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“You don’t like it? How about Fuckwittison?”
“Fuck off.”
But he’s grinning, and it eases the tension in my chest, although his split lip is bleeding again. He elbows me back and wipes at the blood on his chin with the back of his hand.
“You’re not really a dick,” he says. “Not all the time.”
“And you’re not always a motherfucking pain in the ass. Like, not every single minute of every hour.”
“I’m so fucking touched.”
“You should be. I’m being magnanimous.” I turn into our street. “Wanna work on the comic tonight? I got some cool ideas from this Viking history book I’ve been reading. Man, you should see the descriptions of the armor!”
But he shakes his head. It’s not often he’s not in the mood to work on the comic we’re putting together. He loves that project, and he’s an amazing artist.
Then again, he looks really tired.
Change of track.
“How about we chill out, watch a movie tonight?” I glance at him.
“Sure.” He chews on his lip, and I wince when fresh blood wells. “Will you help me out with something?”
I nod.
Dammit, I’d do anything for this guy, doesn’t he know that? Him and my sis, they’re the two people I’d fight anyone for. I have no secrets from him.
Well, apart from one. Could I tell him, ask him for advice, too? Would it be weird? Could I tell him I’m dying to ask this girl, Candy, out, but I’m not sure it will work out?
Can I confess to him that I’m hesitating to ask a pretty girl out because nothing seems to get me off anymore?
***
Jet is quiet as we enter the apartment. He doesn’t vanish in his room like usual, but hangs around and even allows me to clean up the blood from his face.
Does he realize it eases my worry for him when he lets me take care of him once in a while? Is it weird that I want to? Is it not manly enough?
Fuck that. I don’t fucking care. He needs this, and so do I.
He says nothing when I march to the kitchen and whip up some pancakes with maple syrup and fry some crisp bacon.
Jet’s favorite food, besides banana dishes. Need to buy some. Maybe that will lift his black mood.
He lets me do my thing. I set up the table in front of the TV, place the stack of pancakes, the syrup and bacon and cold beers, and he sinks down beside me on the couch.
We stuff ourselves with the food, and I put on the first Matrix movie, because it’s something light. We pull some Neo combat moves at each other, snickering like mad, and Jet offers me a piece of bacon and asks me if I want the truth or if I want to keep living in an illusion.
It should be funny, but for some reason it’s not.
We finish the movie in silence, and I pick up the dishes to carry them to the kitchen.
“Hey, J.”
I turn around, balancing the dishes and beer bottles. “What?”
“Thanks. For this.” He waves a hand at what I’m carrying. “I know I’m a pain in the ass and I own it, but—”
“Shut up,” I say gruffly. “You’re not. I was dicking around.”
