The Connection

The sun, white hot in the wet-aired May morning, is the worst alarm clock.

Avery huffs, drags the thick and pillowy duvet tighter around his shoulders. The AC unit, turned to max in the humid air, has made the room freezing. And when Avery reaches out one pale hand, it comes up empty instead of full of warm, freckly skin. He sighs, curls tighter into the ball of his own dwindling warmth and wonders sleep-foggy where Max is. He turns away from their window, the curtains doing little to sponge the spill of early morning brightness. It can’t be that early, can it?

Avery peeks his head out from the blankets, and squints blearily at the neon red numbers of the alarm clock on the nightstand. He tilts his head, squints harder, and tries to see if the last number is a zero or an eight. It’s just then, that the carpet muffled slide of their door opening sounds. Avery leans up on his elbows, squints at the artificial light clashing with the sun drenched light of his room.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Max smiles, carrying two plates, so filled with food that the flimsy paper looks ready to fold. He leans against the door until it falls back shut with a small click. Avery flops back down in the bed, making a bratty, early morning noise. Max chuckles, warm and not at all bratty.

“What?” He asks playfully and Avery hears the flopping of his sneakers being slipped off and thrown back down on the carpet.

“Cold.” Avery mumbles into the pillow. Max laughs, raspy and warm. Maple syrup on a rainy Sunday morning.

“S’not cold.” He says, but Avery feels the bed dip anyway. The shorter boy is quick to open the covers, the frigid blast of air quickly forgotten as Max’s furnace of a body curls around his. Avery lifts his leg to rest over Max’s hip, and buries his face into the crook of his neck; his preferred cuddling positon. Max’s jeans, worn thin but still rough, rasp against the soft skin of Avery’s inner thigh.

“So lame.” Max mumbles laughingly into his mess of bed-rumpled hair. If Avery wasn’t so tired he’d punch him.

“Fuck you.” He settles on, curling one hand into the fabric of Max’s shirt as his other rests on the exposed sliver of skin at his waist.

“Again?”

Avery punches him. The taller boy laughs, his body shaking around Avery’s, and jostling the last dregs of sleep off of him. The shorter boys sighs, there’s no point of sleeping now that Max has made it his personal mission to be as annoying as humanly possible. Avery peers up at him, all squinting eyes and wild hair.

“You’re annoying.” He says plainly, poking Max’s chest to further illustrate his point. Max grins and kisses the tip of Avery’s nose.

“Yep.” Max confirms easily, leaning down to kiss him fully. Avery huffs, turns his face away into the pillow.

“Morning breath.” He mumbles into the feathery whiteness. Max snorts above him, nosing at his hair and ear, like a dog begging to be petted.

“Don’t care. C’mere.” Max murmurs. Avery sighs, long suffering and annoyed, but when he raises his head, he’s smiling, blushing and a little shy. Max grins, his face looking boyish and gleeful in a way that Avery’s never seen on the surly man before.

“Getting laid seems to really agree with you.” Avery comments drily, as they pull away. Max huffs a laugh, brushes Avery’s too-long bangs out of his eyes.

“Can’t say the same. You’re still a little shit.”

Avery punches him again.

When Max has finally stopped laughing, he pushes Avery’s bangs back out of his face, his face pink and dimpled and his eyes full of gooey affection.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, the hand that was lying on his hip travels feather light to his back to smooth gently up and down Avery’s bony spine, “Like, are you in pain? Or…?”

Avery shifts. He wouldn’t call it pain. Pain would apply to things like paper cuts and stubbed toes. He’s sore, pleasantly so. The ache that fills his muscles, his neck and his lower back, is warm and makes him feel stupidly happy; stretched thin, only to be gently pulled back into the perfect shape.

“I’m actually really good.” Avery says honestly, but Max rolls his eyes.

“You’re not sore or…?” Max probes, unwilling to let Avery hide any pain or discomfort he might be feeling. Avery rolls his eyes, knocks his forehead against Max’s chin gently.

“My ass is A-Okay.” Avery quips, causing Max to snort.

“I am a little hungry,” Avery says, and then shifts a little. The skin of his stomach flakes and pulls tight, and his butt feels wet, he grimaces.

“And I need a shower.”

Max’s ears turn scarlet, and he hides his face in Avery’s hair.

“Shit. Sorry, I should have gotten a wash cloth or something. But I feel asleep right after you did…”

Avery smiles, grips the worn fabric of Max’s Pink Floyd shirt tighter in his fist.

“No, it’s fine.” Avery says, giving Max a little smirk when the quarterback pulls his face out of his hair.

“Want to know how to make it up to me?” Avery asks, grinning too hard to come off as coy or sexy at all. Max raises an eyebrow, smirking too. He knows exactly what’s coming next.

“Hm?” Max hums, anyway, playful and always happy to make Avery smile. Avery blushes slightly, not used to being so forward, so bold. He looks down at the freckled hollow of Max’s throat and speaks to the skin there.

“Shower with me?” He asks, his voice timid and shy. Max huffs a little laugh and presses a kiss to Avery’s forehead, careful and loving as always.

“’Course.” He whispers, and Avery almost sighs at how lucky he is, how gentle and caring Max is through out everything and still so loving to him—

And then Max yanks the covers back.

Avery shrieks, flailing to cover himself, both for his shattered modesty and the frigid, ice box of a room. He sits up, whipping a pillow over his crotch and glaring at Max hard enough to set the boy’s bed-mussed, caramel colored curls alight. Max is nearly crying with laughter, bent at the waist and eyes squeezed tight, as his body is racked with his own deep, throaty cackles.

“Dick!” Avery screeches, pulling the pillow tighter around him and trying to curl into whatever residual warmth the fluffy object might still be hoarding. Max, with tears in his eyes, and wheezing, leans over the bed. His hand creeps up towards Avery’s thigh; the warm expanse of his palm a welcome (although annoying) weight on Avery’s icy, goose pimpled skin.

“I’m sorry, I had to… I love—“

Max’s apology is cut off with an ‘oomph’ and a face full of pillow. Avery even rises up on his knees to get better leverage to whack Max again. Once he’s smacked Max a few times, the fluffy pillow the perfect weighted object to beat his Soul Mate not-so-gently with, he throws the pillow at his stomach and hops off the bed. He runs to the bathroom, Max’s breathless, hysterical laughter behind him. Pink cheeked and panting slightly, but still freezing, Avery leans down to fiddle with the tap. He’s just stuck his hand out to test the spray, when two palms, calloused and hot and making him shiver, slide carefully down his sides and then to the swell of his butt. A jean covered front follows, presses firmly against him.

“Hello.” Avery laughs, standing up and leaning further back into Max’s chest. Max hums, his arms wrapping around Avery’s hips and his chin over his shoulder. Max’s lips move over his shoulder, kissing the trail of mottled purple bruises marring Avery’s milky skin. Gently, like the slowly rocking waves of a calm ocean, Max’s hips swivel in small, hot circles against Avery.

“Hi.” Max breathes, biting one of the larger bruises just under Avery’s ear. Max kisses the shell of Avery’s ear chastely, hooks his canine in Avery’s tunnel and pulls ever-so-slightly.

“The water should be warm enough… if you’d like to you know, do this in the shower.” Avery says, his voice already strained and breathy. Max grins against his skin, the slick surface of his teeth grazing Avery’s skin.

“I’d like that very much.” Max mummers. He makes no move to stop kissing Avery’s neck and attend to his disturbing abundance of clothing. Avery spins in Max’s arms, pressing the taller boy against the counter, and leaning up on tiptoes to capture his stunned, soft mouth.

When they make it into the shower, the water’s only lukewarm.
________

They’ve been to all the stores in Lincoln.

Every single kitschy little boutique that Quinn and her friends flock to. One’s that sell indie records and godawful, hand woven scarves that look like a Jackson Pollock reject, as well as looking frustratingly warm. They went to the fancy record store with its spotless glass counters, its electronic dance music and its tattoo less, ear’s pierced once, perfect college students. They’ve been to the book store, all stiff spine, never opened textbooks and pricey Mac’s. They’ve even been to the clothing store, Avery last grasping attempt to find a decent classic rock shirt. But all the clothes there were distressed to the point of cheese cloth, and the single The Doors shirt was a terrible, yucky mustard yellow and design with factory distressed words to make it look ‘vintage’.

And Max doesn’t even like The Doors.

“Well, this shopping blows, but this cake is damn good.”

Avery levels Kat with a glare.

“You’re not eating cake, you’re eating a candle.” He scoffs, looking down at the mostly eaten, slice of barely purple cake Kat is chewing on. She shrugs, drags some of the spongey, wisteria colored cake through some of the sunny yellow frosting on her plate.

“Say what you want, lemon-lavender is actually pretty fucking tasty.” Kat says blithely, shoving a bite too big for the dainty, two pronged fork into her smirking, crimson stained mouth.

The tables behind them, housing a couple of girls wearing flower crowns and flowing, too-short summer dresses turn their noses up at Kat. Avery could care less. The crowd here in this posh, overpriced cupcake shop, is a lot of stringy, vintage clad college students. Oddly enough, there’s also a fair share of middle aged mothers sitting staggered among the tables. The college students are probably all drawn by the vegan, gluten-free cupcakes selections as well as the fair trade coffee served in fancy tea cups.

The moms are probably trying to be that ‘one cool mom who drinks fair trade coffee and eats organic peanut butter bliss cupcakes.’

Avery looks down at his own dessert; a full gluten, egg, butter and milk loaded French toast cupcake. (He has no idea what the hell that even means, but the girl behind the counter said it taste like Cinnamon Toast Crunch, so he didn’t think twice about buying one.) He unwraps the frilly, flower patterned foil, tilts his head, surveying the spice flecked, buttery looking cake.

“Eat it, you freak.” Kat laughs through a mouthful of candle cake. Avery takes time to shoot her a glare before taking a small bite, making sure to get both frosting and cake into his mouth. He nearly groans. It does taste like Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but better. It taste buttery, with a strong bite of maple and vanilla, and of course cinnamon and nutmeg.

He devours the whole thing, barely taking time to wipe the fluffy white buttercream from the corners of his mouth, or drink his coffee from the dainty, frankly annoying teacup.

When he stops, cake crumbs all over his cheeks and the front of his shirt, and drains the drink from his cup (which isn’t a lot, anyway. It’s a teacup, for God’s sake), Kat is smirking at him.

“You good?” She asks, scrapping her fork against the plate in order to get any of the lemon frosting left into her mouth. The euphoria from the cupcake is gone, and now he’s left with his annoyance at the people in the café and his disappointment of not finding a graduation gift for Max.

“Not really.” He grumbles, eyeing the display case. That Banana Nutella cupcake looks really good.

“What’s wrong now?” Kat sighs, even setting down her fork in order to give Avery her full attention.

“We’ve been looking for presents all day, and I still don’t have one for Max.”

“To be fair, you don’t even know what you want to get him.” Kat says. Avery huffs, dabs the pad of his thumb on his plate in order to gather the few cake crumbs there.

“I do… I mean, I have an idea. I just don’t know where to get it.”

“Care to share with the class?” Kat retorts. Avery glares at her, sticks his cake crumb coated thumb into his mouth.

“I don’t know. I mean, he’s getting an apartment. And he’s got furniture and stuff, I think. Actually, probably not. But that’s not the point. Anyway, he’ll barely have anything in that apartment to make it feel homey. And he loves music. But he has this weird aversion to iPods—“

“What? Why? That’s so fucking weird.” Kat interjects, perfectly okay to let Avery ramble on and on.

“I know. So weird. Anyway, I thought I might get him a record player? And records and stuff. I know its lame, but I thought it would be kind of thoughtful? I don’t know, it’s stupid. And um…” Avery rambles, his cheeks burning; he might as well tell Kat the other gift he has in mind.

“I… um, I was also going to get him a ring—“ Kat sputters, slamming her hands down on the unstable, bistro table they’re sitting at.

“—No! Not like…” He fishes in his shirt, holding up the chain and ring that never leaves his throat, “Like this… not like, marriage rings, or whatever.”

“Why do you think two people exchange rings, Avy? If not for marriage then for what? Just curious.” Kat asks drily. Avery turns even pinker.

“I don’t know… but, he’s not—I’m not ready to get married. And he’s not pressuring me, or anything. We just kind of know that’s where we’re going… Like, you guys.” Avery says. Deflecting is one of his strong suites. Kat flushes, but scoffs stubbornly.

“I’m not going to marry Cooper.” She says. Avery flashes her a dubious look. She rolls her eyes again, before continuing.

“Anyway, if you want to get him a record player, the pawn shop on Webster just got one in. I don’t know what condition it’s in, but it’s worth a shot.” She says.

“Wait, the pawn shop in Franklin has one? Really? How do you know?” Avery can hardly believe it, he’s been looking all over. All the ones on Amazon are terribly expensive, and the record store they just went to had plenty of indie vinyl, just nothing to play it on. Kat sighs.

“Dad was down there the other day, and I tagged along. I needed to get makeup.”

“From a pawn shop?”

“No dumbass, from the Walmart a few streets down from the pawn shop.” Kat says, half laughing. Avery rolls his eyes, his cheeks pink. How the hell was he supposed to know?

“Anyway, we can go back the record store and gets some records for the thing. And then head back and get the player. You want to?” Kat asks, draining her coffee with a small, sophisticated sip. Avery doesn’t have to think long. It’s his best shot, and he’ll do anything to make Max’s graduation and new apartment great.

“Okay.” Avery says, crumpling up his wrapper, “But I’m getting Max a cupcake before we leave.”

Kat snorts, yanking out her own wallet from its space wedged in the army medic bag she uses as a purse.

“I’m buying a dozen for Cooper. He eats like a pig.” She grumbles, but Avery can see the small, shy smile on her face. They both buy a dozen more cupcakes (an assortment for Max, and something called Double Oreo Overload for Cooper), and then head through the surprisingly thick Thursday traffic. The pawn shop is empty when the get there.

The man behind the counter looks terrifying. He’s has no hair on the shiny dome of his head, but he more than makes up for it with the grizzled beard, tied into two braids. He’s arms are covered in tattoos; Avery can pick out a few motorcycles, a set of crossed shotguns, and is that a toucan? Or a parrot? He’s even got a face tattoo (two teardrops) and a nasty looking scar running down the side of his cheek.

But the old man behind the counter smiles crookedly when he sees Kat and immediately asks how her father is. Kat, for as mean as she is to Avery, is charming and funny. Avery’s too scared to say anything.

“Hey Rob, do you still have that record player? The nice one that dad and I saw last weekend?”

“Sure do. You lookin’ to buy it? I can give you a good deal.” He asks, already walking towards the back. Kat follows easily, and Avery a little bit behind her.

“Not me, my friend is. Can you still give him a deal?” Kat jokes, as the man reaches up on a shelf behind the counter and pulls down the heavy, faux wood player. The man looks at Avery like he hadn’t noticed the boy before. He peers at him shrewdly. Avery gulps.

“Hey kid. You like record players?”

“Uh, no. I mean, I don’t really know. I’ve never had one. It’s not for me.” Avery stumbles. The man raises one, hairy eyebrow.

“Then what the hell do you want with a record player?” The man asks. His voice is harsh, but Avery doesn’t think it’s with malice. He swallows, looks down at the polished wood and the spotless turntable of the record player.

“It’s for my Soul Mate. He… They’re graduating, and they love music.” Avery corrects quickly, hoping his cheeks aren’t as pink as they feel. The man’s face is impassive and stone cold. He’s not fooled by Avery’s lie and he expects the man to kick him out of the shop. He wonders if Kat could buy it. He’ll pay her back of course—

“What kinda music do they like?” The man asks instead, rounding out from behind the counter to stumble over to the selection of movies, cd’s and video games in the back. Avery follows, noticing that the man has a stumbling roll to his gait, even with the efficiency that he rounds the store with.

“Uh… They like a lot of classic rock—“

The man laughs; booming and bold.

“Be more specific kid. All we gets is classic rock.”

“Um…” Avery flushes. He turns around to look for Kat; she’s by the jewelry counter, eyeing the glass case with a furrowed look of concentration.

“He—They like Pink Floyd, and AC/DC. Um, Black Sabbath, The Rolling Stones. His favorite is Led Zeppelin.” Avery lists, watching as the man flips through records, a set of grimy, scratched glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The glasses are oddly enough on a chain around the man’s neck; like an old woman’s. Avery doesn’t know whether to laugh or not.

“They like Hendrix?” The man asks, handing a stack of dusty records to Avery. Avery holds the frayed jackets close to his chest.

“Um… I think so.”

“CCR?”

Avery frowns. The man looks up over his glasses at Avery, a line between his eyebrows.

“Um…”

“Creedence Clearwater Revival.” The man supplies, enunciating each syllable like Avery’s an idiot. Avery turns pink, feeling an awful lot like an idiot.

“Y-Yeah.”

The man flips for another minute, before he rises and hands Avery another set of records. Without another word the man walks towards the counter again, leaving Avery to scramble behind him. At the counter Kat appears, smiling at the man.

“So how much, Rob?” Kat asks easily. Avery fumbles with the wallet in his back pocket, looking at the man as well. The man peers at Avery for a moment, stony and unreadable.

“How much you got?” He asks, eyeing Avery’s wallet. Avery scrambles to count the bills.

“Um… three hundred. Will that be enough?” Avery asks dumbly. The man smiles slightly, a crocked half tilt of his chapped lips. It’s the first smile he’s given Avery. He leans on the counter, eyeing the records and the player.

“Tell you what. Seventy-five for the whole shebang.”

Avery does the math quickly in his head, and then frowns.

“It… It can’t be seventy-five.” Avery says, looking at the man with wide eyes. “The player alone is probably, like two hundred. And it’s new.”

The man smiles a little wider.

“You’re right. The players’ brand new. Even got the blue tooth stuff… whatever the hell that means.” He says gruffly, waving his hand.

“But you seem like a real sweet kid, and you’re Kat’s friend. And between you and me, record players don’t sell for shit. And we’ve probably had the records here since they came out.” The man says, eyeing the wallet grasped in Avery’s hand.

“Seventy-five, kid.” The man says again. Avery swallows, he wants to argue. The man had been so helpful and won’t he get in trouble for selling all this for nearly nothing? The man raises an eyebrow, and then snaps his gnarled, yellow nailed fingers together for Avery to hurry. Avery hands him the money. The man counts it again, with the same shrewd eye that he seems to look at everything with, before putting it into the register.

“Something else?” The man asks when he sees Avery still gaping at him. Kat tugs his arm, and like someone brain dead, he follows her. She wordlessly points at the counter. Under the glass and glowing in the yellow lights is a thick, silver ring. The price tag reads fifty.

“Can we see this one, Rob?” Kat asks. Rob sighs, but he’s smiling. He unlocks the counter and hands the ring to a still brain dead Avery. Avery takes it dumbly, the metal warm in his fingers. It’s thick, thick enough to not get lost in carburetors, or in the thousands of cords that nest under the hood of a car. It’s smooth save for a few nicks in the metal. But otherwise free of groves that would trap oil and grease. It’s plain, and maybe a little too small for Max’s ring finger… but its prefect. Avery closes his fist around the warm metal, looks up at the man.

“How much?”

“Fifty. Its real silver, I can’t just give it away. Sorry, kid.” The man says, and almost looks like he means it. Avery doesn’t care one bit. He digs in his wallet, pulling out a crumpled twenty and three more equally crumpled tens. The man smile slightly, takes his money, without looking at the bills and put it into the register with a chime.

“Thank you. Honestly, thank you so much.” Avery tells the man finally finding his tongue. As he and Kat gather up his purchases. The man waves his hand again, leans his elbows on the smudged glass countertop.

“No problem kid. Got a Soul Mate myself. Been married since we was eighteen, and I still love her with all my heart. Yours is lucky guy. Treat him good, ya hear?”

Avery nods, thanks the man again.

He’s wrapping Max’s presents, tape stuck to each his fingers and paper when he takes time to realize what the man said.