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Sol definitely considered himself very used to any type of sketchy shit Hickey could possibly come up with. Thus, there was barely anything disturbing here: he just came to his place with a backpack and declared that maybe he’d stay for a while.
He did that already, but the last time it happened Hickey somehow lived a week off with things he carried in his pockets and the things he found in Sol's own half-empty pantry. Well, that’s why there was at least something different about today. But Sol wasn’t too used to asking questions: he preferred to wait for the right moment to hear something. Hickey always rambled about things: random Wikipedia articles, names that made zero sense to Sol or basically anything else, — besides his personal life.
Sol says nothing and stares at the door frame: he just lets it come that way. What Hickey decides. Sometimes it seemed to him that the decisions in Hickey’s head appeared by themselves and weren’t connected in any way toanyof his previous experiences. He just lets it slide.
***
Hickey entered his life the same way he always did. Crawling in for a day, a week, for two hours — and usually it was only in a sexual context. Sometimes, very rarely, he needed something. Money — sometimes it was money. None of them had any, though. Hickey was always broke as a church mouse, and Sol was even worse. For years, he hadn't been able to hold down a job. He'd last a couple of weeks and then give up.
More often it was a favor, something Hickey wouldn't do with his own hands. Dodgy boxes and dodgy guys to meet at a dive bar. He was there anyway — more like a figure standing over the shoulder. He kept quiet while things were being done — and then he'd tell Sol where exactly he'd screwed up.
He always did something nice after that, though. Sol didn't need much — just to run his fingers through his shaggy stubble, to let him stroke his hair. So that Hickey would lead him to the bedroom almost by the hand. Or for him to be allowed to pull down his jeans, which were too big for Hickey, right on the couch. Or in the hallway. Sometimes he’d sit at his feet while he occupied the only chair in the apartment. Sol basically liked sitting on the floor next to him, whether they were doing something or Hickey was just on his phone again.
A couple of times they laid on the carpet completely naked. Hickey smoked a cigarette, placing a glass ashtray on Sol's stomach, so that the ash kept falling on his skin. He barely felt it — especially since Hickey let him take a drag or two from his hands every now and then. He raised up on his elbows, grinned and said something like "No, no, not like that, don't be that greedy." And then he finished half a cigarette in one puff. If they had real money, what was left of the cigarette would have to be called nothing more than a butt. However, this was not the case.
In the mornings, Hickey finished smoking what was left in the ashtray.
If Sol noticed, he just walked past what he saw. Wherever he was going. Usually he pretended to need to go to the toilet, even if in reality he was going to stand and watch aimlessly as Hickey destroyed his kitchen. Accidentally (or on purpose?) he’d drop a cigarette ash on the chair’s upholstery, spill the water, scrape a fairly new frying pan with a knife. Basically, Hickey was doing his shit. Nothing new, but Sol liked to just… Stand and watch? As if there was anything to it. He was more like a wild animal than a man who had accidentally become human.
People don't behave like that. People have been taught to wring out the sponge after washing the dishes and to put the spoon in the sink. Not on the chair. And definitely not in an empty flower pot.
"Hey."
Sol hovered by the door frame, watching the cutlery end up in the fucking pot. With a muffled clink.
Hickey acted like nothing happened at all. He didn’t even turn around, just took a cigarette out of the pack. Out of Sol's pack.
"Listen," Sol stepped forward into the kitchen, which was more like a coffin, according to its dimensions. A child's grave, maybe. Slightly smaller in size than the standard grave norm, Sol would rather not know how much it was.
Sol grinned at his own dark joke — and Hickey grinned at him, too. As if he could read minds. The thought of a possible question crumbled in itself without any effort — and Sol wanted to ask why and what for Hickey had come. And he hadn't left for a week. Very mysterious.
They slept in the same bed. Sol hadn't changed his sheets in at least a couple of weeks. He didn’t feel as shitty as he used to, yeah… But he still hadn’t changed his sheets… For about a month, he thought. That's fair. He didn’t have to. It was his home, and his choice. Hickey wasn’t complaining.
"What? Hey, what's wrong?" Hickey stood up and took two steps towards Sol, his tone so… Soothing? It was so normal, it was the tone of a real human. Sol wasn’t sure he sounds like a real human himself.
Sol was almost convinced that this tone was real. Still, it was enough to make the question "what the hell have you been doing here for a week and why haven't you left… wherever you're going" lose all relevance.
***
Sol never considered himself the greatest cook. Quite the contrary, it usually took… Too much effort from him. Enough to almost never do it for himself. To endure until the last minute or to buy whatever was ready-made and cheap. It would do, it would hit the right spot — since the end of his military career, Sol had grown to treat his own body and its functions in this exact way.
Sometimes waking up in the middle of the night is just normal. Going for a smoke and drinking tap water. No filter, fuck it, fuck the filter, fuck even a glass sometimes.
You can wash your hair with hand soap, if you really want to. Three-in-one shampoo is perfect. Nothing better has been invented. Sol is forever grateful to those who invented this madness with a neutral-masculine scent. Or sharply-masculine. Who cares. It seems that when he dies, he should bequeath his own body to the inventors of new versions of three-in-one shampoo for experiments. For those who choose an ugly wolf for the label. Sol had a special emotional connection with this silly creature.
He liked Hickey because he never judged, and he never asked for too much. And sometimes he would just pay his rent. It was too easy to be true.
Sol didn't know if he liked Hickey, or if he liked the way he felt around him. He felt… A little better. Not like a monster. Not the kind of guy who would shoot another one by order. And then not leave the house for three months. Or maybe that guy — if Hickey had asked, he would have shot. Without thinking.
Hickey insisted on getting Sol out of the house, though. When he came over, he would drag him out for beer, at least. Just beer — just the store, or a place that poured takeaway in plastic bottles. Sometimes — for something fun. A couple of weeks ago, they walked a few miles to a dodgy taco place. It was nice. Sol still seemed to like going out at night. He couldn't be sure of it — perhaps he enjoyed listening to Hickey trying to remember all the shitty sailor jokes he knew.
Hickey said yes when he asked if he wanted pasta. What kind of fucking pasta — macaroni? Floury and overcooked because — of course! — Sol made it. Humiliatingly little cream — and appalling amounts of cheese. Sol stirred it with a fork — even if he hit the bottom with the fork, he wouldn’t care. That's how it is — thanks, Hickey! No, really, thanks. If he hadn't unpacked the pots that had been sitting for months, Sol would still think they were too new and clean to actually cook anything in them. Ugh.
Hickey will never know this amazing fact. Or, maybe, he always knew.
Sol still thought that Hickey's decision-making center was completely dysfunctional. He was sitting and playing a stupid mobile game, perched on a chair as if he had never seen such a piece of furniture before. It looked like he could curl up there and sleep comfortably. Without taking off his worn-out high boots.
Anyway… He clearly never thought with his brain. Or thought too much. Sol was used to the fact that people usually need some time to make any decision, that you can tell by their eyes. Hickey sometimes pretended to think — but more often he looked at Sol with a completely blank look and made the most unexpected remark in the world. Very necessary one. Thank you. Sol hadn't learned to say thank you yet.
He hadn't even learned to hug unless asked. He had to act differently — pretending to be a housewife.
"All you need is a flowered apron to complete the picture," he said and chuckled, and Sol was still thinking about it over and over. He hardly believed it. He wanted to howl, turn around, and turn the pot over? He was not sure he deserved any nice words. He wanted to hug Hickey so hard that his ribs crack. Maybe even break. He'd be upset.
Sol used to break his toys when he was a kid.
Hickey wasn’t his toy. He had to remind himself of that every time he tried to think of Hickey as someone he actually owned. Someone he could actually count on. The idea of getting attached sounded painful. It already had been.
Sol thought about that for a long moment, leaning over his pasta. He mustn’t be doing a job of pretending to be a good enough cook, because Hickey kept talking to him. Sol didn’t respond, though.
"It's a compliment, relax."
Sol didn’t have to turn around to know what game he's playing on his phone. It barely even vibrated at the fact that Hickey didn’t bother to turn on the sound. Beeping and repeating phrases, only beeping and repeating phrases.
When they sat down to eat, Hickey found something to talk about, while Sol was only thinking about what they could do afterwards. He didn’t have any ideas — he was ready, as always, to give Hickey at least a hint. Or to ask him to think of something.
Hickey had narrow, warm shoulders with protruding bones. Lots of moles, and they were very pleasant to lick and gently touch with a finger. His belly trembled a little when Sol was doing well. If Hickey sweated, the hair near his ears became a little curly and a little darker. Sol especially liked to touch them with his nose when they when they fuck or just rest for a while.
When Hickey was talking, his nose tip sometimes trembled a little too.
If it hadn’t been the end of autumn, he would even have freckles.
Sol didn’t look up from his plate and speared a couple of noodles on his fork. He didn’t try to grab more sauce — there’s bread for that. There was. Somewhere. He was not sure if Hickey hadn't eaten it.
The faster Sol ate his dinner, the faster they would find themselves on the couch. Or just Sol. Maybe they would put something on.
Hickey had the same shitty taste in movies as he did. Or maybe he was just pretending. They were watching very so-so action movies. A while ago Sol came across an extremely long selection, not sorted by rating at all. Just anything at once. Now he stared at the screen and watched everything. Of course he pirated every film. Of course he didn't pay the fucking money.
Hickey sat down next to him — and either did something on his cell phone or his obnoxiously noisy laptop, or just lied around and distracted Sol in every way. Sometimes it turned into foreplay. Frankly, Sol liked it more than watching another B-movie. Although sometimes there were funny ones.
Sometimes Sol wondered how soon he would get bored to death. He didn’t know the right answer. For now, he was just clearly starting to get attached — and he was always waiting for Hickey to come back. For now, he was only getting crazier about him, willing to give in to any provocation.
"I think I'm going to take a break for a couple of days," Hickey said, picking at his pasta with one hand and continuing to do something mysterious with his fucking video game with the other.
Sol swallowed the urge to say something… tender.
"I thought you were actually living with someone and are here for a couple of days? Like… ugh. Actually?"
Hickey looked at him, raising an eyebrow. He had some cheese sauce stuck in his mustache.
"How can I tell you… The apartment has gotten a little worse"
"Don't tell me that your mysterious… Jopson, is that his name? That he did a little home renovation and now there's no linoleum in the apartment?"
"M’kay, I can just say the flat became kinda haunted."
Hickey smiled and changed the topic, directly moving on to a detailed discussion of who sold a garage to whom a couple of blocks away, and who is hanging around there in general.
Sol was barely familiar with his flatmates — but the very idea of living with that lad… Thomas, yeah, Tommy, he definitely looked like a vampire born in the 1900s. Not a vampire prince — more like a creature who’ll watch you sleep with an unblinking gaze, standing next to your bed all night.
Maybe it was for the best. Sol smiled at him, mentally selecting a so-so movie from his recently downloaded ones. Hoping they wouldn't actually watch it.
And as strange as Hickey was… Who would really live with this Jopson guy?
***
About six months earlier
"Yeah, no, actually," Jopson stares at the cracked, battered tile and fights the urge to push his bangs back once more.
He shouldn't do that. He's styled his bangs, he's even used some expensive hairspray… The hold is too strong: the strands are stuck together, one is even stuck to his forehead, and now Jopson winces and fights the discomfort all day. He helps himself straighten up — it's no less uncomfortable, but it's different now.
"Okay," Jopson ignores the giggles into the phone. He does his best to look around first, then rolls his eyes. No customers, and while he can yap behind the counter, he shouldn't tarnish the place's image. He's a fucking professional.
"Yeah, you can come in. If you actually throw in as much as you promised."
"And I won't let you in until I see the money," Jopson politely swallows that part. There's no one there, yes, but he still manages a customer service smile.
He presses the end call button as fast as he can. Still a precise movement, no more, no less. Even his facial expression is under control, only his nose is starting to tingle. Jopson is absolutely sure that all his troubles are tagged with "Cornelius Hickey". Hell, he’s not sure the fucked up exam was his own decision at all.
He is not sure whether he wanted to skip it for some reason, or whether he wanted to force Hickey to do it. To get lost in the courtyards and prevent the greatest injustice. Hickey would have made a good actor — but Thomas, of course, hardly so. It felt like a need to interfere with some too subtle matters of existence, to rewrite reality. At that moment it still seemed as if Hickey was forcing him to spend time together in a shitty courtyard, drink a second bottle of wine at noon and kiss. To tell each other nasty things — and kiss as if kisses are much more like bites, like an attempt to knock each other's teeth out without using hands.
The sun was touching the rooftops, it was too hot for early June. Too hot, so hot that Hickey could barely stand it in dark trousers and leather boots. He couldn't take off his jackets, it was still barely warm enough, but any black clothing became almost a torture. They were behaving like complete idiots, telling each other nothing but what an idiot the other one was. A moron. Showing off, doing nothing but showing off.
Hickey had just grown out his stupid mustache, and Jopson wanted to pluck it out one hair at a time with damn tweezers. Hold the ginger head between his thighs and begin the execution, kissing between the eyebrows and occasionally stroking the hair. Maybe spit in his face too.
Anyway, they both missed the exam that day. They even snuck into Jopson's house — and his mother hadn’t been in the nursing home yet. They had to be very quiet, but they were both still kicking and trying to fall over.
Tommy’s mum was sleeping pretty soundly, and they were making a lot of noise. Really. If Jopson was honest with himself.
"You'd have fucked it up anyway," Hickey said once they were in the room. The little brother was still at school — he wouldn't be a bother.
"Shut up. Just shut up."
"Don't tell me you like me better when I don't say anything."
"I don't like you at all."
Jopson was sitting on his unmade bed, his knees spread, his underwear already soaking wet from the moment he let Hickey touch him outside. Of course, he only let him touch through his trousers, but Hickey wasn't known for his patience or sensitivity to other people's discomfort. Especially not to Jopson's. Once he found a place private enough, Hickey's hand was already in his pants.
Jopson can't remember what stupid thing Hickey said. The nasty thing is, he didn't mind too much.
Just a little.
"Not so bold when everything is allowed?"
Hickey snorted. He looked so cocky that Jopson wanted to do something about it immediately, but the best he could do was stand up a little to yank him by the shirt’s collar. A striped dress shirt — what good boys they are, almost from an educational loan advert, judging by their appearance.
Jopson preferred not to think about what his hair looked like at this moment. Probably like shit. He clearly felt one strand come loose from his fringe and was now lying on his forehead. Disgusting.
Hickey's hair looked quite acceptable, and so Jopson, not afraid of losing his balance, buried his hand in his hair. He rubbed his nails along the scalp, clinged deliberately to make it hurt.
Hickey hissed — and Jopson wasso gladabout it. A little less — in the way he suddenly moved closer and grinded as soon as Hickey pressed his knee into his groin.
They broke the bathroom shelf that day. That's the part of the story Jopson doesn't like — and it still bothers him to this day. No, he broke it himself. He chose to lean on the shelf with both hands, letting Hickey do whatever he wanted to him down there.
The shelf had been screwed tightly to the wall — and now the fastenings were loose. Jopson had no idea what to do about it — and, frankly, he preferred not to fix it. Now it had to be cleaned more carefully, and it was hardly possible to put anything heavy on it.
***
When Hickey finally showed up with his things, he wasn't alone. Of course he was with another fucking woman.
Back then, during their failed exams at university, Hickey wouldn't shut up about his "wife". Jopson didn't even remember her name — only that Hickey had sung his praises, and that at some point he had proposed to her with a stolen ring. For some reason, Hickey was damn proud of that story, as if it was an incredibly romantic gesture. That didn't stop him from turning his interactions with Jopson into a rather nasty, confrontational affair.
No. Not confrontational. At that point, Jopson truly felt nothing but hatred for Hickey. He probably shouldn't have thought that Hickey could change so much in a year.
Or that he himself could.
Jamie — her name was Jamie. And she wasn't that much older, but she carried herself as if she was a regular guest of the Queen of England. Well, for a while — very soon her behavior changed dramatically, as soon as she discovered that Jopson was not exactly extremely polite and friendly.
Well, he was friendly enough. And always polite. He politely reminded her that there was still dust between the parquet boards. That those spoons had to be fanned out in the holder. That toilet paper had to be hung up on a certain side, and under no circumstances on the other.
Every action she undertook made Jopson grind his teeth — and at the same time constantly think: why SHE. Why did this whole situation not lead him to the next episode of the affair with Hickey? That would be interesting. He had not yet managed to drive Hickey insane and breaking his balls he had not yet started talking about how to fold socks, in which particular window it was allowed to smoke. Hell, he'd never even had to tie Hickey's hands.
Initially it was thought of as revenge. But the further it went, the more sweet gestures he saw, the louder he put the mug on the table, and the more unbearable he became. Just think about it! Hickey opened the fucking kitchen door for her. The kitchen door. Not even the front one, no, one more second huh? , if he had his way, he would have opened the bathroom door for her. He actually wished her a good day — and even called her while she was away. Every time Jopson heard her "hello, dear" on the phone, he had to concentrate especially hard not to show any discomfort.
He had once spied on her changing. He was too eager to understand what it was about her that had driven Hickey so crazy. And she looked… Well, just as Jopson would have expected. She even wore fairly ordinary underwear, black with a lace ribbon.
He saw nothing else, and immediately turned away. He could have coughed disgustingly, but he did not, he simply froze, waiting a minute, his heart pounding too much. In fact, he was not particularly sure what he had felt.
It was easy to spy on her, as Jopson sat at the kitchen table, leafing through the list of open positions. All of them required more experience. Nothing new. He did this almost every day. Mostly because it allowed him to watch Jamie, who, for some reason, ignored the very idea of closing the door. The door was closed only if Hickey was in the same room. On such occasions, Jopson would go out to the stairwell to smoke.
In fact, they were very quiet. Perhaps they simply did not get serious in front of him. And Hickey certainly wouldn't do it for Jopson, but for her? It wasn't his idea, was it? She could twist him around just like that? Jopson could hardly believe it, and he kept coming back to this thought. Several times a day. Sometimes while he was working.
***
"You did it on purpose."
Jopson stops in the middle of the living room with a pile of clothes in his arms. He discovered Jamie had't emptied the washing machine in time. Although, how did Hickey describ her when they moved in? As "an incredibly neat freak?" No way, no, Jopson can't believe it. Either that or she's really out to get back at him.
There's just one thing — this is still his, Jopson's, apartment. And he's the one who's going to set the rules. Even the stupid ones.
"No. I think you came up with this stupid spoon rule just to piss me off."
She's staring at her tablet, and Jopson feels like his eye is going to twitch every time he hears the sound of her typing with her long nails. Shit, is Hickey okay with those claws? It looks… Potentially traumatic.
"Even if that's the case, damn, these are everyone's clothes!"
He says it without a smile, he is already sick of being polite and unnoticeable. He tried. He really did. At least for the first month. He stopped somewhere around the same time she stopped playing the polite fairy with incredible stories; each of them took at least ten minutes. Sometimes Jopson wanted to set a timer. Well, just to make sure.
They play a very interesting game: who will lose all external perfection faster. Jopson knows all her tricks — he can play exactly the same part. Except for the nails, of course. Firstly, it's not his story, and secondly, he respects Hickey. Well, at least a little.
"Still, you're exaggerating — and by the way, you should wash your mug after yourself."
He looks at her in a way that he hopes to bore a hole through her. The clothes in his hands are unpleasantly wet. And now his shirt too.
"Enough. Just admit that you're getting to the point of complete nonsense now. At least I'm not trying to hurt everyone at once."
"I didn't know you had it in you!" Hickey says jokingly from the other room, and Jopson realizes how loud they were.
He feels like he's going to explode right now.
Jamie looks utterly taken aback, as if she's at a loss for words.
"Put the tablet down," he says quietly, and when she does, he shoves the clothes out of the washing machine into her hands. "Wash it with the conditioner? Again? With a good one, okay?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, grabbing his coat in the hallway and walking out so fast that he's amazed at his own speed. Jopson pulls out a cigarette, landing abruptly on a bench outside the front door. He stares at the gold band on the cigarette for a moment, unable to formulate any precise thoughts. That's when he realizes his shirt’s still wet. And also, he’s shaking, but not from the cold.
***
The tap is fucking dripping.
Jopson has very strict rules about where things go and how. Order gives him strength, and he never thought anyone would have a problem with it.
Jamie likes her flat clean. He sees it, he notices that it costs her effort, and, in fact, she doesn’t really like cleaning.
Hickey doesn’t give a shit.
And somehow the latter hardly irritates Jopson. He feels himself slowly going crazy, ready to snap — not at him, but at Jamie.
The situation with the tap is extremely simple. You just go and turn it off properly. It’s not broken. It just needs to be turned off properly. And he’s almost sure that Hickey did it, but right now he’s struggling with himself, trying to refocus his attention on a cup of coffee.
To turn off the tap himself is to admit his own defeat. He doesn't want to yell at Hickey and even then it's useless.
Another drop finally drives him crazy.
"Hickey."
No answer.
He speaks louder.
"Hey, you. Neil. Cornelius. What's your middle name? Turn off the fucking tap."
No answer, but Jamie comes into the kitchen with a disgruntled expression. Their eyes meet, and he can see how she clenches her jaw a little tighter. The corner of his mouth twitches.
She reaches for the tap, and at that very moment Jopson jumps up from his seat, almost knocking over the chair — just to turn off the tap first.
He doesn't even understand what's going on anymore.
***
Sometimes Jopson thinks about how he'll soon have to keep a diary and write about why they argued today. And what he thought about it. How many obsessive thoughts he's had to push aside, and the list of Jamie's screw-ups with household chores.
They're arguing again. This time about the fucking frying pan.
Most likely it was Hickey who got it burnt, and this is another argument about absolutely nothing.
"And I've noticed my shampoo has noticeably diminished, so I don't understand why you still find it right to tell me anything like that."
She uses this as an argument, and Jopson once again feels like he's about to lose his temper. He has the general feeling that this woman, exists solely to irritate him.
"I don't have enough hair to even covet your things, and, unlike you, I don't go to a fancy university, and I can afford a bottle of shampoo."
"Really? What do I regularly take out of the drain then?"
Jopson feels like it would be a miracle if he didn't explode right now. Maybe it was some kind of church holiday. Otherwise, he can't explain why he can stand it.
He takes a step toward Jamie, to get close enough to think of an answer. He has to lift his chin and stand up straight to say something to her without feeling inferior.
Hickey, who is gradually turning into an occasional spectator of their scandals, speaks up.
"Get a room already, guys, seriously."
***
An argument over shampoo leads them to the depths of a fight over something so trivial. Now the water bills. Jopson has no idea where Jamie gets her money from.
She accuses him of using her shampoo. He feels like he has no choice and goes offensive, pulling out the "you can't take a bath every day" card.
This is insane. Nobody takes a bath every day.
"Are you serious?"
Jopson stands in the bathroom doorway with a fabric softener in hand. He was just about to put it back in place, but, once again, he heard the sound of running water. A filling bathtub, to be precise.
"And you're okay with barging in like that, right? Who was talking about privacy and waging a war against walking around the house in pajamas?"
Jamie turns to him. An unlit cigarette is in не у Джейми? mouth — but he feels like he's overreacting to the idea of fighting against smoking in a room with a perfectly working extractor fan.
"You could close the door." He hesitates for a second, for some reason failing to look away, and now he's forced to watch Jamie without her shirt, only in a thin burgundy top.
Frankly, she didn't seem so perfect to him any more. Well, she just looked okay now. Jopson had a sick perspective — he noticed things he shouldn't. Like the fact that she wasn't as clean-shaven as he thought she should be. Jopson noticed a lot of things. This cohabitation seemed to be turning him into a misogynist. The bad thing was that it was hurting him, too.
"Really, close the door. It's cold in here. Are you airing it out again?"
He closes the door too loudly for it to sound normal.
"We've already talked about how you need to stop wasting so much water. At least if you don't stop spending your stipend on trinkets and something shiny."
"Don't tell me," she tests the temperature of the water with the edge of her hand, "that you didn't like those glasses."
The glasses were pretty impressive — obviously thrifted, they were almost too impressive for the apartment. Jamie had been bringing everything into the house, and yes, it was okay. Good, even. Not as minimalist as Jopson, who couldn't spend a penny more on himself than he needed, would have preferred.
"The glasses are okay. I… Ugh… Yes I do like them. But the bath salts? That’s insane."
"Do you care what I spend my money on?"
Jamie raises an eyebrow at him, and the steam in the cramped bathroom is already making her mascara and eyeliner run a little. Jopson is obviously hot too — and the whole situation feels a little surreal.
"Not as long as you're paying rent."
"And I buy the shared stuff, too." She takes the fabric softener out of his hand and places it under the sink. The level of surreality is increasing.
Jopson can't think of an argument. He just frowns and looks at her. She looks at him confused.
"Listen, I have no idea what you're doing right now. Please, either get out of the bathroom, especially since it's almost full, or stop messing around and get in too. Well, if you're jealous."
Jopson is jealous — or he's not sure if he is anymore. But if he is — it's definitely not about the fucking bathtub.
He's not sure if he's hot from the steam or just a little aroused. He wants to tug at the collar of his T-shirt, or take it off finally. He feels incredibly stupid.
"What makes you think I'm jealous?" He looks at her with a polite smile, the way he’d smile from behind the counter at the bakery. He's clearly losing this stupid game.
"Stop it. Or are you too weak? I don't understand."
She puts her cigarette down on the sink — how is it not damp? — and grabs the waistband of her trousers, stepping out of them. And if she thinks this will scare Jopson, no, no way. He's not that simple.
He turns away slightly, almost automatically, and undresses. He doesn't want to turn away, no, he's brave enough to admit that it's okay for him to see Jamie undress, and to undress in front of her. He's curious. He’d seen almost everything, but he was still too curious about what was so special about her. What did Hickey see in her? Hickey seemed to have no type at all, Jopson had managed to find only a couple of coincidences, but everything else was completely mysterious.
They get into the bath, and they both have these fucking tense faces. They haven't swapped, and Jamie's on the side near the tap itself. She's clearly uncomfortable. She's pulling her knees up to her chest, obviously not feeling comfortable that they've actually taken this fucking step.
It seems completely pointless.
"Would you like a cig?"
She tries to light hers, but it's really damp. She has to lean over the edge of the bath to get the pack.
"Please."
Her make-up is running, but it's like she's only wearing eyeliner and mascara? Jopson is a little surprised, because she looks good. Oh. He's thinking bad things again. Really, really bad things. He shouldn't be thinking that about her, this isn't a competition, and even if it was, they wouldn't be competing. Certainly not in the same category.
She lights both cigarettes at once, passing one to Jopson.
"Thank you."
He tries not to look at her, staring at the ashtray. That ashtray belongs in the kitchen. And he shouldn't be thinking about the fact that he's actually developed a couple of new obsessions that he definitely shouldn't be masturbating on. At least not like this. Not like he's so pissed off about his ex's girlfriend that he wants to… Well, he'd rather not finish. He's not quite sure how he wants to end this sentence.
"You're not even going to joke that this is almost a kiss? Like, an indirect kiss?"
Jopson tries not to cough up the smoke.
"I'm almost disappointed."
She rolls her eyes dramatically and shrugs. Jopson can see the way her ribs stick out a little on her chest, and the heat and humidity make her hair curl more.
"That could be a kiss."
He clicks his tongue, and that's dramatic, too.
He has to brace his elbow on the side of the tub to keep the ash from getting into the water or on Jamie when he moves a little closer. He's already in an idiotic position, and he's not going to let up.
In reality, she's kissing him, her hand on his cheek, and it's very soft. Too soft. Maybe it's because Tommy's already a little dizzy from the heat and humidity, or maybe it's just her. He has to swing his leg over her hip to sit close enough to her. He feels like an awkward ball-jointed doll, moving on command, but every movement is somehow wrong.
Her tongue is soft, and her lips are a little flaky and crusty. It tastes like a cigarette, that's all, and it's not clear what he’d expect. Probably nothing special. Jopson doesn't know what it feels like on the other side. He remembers Hickey biting, and that makes it a little worse. He has a feeling that the next stage will be rather mediocre sex.
That would be the expected sequel. He finds it funny.
"You're going to drop the ashes on the floor," she says when he pulls away a little. Her voice is a little lower than when they're arguing. Jopson doesn't really know what his own sounds like, so he prefers not to say anything, just grunts something unintelligible.
Jopson feels really stupid.
***
Of course, Hickey opens the door at about the same time they're still in the bathtub, and they haven't gotten to the point where they have any meaningful conversation. In many ways, Jopson is grateful that they stopped there. He probably wouldn't want to have a boring fuck all about Hickey. He could, though.
He comes out of the bathroom first. What a gentleman. His mind is pretty much blank — especially knowing that Hickey himself has never dated just one person at a time.
"Congratulations, what else can I say," Hickey says when Jopson addresses him. He seems frankly amused.
That evening, Jopson and Jamie find themselves in another fight — this time over a condensed milk stain on the sofa.
***
Sol hadn't expected Hickey to be back so soon. It was as if he'd just gone and got his stuff, really fast, and then come back right away. Yes, he still only had his backpack, but judging by how stuffed it was, he'd stuffed his sneakers and a lighter jacket in there, too. In other words, all his remaining stuff.
"Neil," Sol spreads his hands, hiding how glad he was, maybe, that his suspicions were correct.
He reaches out to hug Hickey, but Hickey just pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up as soon as he closes the front door behind him.
"Oh, shit. I left them for a week, thinking I'd come back to ashes. But no. They decided to be upset, too. And team up."
"So… your exes teamed up against you?"
"That's different. More like they teamed up to create more madness."