The Connection

Everything burns.

His eyes feel rolled in sand and dirt and bits of broken glass. And even though they’re closed, the light; bright white and steaming merrily though his bedroom window and directly into his corneas, is going to surely burn two neat little hollows into his face. His head is pounding; his heartbeat pounding a stabbing, ungodly tattoo against the inside of his skull. He wants to curl further into the warm, muscular chest pressed loosely against his back. Bury his face into the soft, lightly freckled neck of his bed companion. Shut out that disgustingly offensive winter sunlight and slip back into a heavy, slightly sick sleep.

But he doesn’t dare move. Because his stomach is burning too.

Churning and coiling tightly around too much booze and not nearly enough food. He squirms slightly, pressing further into Max, as if his body heat and presence will make his nausea go away. Max sighs against his neck, still peacefully asleep and not privy to Avery’s rolling stomach. When bile rises up in his burning throat, he swallows it down without thinking.

And that is the single most terrible decision he’s made.

His stomach lurches, just as he does; stumbling out of Max’s gentle arms and staggering out of his bed and across the hall. He doesn’t bother flipping on the bathroom light, or even lifting up the toilet seat; just sinks to his knees on the cornflower blue rug and spills the acidic, disgusting contents of his stomach. After he’s done, he doesn’t move (can’t even think about the horrible prospect) and rests his damp forehead against the smooth plastic toilet seat.

He breathes, breathing in the acidic smell of vomit and then promptly throws up again. He’s in the middle of retching, clear bile that sizzles against his already charred throat, when he hears someone walk into the bathroom. Max (because his parents are still out and if Quinn’s home, she’s sleeping off a hangover, too) flips on the light, and crosses the neat grind of white tiles over to him.

“You okay?” Max asks, haltingly as Avery coughs some more. He doesn’t look up, his face boiling with shame and sickness, just reaches up, flushes and rests his forehead against the sweat sticky plastic.

Max steps over his legs and sits on the edge of the tub, his lightly haired shin brushing Avery’s bare shoulder and his wide, warm palm rubbing soft circles into Avery’s goose -pimpled shoulders. After a minute of trying to calm his breathing, Max taps twice in between his shoulder blades.

“C’mere.” Max commands gently, his voice raspy with the morning. Avery whines pathetically, shakes his head against the slick plastic. Max huffs, something that may be a laugh, may be annoyance.

“Seriously. ‘M comfier than a toilet seat.” He says lightly. And Avery can’t really argue with that. Its takes a herculean effort to raise his head (the splitting headache only spurred by his vomiting), and crawl over to Max. Avery can’t see, for which he’s glad. He’s never been this embarrassed, and he thinks that the small, comforting smile on Max’s face might kill him.

So, he doesn’t bother looking; he just lays his head on Max’s boxer covered thigh and lets the quarterback gently rub away the shameful flush covering his neck. He lets Max rub at his neck, knead the flesh and then travel to his shoulders. His stomach is still coiled, but it’s loosened enough for Avery feel like he can open his mouth without puking.

“I’m gross.” He mumbles into Max’s leg, his voice feeling like glass shards on the flayed skin of his throat. Max hums.

“Nah. Just hung-over. Here, lemme get some aspirin.” Max says, tapping Avery on the shoulder as a sign to get up. Avery sighs and stands on his wobbly, nearly fallen asleep legs (Max’s hands hovering near his waist). He groans, clutching his head at the movement. Max chuckles softly, pushes off the tub and moves past Avery to his and Quinn’s shared medicine cabinet. He wades through the various face cleansers, moisturizers and masks (Quinn’s) until his fingers find a bottle of Aleve.

He pops the cap and pours two little blue pills into his hand as Avery blindly smears peppermint toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Max waits patiently, as Avery scrubs the evidence of his sickness from his teeth and tongue and even this insides of his cheeks. He follows with mouthwash, moving it around his mouth for at least a minute before spitting it out in a foamy mess. Max holds out the pills and Avery takes them without so much as a second glace, tossing his head back and swallowing them dry. And then without so much as a second glance at his boyfriend, he makes his way back to his bedroom.

Max follows, even closing the blinds when Avery falls back into bed, yanking a pillow over his face. And when Max crawls back into bed with Avery, the shorter boy discards the pillow in favor of pressing his face into Max’s chest. Max huffs again, but his arms carefully circle Avery’s wiry body.

“How you feelin’?” Max asks lightly.

“Like shit.” Comes Avery’s muffled, snotty reply. Max chuckles at that, the vibrations causing Avery to whine lamely.

“You’ll be okay. We’ll get breakfast later; somethin’ greasy—“Max says, and when Avery moans (at the horror) Max runs a clam hand though his greasy hair.

“—No seriously. It’s good for a hangover. Grease coats your belly; makes you feel a lil’ less sick. You wanna go now?”

Avery shakes his head against Max’s freckled chest, burrowing into his warmth and willing the painkillers to work faster. Max sighs, pulling his skinny, plaint body tighter to his own. He presses a small kiss into Avery’s rather gross hair.

“We’re leavin’ in half an hour. I’ll carry you to the car if I have to.” Max grumps above Avery, his hand still working through Avery’s tangles with care and tenderness. Avery hums, ready to make a snarky comment, but then he remembers.

Like an ice cold bath, Max’s careful hands and his playful threat, wash all the memories from the night before over him. He moans, embarrassed and wishing that he hadn’t been such a creepy perv. Max chuckles above him, his hand stilling.

“What?”

“I molested you last night.”

Max fully laughs at that. And the sound, deep and throaty and so achingly rare, would any other time pull a feeling of adoration out of Avery. But now he only feels shame, sticky and cloying, sliming up his body like thick syrup. Max is still snorting above him, as Avery tries to will last night away; the memories washing over him like terrible snapshots. Him falling off of Max’s lap, him dry humping Max in Cooper’s house and on Cooper’s porch and just everywhere he could, him crying like a child when Max wouldn’t fulfill his clingy, creepy request.

“I’m sorry.” Avery whines, hiding his flaming face into Max’s chest. The quarterback stills his laughter enough to run a reassuring hand up Avery’s spine.

“It’s fine.” Max says. A smile, toothy and wide and clear in Max’s tone.

“I guess I know how to make you put out now. What was that combo? Pineapple juice and Coconut rum, huh?” He asks, nudging Avery’s hair with his chin.

“Shut up, asshole.” Avery grouches, but he’s smiling too. He pulls out of Max’s chest, looking blearily up at Max’s grinning, laughing face.

“There was also a fair bit of Mike’s.” Avery adds, haughtiness in his tone contrasting beautifully with his flaming red cheeks. Max barks out a laugh, and Avery is rewarded by the sight of his freckled cheeks pinking, his eyes crinkling and his nose wrinkling. Max is still chuckling when he presses a small kiss to the tip of Avery’s nose.

“Oh yeah. How could I forget?” Max teases. Avery rolls his eyes, but then he remembers how Max handled him; the care and the tenderness with which he refused Avery. His heart swells with fondness and a little irritation.

“Not that I’m complaining, but why didn’t you?” Avery asks. He’s not looking at Max now (too scared of the answer), he’s instead connecting the freckles near Max’s heart. He feels the organ underneath the slightly tanned skin, beating faster under his feather light touch. Max doesn’t stop is ministrations, but the sigh he heaves jars Avery’s careful path, ever so slightly.

“Feelings…” Max hedges, stubbornly. Avery rolls his eyes, pinching Max’s nipple in annoyance (the quarterback hisses, but doesn’t move).

“I think we’re a little past that, you know.” Avery comments blandly, and Max’s sigh flutters across his face. He braces himself for Max to complain, to roll his eyes and change the topic, to tell Avery, ‘not now, okay?’

“I hate it when you’re right.” Max comments gruffly. And Avery resists saying something annoying like, ‘I’m always right,’ or ‘get used to it.’ He just waits patiently for Max to gather his words, for him to sort the feelings that he’s pushed down his whole life and now struggles to voice.

“I lost my virginity freshman year.” He says finally, and Avery squints at his chest trying to figure out what that has to do with anything.

“To a girl at a football party. And I was totally fuckin’ trashed.” He adds, and a streak of jealous runs up Avery’s spine. He can’t bite his tongue.

“Who was she?” He asks lightly, trying (desperately) to remind himself that freshman year Max wasn’t his. Freshman Max was starting to change from a wiry kid with too many freckles and buzzed hair, to a gorgeous guy with wide shoulders and olive skin and a cold smile that made girls want to change him, make him thaw into their dream boy. He was beautiful and new and he attracted everyone’s attention.

And that Max wasn’t anything to him, other than a bully. A kid that only noticed him long enough to press him into lockers and taunt him quietly; never terribly cruel and always smelling like spearmint. A kid that would stare at him across classrooms and the cafeteria and always tried and sit close to him when he could manage it without his friends noticing. Never a Soul Mate, never a friend; an asshole, a bully or what Kat referred to as a ‘hate crush’. Max huffs a small, sad laugh.

“I dunno. I only remember she had dark hair and she smelt like fake strawberries. And that when I woke up the next morning, I had a phone number and the whole team was slappin’ me on the back and cheerin’ and I felt like shit.”

“Hung over?” Avery asks, not cruelly.

“Nah… well, yeah. But mostly just disappointed in myself.”

“Why?”

“Because I was tryin’ so hard to ignore it. Girls were okay, but they weren’t what I really wanted. You know that theory? The Connection one?”

Avery nods. It’s more of an old wives’ tale, but his grandparents and his mother and even his father in his own short, snappish way have attested to it. It was said that no one would ever feel like your Soul Mate would. Things could still work, relationships and sex and love; but it would never be the same as it would be with your Soul Mate. It could feel right and good with someone else, but with the person who you made the Connection with, it was phenomenal. Everything brighter, feelings and physical touches and even conversations felt like they were all in Technicolor. Like warmth and happiness in the purest form. That was why almost all Soul Mates never parted, even platonic ones formed bonds around one another, bonds that couldn’t be broken.

It was why, when your Soul Mate died, a part of you died, too. A single bulb dying in a string of Christmas lights. Changing and crippling. Fixable, yes; but always noticeable, like one of the lights was too yellow in the string of pure white.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I… If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it. But I always believed it. I always wanted my Soul Mate to be the first one. And when it wasn’t I felt like a part of me was wrong. That when I made the Connection it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Why?” Avery asks, finally looking up at Max and it all clicking, “You think I care?”

Max shrugs his ears slightly pinker, his summery green eyes avoiding Avery’s stormy blue ones. Avery snorts, annoyed and then presses a gentle kiss into the cleft of Max’s chin as if to dispel his fears with something that Max would always understand.

“Would you care if it was me? If our positions were reversed?” Avery asks stubbornly. And now Max snorts.

“’Course not. You’re you.”

“And you think you’re different?” Avery asks, his hands moving up to cup Max’s stubbly jaw, his thumbs sweeping at his cheekbones.

“I love you, and I still think you’re better than anything in the world. And I don’t care that you’ve been with other people. Because hopefully, I’ll be it from now on.”

Max’s hand covers his, lacing their fingers and pulling Avery’s hand towards his mouth to kiss each knuckle. Softly and surely, like he wants Avery to feel the chapped texture of his lips on each knuckle; wants him to just know.

“You will be.” Max murmurs against his skin, “You’ve always been it.”

Avery feels his heart skip a beat, feels Max’s heart beating heavily against his own. Feels unimaginably warm and like he might throw up again. He kisses Max; the angle awkward and Max still smelling like morning breath. But it’s perfect; this is perfect.

“Now will you tell me why you didn’t? All this talk about girls is making me jealous.” Avery mumbles against Max’s mouth. Max laughs into the kiss, pecks Avery once more before continuing.

“So… I guess I’ve always had this thing. A rule about drinkin’ and havin’ sex with someone who’s a virgin—“

“But you’ve definitely had sex with drunk girls before…Nikki—“

“You think Nikki’s a virgin?” Max scoffs, raising a dark blond, very skeptical eyebrow. Avery feels himself blush. Of course he knew that Nikki wasn’t a virgin, what he doesn’t know is why he keeps bringing the short, pixie like cheer captain into every conversation in their relationship. He can tell by Max’s pursed lips and furrowed brow; he wonders too. But Max must see that it’s not important right now, because he continues with a soft tone and an even softer hand stroking the dip of Avery’s spine.

“Anyway, I won’t. ‘Cause I want them to have something special, with their Soul Mate.” Max murmurs, he closes his eyes, his forehead tipping to rest against Avery’s.

“And you’re the most special person in the world, Avery.” Max breathes. Avery feels himself shiver, Max’s thumb following the bumpy path of his spine, his words soft and so achingly tender and just for him.

“And I promise I’ll make it good. But you’re not gonna be drunk, ‘kay? I couldn’t do that to you. I love you too much.”

“But you will?” Avery ventures softly, feeling scared and insecure. Max snorts, not saying anything as he presses his lips against Avery’s. He’s had enough of the talking, and now tries to make Avery understand that he’s beautiful and sexy and Max is thrilled that his Soul Mate is a boy… a cute one with long, skillful hands and impossibly messy hair. Avery can’t be too mad at him for doing this, but he vows one day that he’ll get Max to emote fully; without having to press Avery down into his too small mattress and lovingly open up his mouth in order to tell Avery, I love you. There’s no one for me but you. You’re everything.

Until then, Avery can settle for this.
________

Max set an alarm.

And just as Max is beginning to kiss down Avery’s skinny chest, the terrible, tinny sound makes itself known. The taller boy would have none of Avery whining or complaining or begging. He gave Avery’s breastbone one last peck before getting out of bed and pulling on his jeans. Avery lay there, annoyed and hard until Max rolled his eyes and left for the bathroom with a gruff command of, ‘Ten minutes. In the car or I’ll carry you down. Dressed or not.’

And as much as Avery hates getting up, he hates the notion of being carried (and nearly naked at a restaurant) more.

He appears in the car eleven minutes later, glaring at his boyfriend and pulling the sleeves of Max’s too big, but very warm green flannel over his hands. Max rolls his eyes, leaning over to peck Avery’s hair, even adding an obnoxiously loud puckering noise, before pulling out of the driveway. Avery plays annoyed and rather put out by the whole display, looking out the window at the snowy, January afternoon. But he notices Max looking at him almost the whole time, notices him let Avery’s nearly dead phone continue to play soft folky guitars and upbeat, jarring electronica.

“What?” Avery finally asks, as Max pulls into a spot at the crowded family restaurant downtown. He shrugs, shifting into park and then cutting the engine.

“You look a-fuckin’-mazing in my clothes.” He says bluntly, causing Avery to blush. He pulls the keys out and shoves him in his pocket before he looks fully at Avery. His eyes, swimming with love and happiness flick down to Avery’s chest; to the tarnished ring poking out from the collar of his borrowed shirt.

“And you’re wearing it.” He says the note of wonderment still in his tone. Just like the first time. Avery fingers the ring absently, skin warm and heavy in his fingers. He snorts.

“I sleep with it.” He admits, trying for nonchalance.

“Just when you let me put you to sleep?” Max asks, carefully. Wondering. Hoping. Avery feels his neck flush.

“No. I sleep in it every night. I would shower with it, but the chain will wear too much. And I like it, so I really don’t want it to break.”
Max doesn't speak, only nods and opens his door. He’s over to Avery’s before the younger boy knows it. He opens the creaking black door, and then leans down kissing Avery soundly in the parking lot of a family restaurant. With families with little kids pointing, and old men scowling, and middle school aged kids laughing cruelly.

Max doesn’t seem to care, just kisses Avery softly and pulls him out of the car, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. They walk past everyone, ignoring them and their comments, the old men’s stage whispers of, ‘not natural’ and the middle school boys’ slurs. The young parents’ explaining gently to their children that sometimes boys love other boys, and that’s okay. Max is smiling down at him, teasing him to get something greasy. And Avery is sticking his tongue out, juvenile and playful. Max ignores them, only having eyes for the clothes stealing boy under his protective arm.

And Avery feels so warm, despite the chilly New Year’s day.