The Connection

The heavy rain hitting against his window doesn’t wake him up.

In fact, the rain is soothing to Avery. The thudding of water droplets against the glass of his window is just the right amount of white noise to lull him into a comfortable, heavy sleep. The light in his room is light gray; overcast and impossible to tell the actual time of the day. And Avery is content to sleep all day; rainy days always make him drowsy and lazy. And he’d be more than happy to fall back into unconsciousness. But the gentle breathing on the back of his neck and the hand tracing lazy circles on his stomach is ticklish and quiet distracting. Avery groans softly, a vexed noise that he hopes conveys enough so he doesn’t have to speak.

It doesn’t.

“Stop it, asshole.” He grumbles, turning his face further into his pillow and willing his bed mate to heed his complaint. Max chuckles, the sound harsh and throatier than it would be usually; whether from sleep or screaming at his parents Avery would rather not think about. Max kisses the back of his neck, nuzzling his nose into the soft hair at the nape of Avery’s neck.

“Mornin’ to you too.”

“Exactly, morning. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s after eleven. It’s not mornin’.” Max insists, the pads of his fingers continuing to weave aimless trails all over the pale skin of Avery’s stomach. It tickles and Avery wants to go back to sleep. He bats Max’s hand away lazily, clinging valiantly to the last dregs of sleep.

“Stop. That tickles. “Avery whines pitifully, scooting his back closer to Max’s chest, trying to skirt his wondering fingertips. Max snorts at his less than inspired escape attempt, but stop tracing the muscles of Avery’s stomach, anyway. Instead, he settles on wrapping the arm not trapped underneath his boyfriend’s head around his bony middle and tugging the younger boy closer. When Max speaks again, his voice is muffled by Avery’s thick dark hair.

“You gonna get up?”

“It’s eleven.”

“After eleven.” Max corrects, smiling anyway, “I’ve been awake forever.”

“Doing what? Tickling me and watching me sleep? Creepy.” Avery snorts. He’s awake now, but that doesn’t change the fact that Max is warm and soft and he’s comfortable spooned in front of the quarterback; he’s not willing to leave the bed yet.

“You’re ticklish, Av?” Max simpers, completely ignoring Avery’s latter comment (and for the record, Max was not watching him sleep. He was simply awake while Avery was not, and Avery is the most interesting thing in the room, thank you very much.) Avery squirms unhelpfully against Max’s chest. He wiggles in the quarterback’s strong grasp until he’s facing him. Max’s face is blurry, even with their noses almost touching (Avery’s vision is terrible), but Avery can make out the patches of mottled bruises covering the better part of Max’s smirking face. Hesitantly, Avery reaches into the minute space between them and caresses the wad of gauze that covers the gash in Max’s cheek. The mark has bled; spotting the cottony white a russet color. Not bothering to answer Max’s question, Avery carefully pulls back the gauze and runs his finger delicately over the scabbed, swollen flesh.

“You never told me what happened.” Avery whispers, trying his best to focus on the green of Max’s eyes, rather than the blood red whites. Max sighs, his forehead bumping into Avery’s with a gentle thud. His eyes are closed, and Avery closes his too, comfortable just to feel Max’s heartbeat and warmth.

“Same thing that always happens. Not much to say.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re worse than I’ve ever seen… and Allie. She was hit, too.” Avery insists eyes still closed. He can feel the tension, rock hard in the muscles of Max’s arms and chest. Avery raises his hand in the small canyon made by their bare chests and places it over Max’s heart.

“Please. Just… tell me.”
Max sighs heavily, his warm breath blowing over Avery’s mouth and nose. He kisses Avery softly, a feather light pressure on his lips, a thinly veiled apology.

“If I do, then you’ll blame yourself. And it had nothin’ to do with you—“

“Me?” Avery interjects a little louder than their previously whispers words. And then the horrible, gut clenching pieces fall into place.

“They found out.” Avery says, and Max nods against him even though it really wasn’t a question. Avery shakes his head, and begins to sit up. He’s afraid that his very being will be an imprint on Max’s; one that he’ll carry around with him, clinging and cloying, like cheap, too sweet perfume. A miasma that will let everyone around him know that his Soul Mate is a skinny, thoroughly unimpressive boy.

“No. Don’t… please.” Max whispers, a hint of pleading in his deep, scratchy voice that Avery’s only heard once before. It makes something in his stomach twist; something like a dull blade of a serrated knife. Max is clutching at his back, not pulling him back down, but all the muscles in his arms straining to do so. Avery relents, lying back down and resting his forehead back against Max’s. He sighs, wrapping his arms around Max’s neck; trying his best to be supportive and understanding, even if he feels like this whole wonderful dream is coming to a jarring, heartbreaking end.

He knows that Max can’t stay; he knows that Soul Mates and the Connection mean little when it comes to people like himself and Max. People like Mike. People like his classmates. People like the closed-minded citizens of any small town, who will preach acceptance, if at a distance. But when the offense is close, at their Memorial Day Barbeques or at their Prom’s, that acceptance is far from their minds and tongues. Still, Avery wants to be able to help Max. And Allie. Even if he can’t have any more kissing lessons with Max, or watch shitty horror movies with him, or hold him close. He can swallow his broken heart like cheap beer if it means that Max can feel safe. If it means the arms wrapped so protectively around him will stop shaking for just a moment.

“I’m here, okay? Just… tell me.” Avery murmurs. Max sighs, pulling Avery closer; so that their bare chests are touching and Max can’t speak without the swell of his upper lip brushing Avery’s own mouth.

“Mom was home,” Max murmurs, his voice soft and sad, his thumb stroking the dip between Avery’s shoulder blades, “And Allie was there too. And I guess Mike was drinking in the living room, but he’s always doin’ that. Mom just got off from the hospital, asked where I was, if I was workin’ or if I was at practice or whatever.”

“And Allie… she wants someone to talk to. Like, she talks to me… but ‘m not her mom, you know? And when mom’s home that’s weird enough so Allie was soaking it in like a fuckin’ sponge, just talking about everything, school and knittin’ and me... And she didn’t mean to, she really didn’t…” Max pleads. But he doesn’t have to; Avery couldn’t blame Allie, with her puppy dog eyes and too-big clothes, for outing them even if he tried.

“She let it slip.” Avery summarizes. Max sighs against his lips. Presses a pleading kiss.

“Yes and no. She let it slip that I met my Soul Mate and that I was with them. And she used the right pronouns, I guess. When mom asked her about it, she musta remembered that we don’t live in a carin’ sharin’ household and clamed up. But Mike had already heard.”

“He came in to the kitchen and started screamin’, knocking shit over asking where the hell was I. And who the hell were you and just…Allie wouldn’t tell him, she was fuckin’ terrified. She doesn’t like yellin’. But she tried to take it back, and when that didn’t work, she told Mike that she wouldn’t tell him and Mike isn’t really a guy you tell no to. I wasn’t there and I should have been and—“

“Stop. It’s not your fault, you were working.” Avery shushes, but Max only lets out a weak chuckle.

“I wasn’t. I’d just gotten in and was showerin’. I had grease in my hair and that was more important than my baby sister.” Max says bitterly. Avery shushes him, smoothing his thumb across Max’s cheekbone, through the constellations of freckles until he stops shaking with rage. Or maybe sorrow. Avery’s not sure. When Max continues, his voice is cold, detached like the Max he knew growing up. It makes him long for the softness, the smiles and Max’s throaty chuckle, that always seems to take Max by surprise and make Avery’s heart swell with affection.

“I heard Allie, screaming at him as I was getting’ dressed. So, I ran downstairs and… I—I just… Allie was on the ground with Mike standing over her and Mom was puttin’ fucking mac’ n’ cheese away, not bothered at all. And I just…I hit him back. I fuckin’ exploded, Av. Like, I started screamin’ and fighting with Mike, and he wasn’t feeling anything… too drunk. But he fought me back all the while screaming that I was a faggot and to get the fuck out and just… terrible shit. About me, about Allie, about you… I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it, so I told them I was leaving, and Mom just stood there, watchin’ it all. So, I screamed at her, too. Told her that she was never there for me and Allie.”

“Told her Dad wouldn’t have let this happen. And I know that he hasn’t done anythin’ for me and Allie, but Av, I know. Just…. The guy I remembered would have stopped it. He would have accepted me and you. Not like them. Like, I expected Mike to be an asshole, but my mom? She joined right in. Called you a faggot and a queer, told me to dump you, that I could better than you. I told them to never talk about you like that. They don’t know you. You’re my Soul Mate and I… Av, What’s wrong?”

Max stops dead, his rambling story coming to an abrupt halt as tears stream down Avery’s face and Max’s own voice is watery and cracking. Avery heart stop beating as Max stops talking. He swallows his tears, his heartbreak.

“I… I understand… If you can’t d-do this an-anymore. If you want to l-leave, I understand.” Avery stammers, willing the tears to stop for just a moment so he can tell Max that it’s okay for him to leave. It’s okay for him to go. Max pulls away, forcing Avery to open his eyes. Max’s face is just a purple and red shape dotted with two golden green eyes looking tearfully down at Avery. Max shakes his head with a small snort.

“You think I’m leavin’?” Max says exasperatedly, lifting Avery’s chin up with one broad hand. Avery heart seems to start again; beating double and pumping so much blood back into his body that he feels like he needs to move, need to jump and run and cry with joy.

“Why’d you think I told them not to talk about you? That I took a beating for you? ‘Cause I’m gonna fuckin’ leave?” Max says tiredly, smiling softly as Avery (the huge fucking baby) starts to cry in earnest. Huge, fat tear drops run down his neck and spot the calloused hand keeping him from burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“Y-you’re not?” Avery sniffles, causing Max to smile and sweep his broad thumbs across Avery’s cheekbones, not really wiping the tears away but smearing them into Avery’s pale skin.

“No, stupid. I’m tryin’ to tell you that I love you and you’re makin’ it harder.” Max’s smile is equal parts watery, hopeful and exasperated. Avery stares at him, in all his blurry, bruised and pink cheeked glory His chest is full of thousands of butterflies, all of them trying to find the exit, all of them colliding and smashing into each other. A happy, frantic mess; much like the pair of crying, sleep tousled boys on the too-small twin bed.

“You l-love me?” Avery repeats dumbly, like he’s never heard the words before and they feel foreign and thick on his tongue. Max snickers.

“No. I‘m plannin’ a life together with you for the sex.” Max laughs, and at Avery’s watery scowl, “Yes, you idiot.”

Avery doesn’t really think about it. All the thoughts about Max’s bruised ribs and the ugly scabs running the length of his arms and stomach are pushed from his mind as he throws himself at the quarterback. Taken by surprise, Max lands with a small noise of complaint as Avery falls on top of him, nearly knocking them to the floor beside Avery’s bed. He buries his tearstained face in the crook of Max’s neck, his gangly arms twined around Max’s neck, his skinny body lying on top of him; grasping, clinging, holding on like his life depends on the contact of freckled skin to his own. Max for his part, seems to ignore the pain in his ribs because he responds in kind; wrapping his arms tightly around his boyfriend’s back and kissing his temple; once, twice, three times. All soft and yet frantic, somehow relived. Like Avery might be the one to topple this dream that they’ve carefully built, instead of Max.

“Why d-didn’t you tell me!?” Avery sobs into his neck, his tears flowing heavily, pathetically, wetting the skin of Max’s neck. Max laughs a booming, wonderfully happy sound.

“Whadda you think this is?” He asks incredulously, laughing still. And Avery feels himself laughing too. Because this is ridiculous. Because this is perfect. Because in no way, in no time, not ever would he think that this could happen to him. Him, a weird and geeky kid with a sketch pad loved by Max, with his terrible attitude and unfailing kindness.

“I know, but like, sooner? I thought you were going to break up with me! “Avery sniffs into Max’s neck. Max snorts and flicks Avery’s stretched ear.

“I thought you were gonna tell me to get fucked! And I’ve only ever told it to Allie!” Max counters, shifting slightly. Avery peeks out of the shelter of Max’s neck, smiling so big it hurts his cheeks.

“Am I too heavy?” Avery asks, still giggling. Max rolls his eyes, but he too, can’t seem to keep the smile off his face.

“You? Heavy? Nah, but my ribs are a little sore and you’re not helpin’.” Max grins down at him, kissing his forehead as an apology. Avery mumbles an apology that sounds less than authentic with a grin stretched across his face. He wiggles his body off of Max’s, but something in him needs to be held close, regardless of Max’s bruised ribs. So, while Avery moves most of his body weight off of his boyfriend, he keeps his face presses against Max’s breastbone and the rest of himself curled around him. They stay silent, basking in the feeling of warmth and safety and love as the rain pelts against Avery’s window. Max runs his fingers lazily through Avery’s dark hair and Avery’s index finger draws aimless patterns on Max’s speckled chest. When Max speaks, Avery almost doesn’t hear it, the sound of Max’s content heartbeat a soothing rhythm filling his whole body.

“You’re turning me into a giant girl.”

“As opposed to a boy giant?” Avery chuckles, causing Max to flick his ear once again.

“This.” Max says, rubbing Avery’s shoulder, and squeezing him gently, “I don’t do this.”

“Cram into a twin bed with another boy?”

“No, asshole—Well, yeah.” Max corrects with a reluctant chuckle, “But… cuddle. Tell people besides Allie I love them.”

“Not even to an ex?” Avery asks, he feels Max shrug underneath him.

“Not without them sayin’ it first. And I never mean it.”

“But with me?” Avery ventures quietly, tilting his head to peek up at Max. He’s being selfish, brazenly so. Max has already given him enough, and Avery ought to take that gratefully, tuck the treasure of his feelings into that safe place in his heart and mind. But something about this whole situation seems unreal. Too good, too pure and far too fragile, like a baby bird or a house of cards stacked together on a rainy Sunday afternoon. He needs to hear Max say it more than once, more than a million times; just so he knows that this is real. So he knows that this isn’t as fragile as his mind has told him it is.

Max looks down at him. The angle is awkward and intimate, with Max’s face pudge giving the usually gorgeous quarterback a double chin. But that doesn’t really matter to Avery, Max could do the typical high school athlete thing and be balding and chubby when he turns thirty and Avery would still think he was gorgeous. Avery would still take goofy pictures with him and post them all over Facebook with hearts and captions filled with sappy confessions of love and true admissions of happiness. He would still love him; his every freckle, his thinning burnt honey hair and the soft places lining his stomach and thighs.

“I mean it. Its terrfyin’, but I do.” He whispers as he absently runs his fingers through Avery’s mess of hair. Avery smiles, satisfied for now, and turns away resting his head back down on Max’s chest.

“It’s not helping that you’re not sayin’ it back, though.” Max says lightly, and it would sound teasing to anyone but Avery. Avery smiles, kisses his chest in a weirdly intimate gesture that surprises even himself.

“I love you, too.”

They continue to bask in the late morning stillness, with only each other and the knowledge of their mutual feelings to keep them warm. They talk softly, and laugh softer as if someone will come and break their shinning bubble of comfort. Max talks about his job, about cars and football and music. Avery listens, and then takes his turn discussing art and books, and admits in a tone so shy, that Max can’t help the wave of all consuming affection that sweeps through him, that he’d like to sketch Max, just once, if he’d be okay with it. Max laughs softly, and says yes, but only if he can be naked.

Avery smacks his chest lightly.

They talk wistfully about an apartment, one with some sort of a garage for the Chevelle and lots of windows for natural light. Avery wants a dark brown bedroom set and an easel. Max just wants a king sized bed without thirty blankets piled on top of it. Max also wants a huge kitchen so he can cook for Avery and a spare bedroom for Allie. Avery wants lots of shelves for his books, movies and CD’s and a couch big enough for Kat and Quinn, should they come over. Avery wants to paint the walls in shades of soft greens and hang up Ansel Adams prints and the replication of Night Hawks that he spent nearly all his birthday, Christmas and eight grade graduation money on. Max wants dark blue walls and his impressive collection classic rock posters plaster all over. They both want a dog, though. Something small and friendly, and certainly not a cat.

Their conversations ebbs and flows like the gently lapping waves of a lake; going strongly for a few minutes and then stopping and then starting again with no stiffness or awkwardness. Max and Avery’s whispered conversations twist and flow with one another, liquid and somehow complete. They don’t finish each other’s sentences, but they seem to know what the other thinks before they say it.

Sometimes, in between conversations about how much Avery hates shrimp (and all other seafood) and how Max’s dream job is to own his own body shop, as long as it makes enough money to send Allie to college and makes Avery’s happy, Avery wiggles up the bed and kisses Max softly. Max always responds the same; enthusiastically and carefully; as if Avery is something scared and precious and to be treasured. They both have morning breath, but neither one of them cares too much, too absorbed in the languid slip and slide of their tongues and the soft bites they give each other’s bottom lips. They kiss, soft and lazy until Max pulls away chuckling and rubbing Avery’s jawline.

“You got stubble.” Max grins, causing Avery to roll his eyes and poke his boyfriend’s chest.

“You always have stubble.” Avery counters.
“Yeah, but you never do. It’s weird.” Max laughs gently, his thumb sweeping the curve of Avery’s cheekbone. Avery rolls his eyes and pouts.

“Do you not like it?”

Max, his eyes glinting with mirth, hums in mock thought for a moment. His hand migrates to the back of Avery’s shaggy head and he tugs the thick tresses slightly.

“I dunno. Lemme check.” Max murmurs. And they dissolve into kisses again. They kiss, soft and slow, and then biting and desperate, until they’re both hard and gracelessly moving together for some sort of friction, until there’s a rude knock at the door. Avery growls and yanks his hands away from their position clutching onto Max’s shoulders, fingernails biting into the tanned flesh. Max sighs softly, his slightly damp forehead falling to Avery’s shoulder as the younger boy sits up on his elbow.

“What?” Avery yells a little louder than strictly necessary. Max chuckles softly, his hand stroking the dip of Avery’s spine, his mouth nibbling little marks on Avery’s collar bone.

“Wow, okay. It’s like, two o’clock and we made pancakes. But if you’d rather be an asshole, Allie and I will eat them all.” Quinn’s snotty voice answers through the door. Avery sighs, his head falling down on top of Max’s hair.

“Give us a minute.” Avery calls, a little less venomously. Quinn snorts loudly.

“Wash your gross hands before you come down.” Quinn answers snottily, and her feet pad away, soft on the tick carpet.

“Leave us some pancakes!” Max yells after her, laughing slightly.

“Quit fucking and come eat them!” Quinn yells back, already on the staircase. Max chuckles and Avery groans heartily, still hard and still really pissed off. But he starts to pull the covers back anyway, grumbling about ‘stupid kid sisters’ and ‘there’d better be fucking coffee.’ He’s got one leg over the side of his bed when a broad and calloused hand grips his hip and pulls him, as if he was a ragdoll, back into bed. Avery finds himself face to face with a grinning Max.

“Pancakes?” Avery questions dumbly, as Max slips his hand down Avery’s sweatpants, tugging the offensive garment down slightly. Max smiles, kisses Avery deeply while working himself out of his own boxers.

“I can make pancakes, anytime.” Max murmurs over Avery harsh gasp as his wraps his wide calloused palm over Avery and—oh fuck, himself too.

“You’re more important right now.” Max says huskily. Avery nods dumbly as Max works them both in his fist, smooth and slow.

“I-Its okay,” Avery gasps, resting his forehead against Max’s, as the older boy starts to twist his wrist over both their heads, “I-I like this better than pancakes.”

Max rewards him with a searing kiss that swallows down his moans.