squeaky breaks. Can Kat even drive stick? Quinn can, but not well. And Quinn doesn’t have her license. They were going to go this weekend and—

The heavy thud of the wooden door shakes Avery from his thoughts.

He buries his head further into his knees, hoping that it isn’t Logan. Hoping that it’s not a teacher, either. Hoping that it’s Kat or Quinn, even though that’s not possible… Or maybe Cooper? Cooper would probably help him—

“Av? Holy fuck—Avery!”

Avery lifts his head from his knees. And he can’t see, he knows that. But he can make out the broad shoulders, covered with the fraying edges of a classic rock shirt, and the messy, a bit longer than normal sandy hair. And he can make out the pure concern in that gruff, gravel coated voice. Avery feels a heavy blanket of shame and embarrassment fall upon his bruised shoulders. Because, of course, it would be Max to find him.

“Hi, Max.” Avery mumbles, putting his tender head back in between his knees, curling further into himself.

He’d rather take another beating, than have Max here and deal with his shame.