The Connection

He’s always stuck thinking about elementary school.

Honestly, those are probably his worst memories; the bullying of middle and high school aside. He always remembers feeling loneliness so crushing in grade school. He had no idea that Kat existed (she did, just at the other grade school in Franklin. There’s two and you went to whichever one was closest, until middle school and then everyone was funneled into the small off-shoot of the high school), and Max didn’t come to town until the summer before sixth grade.

He was weird. And there was no kind way to say it. He hated recess, and he loved to read and draw. He dressed in khakis and sweaters because his father did. His already wide eyes were magnified by his huge glasses and his hair was always forced into submission by Mrs. Reeves with the aid of gel and a wide-toothed comb.

He used big words and didn’t find physical humor or fart jokes funny (he liked puns. Wordy things that still wrench a smile out of him to this day). He was small and skinny and pale. And his favorite book wasn’t the Captain Underpants series, it was The Secret Garden. He was just weird… too calm for a little boy and too smart for someone who hadn’t hit puberty. He was picked last for kickball and the teacher had to pair him up when they were allowed to pick their own groups.

He didn’t have friends, and even Valentine’s Day couldn’t change that.

He remembers with crystal clarity (and a gnawing edge of bitterness) the Valentine’s Day parties of grade school. All the children had a rule; sent with a name list and a penalty if everyone in the class didn’t get a card. The little paper Valentines with cartoons and kittens looking up at him were lacking the special touches that others got. They were void of smiley faces and crudely draw people holding hands; he didn’t even get one lousy heart scribbled next to his name.

He sat at his desk; eating pink frosted cookies and drinking fruit punch out of a little red and white cup as his classmates giggled and ate candy together. He went home with a box of impersonal cards and cried to his mother.

She made Avery’s favorite dinner (grilled cheese with chicken nuggets); and it became a sad tradition for Valentine’s Day dinner at the Reeves’ household.

His first real Valentine’s Day gift was a one of those five pound chocolate bars in seventh grade from Kat.

(He got her a pink and purple cat plushie. He thought it was funny, she did not. But it still sits on her desk at home, so that has to count for something.)

So now, as he stands dumbstruck in the flurry of pinks and reds that is the seasonal aisle at Walgreens, he contemplates his first real valentine’s gift.

The sales girl has already asked him if he needed help, and then again when he seemed flabbergasted by all the different types of cards. It shouldn’t be this hard; he’s not an alien. He’s used to the customs and norms of Valentine’s Day. He even knows that absolutely no one likes those chalky conversation hearts, and Max’s favorite candies are Reese’s. He’s got three bags of seasonal wrapped mini peanut butter cups in his arms and nothing else. Finally, he scurries to the dairy section for cover and digs in his pocket for his phone.

“Why hello, dear.”

“I need to ask you something.”

“No, I will not lend you my red lipstick. You’re beautiful without it.”

“Red’s out of season, anyway, you fashion hazard.” Avery remarks drily. Kat snorts into the phone.

“How the hell do you know what’s fashionable?”

“I don’t. But Quinn leaves these really interesting magazines lying around. The covers are bright and they catch my eye.” Avery dead pans, and when Kat has finally stopped chuckling, “What did you get Cooper for Valentine’s Day?”

“A particularly cute pair of panties.”

“Seriously.” Avery rolls his eyes.

“I’m dead serious; they’ve got little bows and everything.”

“Gross.” Avery snipes, causing Kat to cackle, “Well, what do I get Max then? I doubt he’d want panties.”

“Maybe not on him.”

Avery nearly chokes on his own spit. And of course, Kat finds any and all of Avery’s near death experiences hilarious.

“I don’t know,” Kat says after she’s sure Avery hasn’t died on the phone, “Chocolate?”

“Well, obviously. But maybe something else?”

“Maybe a card?”

“Absolutely not. They’re lame and I haven’t seen one that didn’t look like Cupid threw up all over it.”

Kat makes a noise of agreement and is silent for a long time. Avery’s trying to casually scan the different types of yogurt, likes he’s particularly interested in regularity, not like he’s a freak having a crisis.

“Hey, what if you gave him one of your sketchbooks?”

“Excuse me?” Avery nearly chokes again, “Like a whole one?”

“No, stupid. Like a small portfolio.” He can hear Kat’s pale green eyes rolling behind wide blue frames.

“Of what?” Avery asks dubiously.

“Like you guys!” Kat exclaims, the sound of her shifting the phone adding a hissing to her words.

“Like some of you guys on dates, or his stupid car or… or like the sketches you did at the Homecoming game. Or you could do a self-portrait in Valentine’s Day panties on top of his car. He’d eat that shit up.”

“What is with you and holiday themed underwear? Jesus.” Avery says, face on fire. But that’s not a bad idea. All of Quinn’s magazines say that a personal, meaningful gift is a lot better for a significant other rather than something expensive (Avery assumes, he’s totally not reading them. Nope. Definitely not). And it’s not like he’s swimming in money; aside from his savings, most of the money he made this summer working in the coffee shop has dried up. Who knew boyfriends were so expensive?

He finally hangs up on Kat when he can here the tell-tale click-clack of her typing away on her laptop, trying to search the internet for a pair of holiday appropriate panties for Avery. He leaves the dairy aisle, finally notices the sale girl from earlier stocking milk and casting him glances every now and again.

He leaves later, with an obnoxious heart printed folder and ten dollars’ worth of chocolate.
________

Valentine’s Day falls on a crisp, bitterly cold Thursday.

Avery’s canvas bag is heavy with the combined weight of two AP textbooks, a few notebooks, nearly four pounds of candy and one folder, filled with a week of sleepless nights work. He wades through the hallway; couples exchanging kisses, hugs, and gifts, and them the loners watching with either apathy of melancholy. He feels his stomach flutter; he’ll have a valentine this year. He’ll be one of those annoying couples that he and Kat usually make fun of as they cram sweets into their judgmental mouths.

His heart drops minutely as he approaches his oddly unoccupied locker. Max is nowhere to be found and the grumpy flannel wearing girl that’s been here since he could remember is just as absent. He shrugs off the feeling of sadness that settles over his shoulders like a fine drizzle, and turns in his combination. Maybe they’re busy… Kat is probably being couple-y with Copper and Max might not be here yet. His mind is supplying excuse after excuse to keep a sort of umbrella over him and his sad thoughts, but when he finally manages to pry his locker open, a sweet smell greets him.

Inside his locker, on top of binders and text books, sits a bursting bouquet of white and deep purple irises. They perfume his locker with the soft, sweet smell that reminds Avery of spring days, sitting around his mother’s flower beds as the morning dew soaks his jeans. A small, soft smile fixes itself on his face as he caresses the silken, flared petals in between his index finger and thumb. It’s then a small square of paper catches his eye.

It’s just a post-it-note, lime green and sticking on the locker door, next to a photograph of Avery and Quinn. There’s no name on the paper, and even if Avery was unsure who broke into his locker to place his favorite flowers there; the blocky, messily scrawled handwriting is familiar to him. Just like the pattern of freckles on the writer’s nose.

Happy V-Day. Wait for me after school. Love you so much.

He feels himself grin so big it hurts his cheeks, and he spends the whole day in and out of lessons. He feels lightness, bright and airy over his shoulders and bringing a pleasant pink flush to his cheeks whenever he thinks about the flowers in his locker. He doesn’t see Max at lunch, but that doesn’t bother him at all.

Cooper and Kat are being thoroughly disgusting. They hold hands and sit nearly on top of each other. Kat fiddling with a fine, white gold necklace at her throat and blushing almost purple when Cooper leans down to whisper (surely something filthy, based on Kat’s special gift) against her hair.

But even that doesn’t bother him. He simply smirks at Kat when she becomes speechless, and laughs when she’s so embarrassed that she forgets to punch Cooper or steal food off of Avery’s tray.

When the final bell rings, he rushes to his locker, collecting his flowers and making his way out into the parking lot.

When he sees Max, leaning against the passenger side of the Chevelle; the collar of his leather jacket popped against the chill and his shaggy hair windswept, he has to remind himself not to run in a busy parking lot.

Max’s face, hard and stony as he makes grudgingly polite conversation with the people that stop by; melts into a truly brilliant, toothy smile when he sees Avery. The boy he’s talking to see the change and excuses himself with a light punch to Max’s shoulder.

Avery’s smiling stupidly, giddily and nearly throws himself into Max’s open arms, only stopping when he remembers the slightly wilted bouquet in his hand.

“I missed you today.” Max mumbles into his hair, arms, as always like a vice around his ribs; lifting his wiry body off the chilled tarmac. Avery squeezes back, nuzzling Max’s neck, like they’re the only ones in the crowded after-school parking lot.

“Where were you?”

“Around.” He says, his casual shrug bumping Avery’s face away from his neck. Back on the ground, the shorter boy squints up at him.

“Around, huh?”

“Yeah. Around.” Max smiles slightly, “You wanna get out of here?”

Avery’s only answer is to roll his eyes and climb into the passenger seat.
________

They drive.

Max tears out of the parking lot, laughing as Avery grabs the dashboard for dear life. He plays AC/DC and Black Sabbath as they speed through Franklin and then the interstate. Just like their first date, Max’s driving teeters on the line of reckless. He drives with one hand on the wheel (the other resting on Avery’s knee) and he doesn’t use his turn signal, changing lanes rapidly, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

Other cars, mini vans and station wagons and hybrids that would fit in shoeboxes, honk at the Chevelle’s gleaming black body. Some speed right beside the classic car, honking again. Other drivers’ (a lot of older ladies and a few women with car seats in the back) flip Max off before hitting the gas. Max laughs, loud and booming, the sound bouncing off the leather and metal and flowing like sun warmed honey into Avery’s ears.

Avery scolds him, slapping the broad palm resting on his thigh. It’s useless, Max just laughs harder, leaning over to plant a sloppy kiss to Avery’s cheek. The younger boy pushes him off, trying desperately to keep his face stony.

Max has to slow down once they reach Lincoln. The university parking lots are emptying onto the main roads. Professors in clean hybrids and students in pieces of rusted, duct-taped junk all pull alongside Chevelle. Max begrudgingly turns the volume dial down when Avery reminds him that his dad would very likely be leaving Milton at this time, and would probably turn his nose up at Max’s loud car.

They drive past Archie’s neon washed parking lot, causing Avery to raise an eyebrow. Max shakes his head, a pink tint to his ears that might just be the glow of a red light. Its shouldn’t surprise Avery when Max drives past the city limits and turns down the well-worn dirty path leading to the lake, but it does.

“The lake?”

“Mhm.” Max hums, his ears definitely a darker shade of pink than before. Max pulls into the frost crunchy grass right outside the house, but doesn’t cut the engine. They’re idling, Avery confused and Max stalling.

“Uh…?”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, can you um… step outside for a sec.” Max says, snapping back to attention. Avery quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t fight it. He simply pulls his gray pea coat closer to his body and tucks his face into the purple scarf tied around his neck. Max quirks a tiny smile at him, before exiting the car as well.

“Turn around.” Max instructs once they’re both standing on the frosty ground. Avery scoffs.

“Why?”

“”Cause I need to set this up.”

“Need to set what up?”

“You’re first Valentine’s date, you fuckin’ dork.” Max laughs; he shoves Avery’s shoulder just barely.

“Turn around.” He says again, and (with a pointed huff) Avery does. He hears the click then slide of the Chevelle’s front seat, and then the thud the front seat makes at it collides with the dashboard. Max’s footsteps crunch over the thin layer of snow and frost that has gathered since they’ve been here, and the trunk clicks open. There’s some indistinguishable rummaging; he can pick out the plastic slip and slide of a grocery bag, the clink of glass bottles and the great flumping sound of someone shaking out a blanket.

He’s confused and sincerely hoping that Max isn’t making a picnic on the ground. The snow is soft now, but it’s coming faster and faster every moment; and Avery’s toes are already freezing in his shoes. A few soft thuds follow, like something feathery being tossed against the windows. He feels a hand slip into his pocket and tries to turn around. Max’s hand on his shoulder and a small kiss to the top of his beanie covered head stops him.

“Just gettin’ your phone.” Max whispers, and then the warmth of his chest disappears, leaving Avery’s back freezing against the darkening February night. Finally, he hears the strains of music, his music, floating into the cold night. Max’s chest, broad and unimaginably warm presses close to his back once more; arms like tree trunks curl around his middle.

“Am I allowed to look at my date now?”

Max huffs a laugh, kisses his head again.

“Jesus, you’re bossy.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Fine, c’mere, you baby.”

Max tugs on his hand, his palm just as rough and warm as sheep’s wool. Avery follows, and when Max opens the backdoor for him, he cast the quarterback a laughing look.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Max blushes, looking down at the snowy ground, “I… I thought it was kinda… romantic? I dunno Allie helped me. If…if you don’t wanna, I can take us to a diner?”

Avery rolls his eyes, and laughs. He ignores Max’s furrowed brow and crawls into the nest of pillows and blankets that now cover the chilled leather seats of the Chevelle. Avery crawls to the far side, relishing the warmth of the Chevelle’s ancient heater at full blast and the carefully arranged piles of quilts and fleeces. He settles against some of the pillows, and tucks his feet underneath him, so not to tread on the plastic bag in the expanded foot well. He glances at Max, staring with a slightly dazed expression on his face.

“It’s warmer in here, you know.” Avery quips, grinning. Max rolls his eyes, coming out of his retrieve and crawls in next to him. Max shuts the door, sealing the warmth and the delicious onions, peppers, garlic smell of fresh take out in with them.

“Hey!” Avery laughs, as two pillows are swiped form behind his back. Max builds his own fluffy buffer against the door and leans against it. They both worm their way out of coats, hoodies, and shoes. And Max shoves his long legs into comfort; one stretched out on the blanket covered seat, the other planted on the floor. The large space between his thighs is an invitation that Avery doesn’t need; he’d take it anyway.

“Wait, get the food.” Max says before Avery can firmly plant himself against Max’s chest. Avery scoffs.

“Rude. You should have been ‘setting’ this up.” He says, but reaches for the bag, anyway. He pulls out the cardboard container, the plastic silverware wrapped in cellophane and the glass bottles of soda (Which cause Avery to call Max a grandpa, and Max to retaliate that they were on sale).

He leans back against Max’s chest and passes out their containers of rice and protein with a familiarity that makes his heart swell with affection. Max greedily takes his Mongolia beef, and scowls when Avery jokingly hands him chopsticks.

Max refuses to unwind his arms from around Avery’s middle, but still insists on cramming his mouth as full as he can. It’s awkward, and more than once Avery’s cheek is grazed by sticky sauce. Max laughs the first time, and leans down to lick the sauce from Avery’s cheek.

“Gross!” Avery squeaks shoving Max’s lapping tongue away.

Max makes it a game to sully Avery with as much sauce and rice as possible; always licking it off and laughing. Avery retaliates like any adult would; he twist around to jab Max’s face with his own food, until he takes pity on Max’s sticky face and feeds him. It takes them much longer than it should to finish eating, and after Max bemoans all the rice sticking to the Chevelle’s interior.

“Okay. Presents.”

“Presents?” Avery questions, not bothering to move off of Max. Not that the quarterback seems to care; he simply moves with Avery’s food heavy body, leaning down to dig under the driver’s seat.

“This isn’t my present?”

“Uh no.” Max chuckles, his hand finally snagging its prize from under the seat, “This is the date part.”

“You didn’t have—“

Max snorts, and drops a carefully wrapped present into his lap. Avery’s hands flutter around it for a moment, Max taking that time to hook his chin over Avery’s shoulder and observe.

“Max….”

“Shut up.” Max says, taking the sting away with a chaste kiss to his temple, “Open it, babe.”

Avery feels himself flush at the pet name, something that Max reserves for sex only, and begins to tear at the shiny red paper. He feels the thick plastic before he gets all the paper off. He doesn’t know if he wants to punch Max or kiss him.

“You needed new ones, right? Yours are kinda stubby.”

Avery turns the shiny new, unsharpened, expensive pencil set in his hands. He doesn’t remember telling Max that he needed new ones at all. He remembers sitting with Max during a study hall, sketching the trees outside the football field with chilled hands. He remembers Max looking at his nubs of pencils and remembers him chuckling when one of the leads snapped causing Avery to growl ‘fuck’ and try and salvage the sketch.

“Did I… The guy at Hobby Lobby said these are the ones that art major’s use… are they wrong?”

Avery huffs a small laugh. Of course they’re the ones art major’s use. Avery’s had his eyes on a set of these since they came to the local craft store. They’re made of shiny, thin wood and the tiny silver sharpener glows in the rapidly setting sun. They’re perfect.

“They’re perfect… Thank you so much.” Avery says, twisting against Max’s chest to capture his lips in a soft kiss. He can feel Max’s lips, chapped and freckled like the rest of him, stretch into a smile before he yields to Avery’s demanding kiss.

Avery’s neck is starting to crick uncomfortably and Max is staring to become a little rougher when he remembers about his gift.

“Mm!” Avery says, muffled by Max’s lips. He pulls away and reached into the front seat for his backpack. Max laughs, throaty and gruff, and tugs gently on Avery’s belt loops. Trying to urge the smaller boy back into his lap.

“Quit it, Perv. I’m trying to get your gift.”

“My gift? Why’d I get a gift?

“It’s Valentine’s day, butthole. You get a gift, too.” Avery argues, the front seat digging into his ribs as he digs through his bag for the obnoxious folder.

“My birthday’s in like, two weeks.”

“Three.” Avery argues, his hand finally making contact with the slippery surface of his gift. He pulls it out, but holds it towards his chest, until he can extract all the chocolate from his bag’s never-ending depths’ as well.

“And two presents within a month won’t kill you.”

“You don’t need to, Av. 'm not—“

Avery chucks a bag of peanut butter cups behind him. They smack into Max’s shoulder, effectively cutting the quarterback off. Max snorts, the crinkle of the bag in his hands quite over the music.

“Dick move.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Avery says drily, sitting across from Max now. He swipes an unwrapped candy out of Max’s hand and crams it into his smug, smirking mouth. Max makes a noise of complaint, as Avery chews.

“Real dick move.” Max pouts. The shorter boy laughs around his mouthful of chocolate.

“There’s like, four bags.” Avery soothes, and then with a shiver of nervousness running up his spine, “And… um, I got you something else, too.”

Max wipes an arm across his mouth, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

Avery nods, and hands over the folder before he can change his mind. Max quirks a smile at the folder, all its bright pink hearts, the red and purple glitter spotting his jeans.

“How’d you know I’m a Lisa Frank guy?” Max smirks, and he thumbs the cover open. Avery feels his heart beat a little faster.

“I… I just knew you’d be. Like, the tough guy thing is really transparent. I mean, yeah you can throw footballs and fix cars, but I think deep down you really enjoy cooking shows and…”

Max isn’t listening. He’s holding each sketch out and staring at it like they’re a treasure trove of gems and fine gold. His mouth is open, and his eyes dart over each piece, trying to take in each line, each curve all at once. Avery sits stone still as Max goes through the folder. He smiles, a beautiful, gentle thing that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes his eyes squint. It makes his already pretty face the most breathtaking thing in the world.

Max’s thick fingertips trace pencil lines carefully, afraid he might smudge the thin wrinkles around eyes, the thick sections of an eyebrow, the curves of cheeks and smiles and shoulders brushing against one another. He sets each one into a neat pile on the seat when he’s done devouring it. Avery sees it all again.

The charcoal sketches of the Chevelle. The easy pencils sketches of Allie with her windswept hair and face full of freckles, the loose lines of Max’s posture when he’s idly tossing a football into the air, the painfully difficult self-portraits he did; him sitting at his desk, him drawing, him sitting cross legged on the Chevelle. The full color drawing on thick bellum of himself and Max kissing, a cheesy sunset in the background, and the full color drawing of himself in Max’s clothes; a worn Led Zeppelin shirt and green and yellow flannel rolled to his elbows.

Max looks at him when he’s done, and maybe it’s a trick of the moonlight on the shiny car hood, but Max’s eyes look wet. Avery quirks a tiny nervous smile.

“Are… Are they okay? I wasn’t sure what to get you. And… and I know you don’t really like expensive gifts and all the cards are Walgreen’s were gross. I can get—“

Avery is cut off by Max’s hands yanking him forward. He kisses him with something more than usual. A spark, a fire, a soft bed in the middle of a thunderstorm. The kiss seeps sweet heat into Avery’s very bones. It fills his soul with brightness and electricity and something grounding and steadfast. Max kisses him until both are panting, and until their need to breath is too strong to keep attached.

“I love you.” Max whispers, his voice so earnest. So humble. Like he can’t believe that this is his life. Like he can’t believe that Avery cares. Avery pecks his lips again.

“I love you more. I’ll never stop, okay?”

Max sighs, something heavy and unspoken lifting its death grip on Max. Max grips his hips, drops his face into Avery’s shoulder and breathes in his scent of lemongrass and pencil lead. He kisses Avery’s shoulder, and then his collar bone, his neck, his ear, his jaw, and finally his lips again.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Max says. And Avery smiles.

He never breaks promises.