He doesn’t get it. The hype of another sterile space, of an all white room filled with splashes of red. Of cold corners, and promises of something good. But Jeremy sits across from Jean with all of the excitement of a leashed puppy in training, and that’s never been something he’s seen in all of the sterile places he’s survived. Brown eyes, dimples that catch lazy freckles. It’s always been bandages, gauze that’s been pressed into his skin a bit too hard.
“I’m telling you, Jean,” Jeremy starts, and the phantom feeling of pain in his cheek dissipates as his eyes catch on the mouthful of food Jeremy is talking around. A different kind of sensation, something fuller, softer. Something easier to swallow than the metallic rust of his own agony. “This right here is worth being in California for, don’t you agree?”
He doesn’t agree. It’s a burger, and a thin one at that. Stuffed between two buns that overshadow the hype of Southern California’s must-try meat.
“I didn’t ask to be in California,” Jean reminds, pushing his overly soggy fries to the center of the table, an offering for the brief flash of pain that catches on the ends of Jeremy’s lashes.
A silence settles between them, teetering on the edge of uncomfortable, Jean worries at the pit of his stomach. Worries that Kevin will come pluck him from this existence he’s just starting to enjoy, put him somewhere grittier. The in-n-out employee’s voice is harsh through the scraping sound of the microphone, making the anxiety swimming through his organs fizz. He waits for Jeremy to fill in the space with some overly positive statement, something that makes him want to apologize for embodying the evening darkness outside.
He doesn’t though, and when Jean finally looks at him again, fingers curling into the hem of his own shirt with violence, they settle. Completely still. No longer grasping for a weapon or for purchase, but for this. For Jeremy in his loudly crimson attire, for the way his smile is a bit lopsided like he’s trying to catch it. Can’t. For the way he pushes on Jean’s edges, not with a knife, but with a french fry, proffered into the air. A potato of peace, a fried bit of comfort.
“I didn’t ask to sit in traffic for 30 minutes to get a burger, Jean,” Jeremy counters, like they’re on the court. A push and pull so inherent that it makes him suddenly nostalgic. Realizing he could’ve had this all along. Bright white tables that don’t burn with sterility. Food that isn’t something he needs to earn, or try to swallow. A friend—more… that isn’t hanging out with him by necessity but by choice. “But we all do things that kind of suck right? The reward is nice.”
He flips it over in his head, watches it sizzle, bites on the thought of Jeremy being a reward for having survived the change in scenery. The upheaval of all the things he thought he knew. From a forced Nest to a home with a cardboard cutout of a dog. From not knowing what boba is, to finding people in his life who shoot him with their contents through giant plastic straws. From violence, to the celebration of winning without it. Of being the best, while actually feeling their best.
“Are you the reward for California?” Jean asks, wondering if part of his metamorphosis here in California has made him just bold enough to actually voice his thoughts aloud. To actually test the colder waters of the West Coast, to find the warmth in its sand.
Speckles of cinnamon and paprika, warm against cheeks that burn in horrid contrast against a crimson hoodie. The fry in Jeremy’s hand goes limp, almost like a jaw drop. Jean finally takes it, swallows it whole.
“Do–do you want me to be?” Jeremy whispers in tandem with an order being announced. Of something delicious waiting to be taken, consumed. Jean pulls his fries back to his side of the table, finally understanding the hype of this… in-n-out. Of burgers, and fries doused in cheese and grilled onions. Of sizzling and being asked what it means to burn.
“I think we both know the answer to that, Jeremy.”
Stolen glances, favorite t-shirts, shared rooms and beds that almost touch. A dog that’s theirs in paper and in fantasy. Conversations in the kitchen, names repeated on the court. A burger that he finds is actually quite juicy, cheese that gets caught in the corner of his mouth. Brown eyes that catch on it, a non-sterile thumb wiping it away across the table.
“Yeah.” Jeremy smiles, bright enough to illuminate this little corner of the place. “Yeah, I think we do.”
