The Connection

Avery is carefully pulling the crust off his sandwich when a heavy fist slams on top of the table.

He starts at first, dropping his PB&J, the sandwich dropping with a wet thud on the Formica table top. When he looks up, he expects a bully. And although they’re rare nowadays, he looks up blandly, ready to sneer and flex his wit; a muscle memory that he can’t seem to shake. But instead of a sneering mouth, he sees a stony, freckled face. It’s otherwise impassive, other than the anger bright green eyes, looking more like acid than the softness of the summer treetops. Avery frowns (his body still strung tight at Max’s look) and picks up his sandwich, pausing to shoot Max a raised eyebrow.

“That was rude.” He says stiffly. Max snorts; a tense, highly controlled sound that can mean nothing good. People are starting to take notice.

Usually Max and Avery are affectionate and laughing with each other. Max smiling softly, stealing fries off of Avery’s plate. And Avery absently connecting the freckles on Max’s forearm with his index finger, and nudging food towards his garbage disposal of a Soul Mate. But Avery and Max both know that everyone around school is still waiting for the shoe to fall. For Max to collect congratulatory high fives from his teammates, and to laughingly start telling stories of how stupid Avery was to actually believe Max would want him. For Avery to cry in the middle of the locker room as Max beats him to a pulp.

The tables closest to them start whispering, making his hackles rise. Avery rolls his eyes, looking back up at Max with a furrowed brow.

“What?” He asks, annoyed. Max seems unfazed (or rather uncaring) of the whispers. He lifts the large palm he slapped on the table as an answer. In his fist, is a crumpled, bright blue flyer. The script is elegant and bolded, with a date and a location and a ‘No ticket price! Just donations and wonderful student work!’ And of course, in a list at the bottom of the flyer, Avery W. Reeves. Checks, 2011. Charcoal on canvas. 3 feet x 2 feet. (Work is for sale). Avery feels his stomach drop and his face pale. A nasty smirk twists on Max’s mouth. It looks familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like a photo taken of a long forgotten relative.

“Yeah. That.” He snarls. He grabs Avery’s hand, lying guiltily still on the tabletop. And Avery expects yanking and pulling, but Max simply laces their fingers and tugs gently. In a way, Max’s carefulness makes him even more irritated.

“Hallway.” He commands in a tone that Avery knows better than to argue with. Avery turns scarlet under the watchful eyes of his peers; under their snickering and pointing. He feels like a guilty child, caught sneaking out by a too caring parent. He heaves a huge sigh and rolls his eyes, but dutifully follows Max out of the cafeteria. Max leads them through the deserted gym and past the normal locker room, walking faster than Avery can keep up with, causing the shorter boy to jog slightly. They end up in the steamy, chlorine saturated, totally empty pool locker room. Once there Avery rips his hand out of Max’s.

“What!” He says, his shrill voice bouncing off the damp, puke yellow tiles. He’s annoyed at Max. And even more so at himself. He was stupid to think that Max wouldn’t see the flyers for the art show strewed all over the place.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Max hisses, throwing his arms out. Avery flinches slightly. A dark look; all hurt and guilt, passes over Max’s face. He drops his arms and steps away. And Avery wants to reach out, pull him back into his space.

“Why?” Max says softer, sadder. “I… I don’t know anythin’ ‘bout art, but I would have come—“

“It’s on a Saturday.” Avery spits, mad at himself for acting like a child. He looks down at the tile, scuffs his toe through a tiny puddle of water.

“So?” Max says, his voice rising a little. Max is hurt and confused; it bleeds through his tone like blood through tissue paper; thick and pungent, deep dark red and staining everything it touches.

“So, you have to work.” Avery growls. Max wrinkles his nose and throws his hands up, like he can’t quite understand the shorter boy. Avery crosses his arms over his chest and groans, totally beyond frustrated.

“You work Saturday’s! You know? Working? Like exchanging services for the money that you support Allie and yourself with?” Avery taunts, somehow making his way back into Max’s personal space to glare up at the stunned quarterback, “That kind of work?”

Max groans, and runs an exasperated hand through his hair. When he looks back down at Avery, who stands right against his chest, raging and looking for a fight; there’s not anger in his features, but tiredness.

“And you think I can’t get a day off?” He asks annoyed, and then quieter, as his fear becomes palatable in the chemical tinged air between their chests, “Or did you think I wouldn’t want to?”
Avery turns to look down, pink in the cheeks and with a bumbling excuse sitting on his tongue. But strong fingers underneath his chin tilt him back up to look at his Soul Mate.

“Av. Tell me.” Max pleads softly. He sighs, throwing his arms around Max’s neck in surrender. The quarterback stills, his muscles stiff and unsure; but finally embraces him back, resting his speckled cheek on top of Avery’s hair.

“It’s stupid.” Avery mumbles into his chest.

“Specific.” Max says grumpily. Avery smiles despite himself.

“I mean, why would you want to come? It’s stupid; all seniors in an art elective are doing it. And you could be working, being actually productive. And I’m not any good, anyway. And…” Avery babbles, losing the whole point of clarity. And then so quietly that he hopes Max doesn’t hear him, “And… you wouldn’t want to come anyway.”
Max sighs, tired and annoyed this time. Avery hadn’t noticed at first, but Max is swaying them. Gently and calmly, like the rolling of waves or the way a mother might soothe a child.

“Y’know, we need to work on the whole, talking thing.” Max ponders quietly into Avery’s messy hair. Avery huffs a small laugh against Max’s chest. He smells like always; earthy like coffee grounds and spicy. But with his nose pressed this close to Max’s worn shirt (an AC/DC one that they bought together at Goodwill last weekend), he can smell the faint strains of laundry detergent. It’s the cheap kind, the one that smells just clean. Not like the spring scent his mother buys. It’s in this moment that Avery wonders who does laundry at the Matthews-Reynolds house.

And it’s with needles in his gut that the obvious comes to him. Who else could it be?

“”m gonna get the day off.” Max says finally, “And ‘m gonna come. I wanna see your art stuff. You make awesome shit.” Max says, causing Avery to snort a laugh. Max runs a hand through Avery’s messy brown hair, smoothing the back only to have it pop back up in unruly points and curls.

“It’s not that good…”

“Right” Max snorts, “I look through your books when you’re sleepin’.” He confides. Avery makes a noise of indignation in Max’s chest.

“That’s creepy.” He says, but his cheeks are already turning a guilty pink. Please for the love of all that’s holy, don’t let it be the one by my bed.

“You sketch me when I sleep. That’s creepy.” Max laughs. Avery feels his whole body flush, from the tips of his toes to the tops of his ears. Fuck.

“You’re not supposed to see those.”

“Why? They’re amazin’.” Max whispers, half laughing, “You’re amazing. ‘Member that art class we had in eighth grade? With Mrs. Cunningham?”

“Yes. You’d always try to get paint on my clothes.” Avery remarks drily, “You did a good job. Got a fair bit in my hair, too.”
Max laughs; a hearty guffaw bouncing merrily off the tile walls.

“I was tryin’ to get in your hair.” And at Avery’s smoldering glare, “It looked pretty. I have this thing for your hair… don’t know why.” Max says shyly, tugging softly on the curls at the base of Avery’s skull.

“Anyway, when I’d stand over you—“

“—To pour paint over my head—“

“Hey. You never noticed a fuckin’ thing. You made it easy.” Max counters laughingly, he talks over Avery outraged squawk, “I took a really long time, ‘cause I loved watching you draw.”

“No, really.” Max says, sincere and honest over Avery’s snort of laughter.

“You were so interested. Your nose was practically on the paper and the way your hand moved over the paper was so… I don’t know. But after that, I’d watch you from my table.” Max says softly. Avery feels his insides turn into the weirdest mixture of fluttering, panicked butterflies and soupy, jingly Jell-O.

“You stick your tongue out when you draw.” Max adds with a hint of helplessness to his voice. Avery has to laugh at that.

“So? When you fix things you bite your lip.”

“Me bitin’ my lip didn’t cause you to have a sexual crisis in a fuckin’ classroom.” Max admits helplessly. Avery pulls away to look up at Max’s scarlet face.

“Maxwell Matthews, did I cause you an unwanted boner in eighth grade art?” Avery smirks childishly. Max glares, turning crimson underneath his freckles and looking away. And the younger boy giggles like a school girl, burying his face back into Max’s chest. The quarterback grumbles above him, but Avery is still laughing too hard to her him properly.

“So we done now? I can come on Saturday and you’ll be sorry for not telling me?” Max pleads, his face faded into a bright pink. Avery sobers.

“But you don’t like art.” And a Max’s exasperated look, “You don’t! You like me. It’s different.”

“You don’t like football, neither. You still came to every game.” Max counters, “It’s the same thing. You like me. And you wanted to be supportive. Can’t I do it to?”
Avery sighs, (logically defeated) and then nods. Max responds by crushing him into a hug.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Avery mumbles into Max’s neck. The quarterback shrugs, his arms just shy of too tight around Avery’s ribcage. He’ll never admit it, but he loves when Max hugs him like this. Tight and close and filled with comfort.

“S’okay. Just tell me next time, ‘kay?” He says, and Avery knows he will. Max pulls away, giving the space between Avery’s nape and the first knob of his spine one last caress of his thumb.

“’m starving.” He says just as his stomach makes a well-timed gurgle. Avery has a snarky comeback about Max’s little outburst preventing them from having lunch, just as the bell rings. Both boys sigh unhappily and exit the locker room into the clean air of the hallway. Max throws an arm around Avery’s skinny shoulders as they start to make their way back to the cafeteria to grab Avery’s bag.

“Archie’s? After school?” Max suggests. Avery nods, already planning on when to give Quinn the frayed lanyard in his pocket. They collect Avery’s bag and Max walks him to Advanced Composition. He presses the standard kiss to Avery’s forehead and then smirks.

“You’re payin’.”

Avery makes a noise of protest, but Max’s broad, plaid covered back is already down the hallway.
________

“Honey… Stop. You’re messing up your collar.”

Avery casts an annoyed look at his mother. But instead of looking like she’ll bring the wrath of hell upon him for his snooty look, she simply smiles. Her blue eyes full of sympathy, and a small sad smile on her pink stained mouth; she reaches for the rumpled collar of Avery’s button down. He shies away, seconds from batting his mother’s slim, careful hands way from him; but Mrs. Reeves flashes him a look and he stills. However, that doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes and glancing around at the other students and their parents.
He notes, with pinking cheeks that none of the other kids are being coddled by their parents.

As soon as his mother’s hands stop smoothing the wrinkles from his collar and then his shoulders; Avery steps away from his parents. His mother smiles softly, completely understanding her son’s embarrassment. His father is looking around at all the pieces; displayed around the main area of the high school. He studies each with faint interest, his hand rubbing at his almost-final’s-week scruff. Avery doesn’t know where Quinn is. If he had to guess, she’s probably hanging around the photography pieces, with her friends.
Avery is sweating heavily, nervously. He absently picks at his nails, taps his sneakered foot, and runs his fingers underneath his collar. He has no real reason to be nervous (as his family has reminded him a million times tonight), but the people all around make his palms feel itchy and his stomach roll.

That. And the fact that Max is coming.

He shouldn’t be this nervous. After all, Max has seen Avery’s various sketchbooks (apparently even the one filled with sketches of himself. His freckled cheeks, his summery eyes, his shoulders and the way over shirts ripple, too tight across the muscles.) But still, he can’t seem to fight the nausea rolling in his gut.

His piece isn’t big, but it’s commanded the most attention out of the night. Its subject matter is something that he didn’t quite think about when he was painstakingly, smudging and erasing and highlighting. He tugs at his collar, buttoned to his throat and making him hotter, as a woman in a boldly patterned scarf and a long black skirt studies his piece over her red frames.

“The craftsman ship is incredible.” She remarks, her voice cigarette smoky and carrying the hint of superiority that lets him know she’s been to art school.

“And the figures… One is you, yes?” She directs at Avery. Avery clears his throat, pushes his glasses up his sweaty nose. Wonders why on earth this woman can distinguish him by the back of his fucking head.

“Uh… yeah. Yes, one’s me.” He stammers, feeling trapped by her intense gray eyes. She finally looks away, humming slightly. She turns slightly, and Avery’s not the praying type, but he might start in order to get this woman to go away. She faces him, red stained lips held in a sticky smile.

“And how much would you want for it?”

He glances at the piece, and feels something tug at his heart. He didn’t want to sell it. He wouldn’t have, if all the money made didn’t go to the art department. But when he looks at his piece; the checked tiles of an empty diner and the shadow of luminous neon sign. The lone figures sitting on the same side of the booth with their backs turned; one shorter with a mess of black hair, the other taller and boarder, strong shoulders draped in plaid, he wants to tell her no. No, it’s not for sale.

He wants to tell her he had a stupid idea that maybe the other figure in the piece would come in and buy it. That way, this piece, this piece that took him forever and took so much care and craft, would go to a happy home. A bedroom covered in classic rock posters and a few fist shaped holes in the drywall. Somewhere it would be appreciated as something more than shading and armature. Somewhere it would make someone feel the happiness he felt smashed into a too small booth, stealing food of another’s plate and trading stupid stories.

He clears his throat, pushes his glasses up his nose once more.

“Uh… I believe that whatever you want to pay for it, you can.” Avery says, running the pad of his index finger on the frayed nail of his thumb. The woman nods once, smiles that same sticky smile and walks away, her scarf trailing elegantly behind her. He turns around to look at his parents, but they’re not there. Instead, a bouquet of irises, deep purple and silken and a grinning freckled face greet him. Avery feels a swoop in his stomach, and all of a sudden he can ignore the smell of clove cigarettes that wafts in her wake. That he felt constricting his lungs.

“Hey there, Picasso.”

“You brought me flowers?” Avery says dumbly. To which Max shrugs casually, still grinning and giving the bouquet a little wave.

“Mhm. The lady said they’re irises. I dunno, they’re purple. You like purple.” Max finishes lamely, his grin wilting substantially under Avery’s dumb look, “Are they… are they too… do you not like ‘em?”

“No. No! I’m just…” Overwhelmed, Avery’s brain supplies helpfully. Surprised, and amazed and annoyed at stupid art school grad’s.

“They’re… irises are my favorite flower, actually. So, yeah. T-Thank you.” Avery says softly, taking the flowers from Max’s hands. He runs his fingertip across the silken petals. The flowers aren’t fresh and don’t have the same smell as the ones in his mother’s flower beds, but he can smell the florist on them. They smell like wet earth and greenery, and faintly of Max’s aftershave, which he always uses too much of. It grounds him, makes the jitters in his belly calm, if only for a little while. Max is looking at him softly, a small sad look resting on his brow.

“She really got to you, huh?” Max says causally. And Avery knows better than to pretend nothing happened when Max was probably here for the whole dreadful exchange. But really, did anything happen at all? She offered to buy Avery’s piece. That’s a good thing. That’s something he’ll have to build a livelihood on when he and Max get adult things, like a mortgage and groceries and car payments (because let’s be honest, his Volvo is on its last rusted leg). He should be happy. But why isn’t he? So he doesn’t say anything, just shrugs.

“You know. It’s actually really cool.” Max says nonchalantly, gazing intensely at Avery’s work. Avery snorts.

“Gee thanks.” He remarks dryly. Max chuckles, going back to look closer at it.

“The two guys at the table? Really cool. Both are real good lookin’ too.” Max adds with a wink in Avery’s direction. Avery huffs, his cheeks pinking.

“Shut up.” He mumbles, looking at his toes. Max laughs; full and big bellied and pulls Avery into a tight one armed squeeze.

“It’s beautiful. Really.” Max whispers into his hair, pressing a small kiss onto the mess of dark brown on top of Avery’s crown.

“Thank you.” Avery mumbles into Max’s chest, holding his bouquet to his own chest like a shield. Max doesn’t move his arm off of Avery’s shoulders, even when people come by to tell Avery that his piece is wonderful. Thankfully, none of them cast Max more than a second look and none of them offer to buy it. When his parents, with Quinn in tow come back around; his mother holds out her arms for Max.

“Hi, sweetie.” His mother says happily, enveloping Max in a warm hug.

“Hi, Mrs. Reeves.”

“You call me Mrs. Reeves one more time, I swear—“

Avery is pulled away from his family’s exchange by a tap on his shoulder. He turns to face Mrs. Cunningham. She looks a little dressier than her usually hippie skirts and flowing sleeves, always pushed up to her elbows as not to get paint on them. But she still wears her usually collection of odds ‘n ends jewelry. Bangles all up her arms, over the soft tan cardigan, chucky necklaces with odd stones and rings adorning each short nailed finger. Her hair is still a frizzy mess of soft mousy brown and her face is still free of makeup other than Chapstick.

“How you doing, dear?” She asks her voice raspy, but kind and not at all predatory. Avery shrugs, Mrs. Cunningham is his favorite teacher and she’s told him (when he was working alone in the studio, her collection of sixties folk music playing softly) that he’s one of her favorites. He feels like he doesn’t really have to lie to her; she’s kind and doesn’t judge him.

“I’m okay. Expecting.” He says lamely, and then,

“I’m kinda of regretting saying I’d sell.” He confesses. She nods, gazing at his piece once again.

“It’s a spectacular piece. And it would fetch more money than most…” She turns her gaze to Avery, her brown eyes soft and warm with understanding.

“But dear, it’s yours. You can do with it what you want.” Her gaze flicks to Max, laughing at Quinn as she punches him on the shoulder.

“I’m sure you could find someone else to give it to.”

Avery sighs, shakes his head in the negative even though he wants to take her up on her kind offer.

“I said I would. Besides, it’s for donations. We need them. And I can always make another to give to someone, you know?” He says, trying to fit the confidence and finality that he doesn’t feel into his tone. Mrs. Cunningham eyes him, but finally she sighs and fixes him with a sad smile.

“Very well. That’s very generous of you, dear.” She says finally. Her eyes are understanding, too much so and as much as Avery likes his art teacher, he can’t stay under that stare. He rubs the back of his neck, and quickly excuses himself from Mrs. Cunningham just as his mother makes introductions. Over the top of his mother’s careful bun, Max shoots him a look and makes to follow him. Avery shakes his head, mouths ‘bathroom’ and scurries away.

He sees the art school grad with the sticky smile talking to another man, with pegged jeans and weird sweater. He’s nodding, rubbing his pointed, totally scruff free chin. Avery walks faster, nearly bumping into another senior next to her pastel piece.

He takes a while in the bathroom, wiping the icky feeling of dried sweat off his face and neck. He washes his hands twice and cleans his glasses. He pees, then washed his hands again. He studies his hair; unwashed and sticking up slightly where Max’s hands tousled it. He smiles faintly. Now that he thinks about it, Max does have a slight fixation with his hair. He doesn’t bother smoothing the unruly points, takes a deep breath and exits.

When he gets back to his piece, his family is waiting for him, chatting. And Mrs. Cunningham is telling the art school grad, with kind eyes something. The art school grad turns in a huff, shakes her teal fringe out of her eyes and briskly walks past him, giving him a cold, pissy look. One he’s seen on Quinn a number of times.

“Uh… She seems a little upset.” Avery remarks, sliding easily underneath Max’s outstretched arm. Max hums.

“She didn’t get her way. So she’s throwing a fit.” Max says snottily. The gears start to turn in Avery’s head. He pulls away to shoot Max a slightly pissed look.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Max shrugs; he glances down at Avery, “It’ll look better in our apartment than in some prissy ass gallery, anyway.”

Avery feels his stomach swoop, and then fly back into his throat. He feels stubborn tears itch the back of his eyes. He wants to punch Max and cry with relief. He wants to bitch that Max shouldn’t have bought it. He should have spent his money on himself and Allie; he should buy more than the cheapest bar soap and some spring scented laundry detergent. Instead, his articulate mouth and grasp of witty banter fail him.

“We don’t have an apartment.” He says stupidly. His stomach is bouncing with happiness; the nerves and anxiety gone and replaced with giddiness. Max and he will be able to keep this. This piece, that means more to Avery than any other piece before. This piece that he made, unconsciously for the boy in front of him. Max grins, bright and laughing, as if through a static laden phone call, he hears his mother invite Max out to celebrate Avery’s first art show. He pecks Avery’s cheek, mumbles softly against his cheek, making Avery’s heart swell too big in his chest.

“Not yet.” He says. Behind then the Mrs. Reeves doesn’t wait for a response, just simply waits until her son and his soul mate are done, and takes a bets in her mind if Avery will ride in the Chevelle to the restaurant or they’ll all cram into her SUV. Max kisses him one final time.

“We will, though. Me ‘n you, Av.” Max promises.

And Avery knows it’s the truth.