Title: Needy
Author: ness
Disclaimer: fanfic. nonprofit. illegal.
Category: j/h
Rating: pg-15
Thanks to: Shevsy, for reading it first, Patty, for helping, and Bethany, for letting me off the hook.
I project myself as strong. I know I do so successfully because I watch their reactions. I'm kind of aware (self conscious?) of how people see me. Even before Rawley, there was always some intermediary persona handling the world for me, some facade. Inside, I'd be watching people's reactions, judging them. I kept well clear of the whole human interaction deal. They could hate my mask, that was cool.
In some ways Jake is more nakedly me than any of the Jacqueline versions 1.0 through 6.0 at my last few schools. Weird.
So, yeah. Strong. They see Hamilton unable to keep his hands off me. He's grabbing my shoulders, he's nuzzling my temple, he's wrapping me in his arms. They see me let him, like I'm indulging his needs. Like I'm the self disciplined one. Cool hand Jake. If they knew how hungry I am for touch.
It's like water on parched earth. The water sinks in but the soil is still thirsty. God. How trite can I get? The thing is, I have some kind of bottomless appetite for being held, for feeling loved.
It's dependence, it's vulnerability, it's .. it's shaming on some level. When I analyse it I can only believe this is addiction. When Hamilton moves on (and come on, we're 16; he WILL move on) it's going to hurt like an amputation. One piece of my pride I keep. Aside from that insane moment on the roof, I never ask him to touch me.
No matter how hungry I am for the comfort he brings. No. I'm cool Jake. I devote time and sneakiness to manipulate him into hugs. And what does that say about me?
Here we are, Ham and me. We're in his bedroom. It'll be a couple of hours before his parentals get back from power lunching some millionaire Old Rawleians. I'm telling him some crazy story about one of the schools I went to. He's laughing loudly. It's a good moment. It offsets the crap.
"How many schools have you been to, anyway?"
"Including Rawley? About ten or twelve."
He gives me a look that says, you're messing with my head.
"Hey, I started young. My first boarding school was, uh, I was six years old."
"Who'd take you at six?" He's surprised. Oh yeah, son of the Dean. He's convinced he knows how all schools work.
He's right about one thing. I was unwanted. "English prep school."
His arm slides round my waist.
"It's kind of funny" I say. God, what am I doing? Playing this up in hopes of a cuddle? That's disgusting. I snuggle in, and I'm still talking..
"There was this party when I was six. Mom had just got back from an eighteen month tour in the UK doing rep .. uh, repertory theatre. She claimed the party was to celebrate getting back to the States, but it was more, like, networking for her next piece of work."
His hand drifts up and down, up and down my side. He has big hands, beautifully shaped. This is soothing. Do I sound whiny?
"Isn't she kind of compulsive about getting her next contract lined up?" he says.
He's met Mom a couple of times. It's weird. He got on smoother with her than I did. I was verging on jealous of him. Of both of them. It was unsettling. All he would say afterward was that I'm very like her. I wish. She's .. sophisticated. And confident. I have to fake that stuff, because when you keep fishing for reassurance it's a real turnoff for other people. I've made that mistake. Maybe when I'm older I won't need to fake stylishness. Yeah right.
What did Ham say? something about Mom compulsively lining up work projects. "Dude, Mom's a control freak" I say shortly.
Hamilton makes a snerk-noise. If the crown of my head wasn't lodged under his chin, I'd glare. I think about it, but I'm too comfortable to move. Instead I'll get back on-topic.
"So, I was desperate to be at the party and be with my mommy. I begged to stay up late and wear my pretty frock. I promised I wouldn't drop trays -"
"Yeah, 'cause it's SUCH a privilege to be an unpaid waiter." I've hit one of his nerves. I unfold my body and pull away to stare at him. He gives me that crooked grin.
I'll cuddle him. It's, you know, the nurturing thing to do, with him being reminded of annoying things. Oh. Yeah, he likes that. Cool. I like it too. I must be doing it right. I'm not just a needy idiot. I can support Ham too, see.
"Tell me the rest of the story" he whispers.
"No" I say. "If I obsess anymore about my cold, harsh parent, there'll be a meteor shower and I'll go bald."
"What?" Then he gets the smallville reference. "You'd make a grrreat world dominatrix." He waggles his eyebrows.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, game boy."
"You pick up on smut so fast" he says, upbeat.
"No I don't" I lie. "I see that thing with your eyebrows so I know you've said something gross." I sound prim. So the pastel girl Mom was intending me to be.
"Riiight." A pause. "How'd a party get you sent away? Did you act up?"
"Not exactly. I was going round with the canapes, all proud, and the guests were going aww how sweet."
"Yeah" says Hamilton, without enthusiasm. "Been there."
"And the guests were calling out to Mom - Hey Monica aren't you breaking the child labour laws. I thought they were being cute."
"It's not cute, it's a lame joke. You were six though." He forgives me my sixyearold not-coolness. Kindness is a distinguishing mark of my Hamilton. I may have been hooked by externals, but his heart is the really amazing thing about him. He's so direct with his own emotions, and so gentle with other peoples'.
"Hamilton, I had a puerto rican accent. I'd only ever talked to Consuela. They thought she was my mother."
He hesitates. "Consuela did a lot of the mom stuff with you." I've told him about Consuela. She taught me Spanish and gloated with me over my math grades. She mothered me. He's right. But I want my Mom too.
"That's kind of not the point. These were the people who were with Mom 24/7, and I'd never met them, and they'd never seen me, and, this is the killer, Mom had never mentioned me. She's sorry she had me."
"That's crazy" he says strongly. "She loves you. She's your Mom."
I wriggle round to turn my back to him but holding his arm across my body. Now, he can't see my face. "When they knew who I was, they were teasing her for having such an old daughter. It only seemed like yesterday she was pregnant. You know."
He makes a listening noise.
"So. She's holding me in a mother type way during this, for them to see. But she's holding me away from her not to wreck her dress. The next week I got sent to Europe."
Damn. How do I explain. I sound so petty, but I'm not talking about an incident, I'm talking about a lifetime. "She wants a certain kind of daughter, and sometimes she fools herself that's who I am. But I can't be that person. I've tried, I can't. So she doesn't love me."
Shut up, I tell myself. You must be stretching his patience here with all this whining. People don't wanna hear it. Hamilton is the only one who seems to want me to need him, to the exact same extent that I do need him.
I'm so close I can feel his breath hitch. He's concentrating so hard on saying the right thing. Sometimes I can sense him treating me with kid gloves, and inside, I'm shouting, No! I don't mean to be high maintenance.
I want to be easy, and, heh, I've been too long in the boy's commonroom not to rephrase that. Easy to be around. Not hard work. It's like I'm in a shell. Constant effort for Hamilton; I don't mean it to be this way. Why does he put up with me? I'm not loveable. I mean, I can hardly stand myself. If he knew me better, he'd never want me.
He's holding me so tight. Is this love, or pity? And for this moment in time, I feel so cherished I hardly care. Please Hamilton. Don't let go.
END
Thanks to: Shevsy, for reading it first, Patty, for helping, and Bethany, for letting me off the hook.
I project myself as strong. I know I do so successfully because I watch their reactions. I'm kind of aware (self conscious?) of how people see me. Even before Rawley, there was always some intermediary persona handling the world for me, some facade. Inside, I'd be watching people's reactions, judging them. I kept well clear of the whole human interaction deal. They could hate my mask, that was cool.
In some ways Jake is more nakedly me than any of the Jacqueline versions 1.0 through 6.0 at my last few schools. Weird.
So, yeah. Strong. They see Hamilton unable to keep his hands off me. He's grabbing my shoulders, he's nuzzling my temple, he's wrapping me in his arms. They see me let him, like I'm indulging his needs. Like I'm the self disciplined one. Cool hand Jake. If they knew how hungry I am for touch.
It's like water on parched earth. The water sinks in but the soil is still thirsty. God. How trite can I get? The thing is, I have some kind of bottomless appetite for being held, for feeling loved.
It's dependence, it's vulnerability, it's .. it's shaming on some level. When I analyse it I can only believe this is addiction. When Hamilton moves on (and come on, we're 16; he WILL move on) it's going to hurt like an amputation. One piece of my pride I keep. Aside from that insane moment on the roof, I never ask him to touch me.
No matter how hungry I am for the comfort he brings. No. I'm cool Jake. I devote time and sneakiness to manipulate him into hugs. And what does that say about me?
Here we are, Ham and me. We're in his bedroom. It'll be a couple of hours before his parentals get back from power lunching some millionaire Old Rawleians. I'm telling him some crazy story about one of the schools I went to. He's laughing loudly. It's a good moment. It offsets the crap.
"How many schools have you been to, anyway?"
"Including Rawley? About ten or twelve."
He gives me a look that says, you're messing with my head.
"Hey, I started young. My first boarding school was, uh, I was six years old."
"Who'd take you at six?" He's surprised. Oh yeah, son of the Dean. He's convinced he knows how all schools work.
He's right about one thing. I was unwanted. "English prep school."
His arm slides round my waist.
"It's kind of funny" I say. God, what am I doing? Playing this up in hopes of a cuddle? That's disgusting. I snuggle in, and I'm still talking..
"There was this party when I was six. Mom had just got back from an eighteen month tour in the UK doing rep .. uh, repertory theatre. She claimed the party was to celebrate getting back to the States, but it was more, like, networking for her next piece of work."
His hand drifts up and down, up and down my side. He has big hands, beautifully shaped. This is soothing. Do I sound whiny?
"Isn't she kind of compulsive about getting her next contract lined up?" he says.
He's met Mom a couple of times. It's weird. He got on smoother with her than I did. I was verging on jealous of him. Of both of them. It was unsettling. All he would say afterward was that I'm very like her. I wish. She's .. sophisticated. And confident. I have to fake that stuff, because when you keep fishing for reassurance it's a real turnoff for other people. I've made that mistake. Maybe when I'm older I won't need to fake stylishness. Yeah right.
What did Ham say? something about Mom compulsively lining up work projects. "Dude, Mom's a control freak" I say shortly.
Hamilton makes a snerk-noise. If the crown of my head wasn't lodged under his chin, I'd glare. I think about it, but I'm too comfortable to move. Instead I'll get back on-topic.
"So, I was desperate to be at the party and be with my mommy. I begged to stay up late and wear my pretty frock. I promised I wouldn't drop trays -"
"Yeah, 'cause it's SUCH a privilege to be an unpaid waiter." I've hit one of his nerves. I unfold my body and pull away to stare at him. He gives me that crooked grin.
I'll cuddle him. It's, you know, the nurturing thing to do, with him being reminded of annoying things. Oh. Yeah, he likes that. Cool. I like it too. I must be doing it right. I'm not just a needy idiot. I can support Ham too, see.
"Tell me the rest of the story" he whispers.
"No" I say. "If I obsess anymore about my cold, harsh parent, there'll be a meteor shower and I'll go bald."
"What?" Then he gets the smallville reference. "You'd make a grrreat world dominatrix." He waggles his eyebrows.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, game boy."
"You pick up on smut so fast" he says, upbeat.
"No I don't" I lie. "I see that thing with your eyebrows so I know you've said something gross." I sound prim. So the pastel girl Mom was intending me to be.
"Riiight." A pause. "How'd a party get you sent away? Did you act up?"
"Not exactly. I was going round with the canapes, all proud, and the guests were going aww how sweet."
"Yeah" says Hamilton, without enthusiasm. "Been there."
"And the guests were calling out to Mom - Hey Monica aren't you breaking the child labour laws. I thought they were being cute."
"It's not cute, it's a lame joke. You were six though." He forgives me my sixyearold not-coolness. Kindness is a distinguishing mark of my Hamilton. I may have been hooked by externals, but his heart is the really amazing thing about him. He's so direct with his own emotions, and so gentle with other peoples'.
"Hamilton, I had a puerto rican accent. I'd only ever talked to Consuela. They thought she was my mother."
He hesitates. "Consuela did a lot of the mom stuff with you." I've told him about Consuela. She taught me Spanish and gloated with me over my math grades. She mothered me. He's right. But I want my Mom too.
"That's kind of not the point. These were the people who were with Mom 24/7, and I'd never met them, and they'd never seen me, and, this is the killer, Mom had never mentioned me. She's sorry she had me."
"That's crazy" he says strongly. "She loves you. She's your Mom."
I wriggle round to turn my back to him but holding his arm across my body. Now, he can't see my face. "When they knew who I was, they were teasing her for having such an old daughter. It only seemed like yesterday she was pregnant. You know."
He makes a listening noise.
"So. She's holding me in a mother type way during this, for them to see. But she's holding me away from her not to wreck her dress. The next week I got sent to Europe."
Damn. How do I explain. I sound so petty, but I'm not talking about an incident, I'm talking about a lifetime. "She wants a certain kind of daughter, and sometimes she fools herself that's who I am. But I can't be that person. I've tried, I can't. So she doesn't love me."
Shut up, I tell myself. You must be stretching his patience here with all this whining. People don't wanna hear it. Hamilton is the only one who seems to want me to need him, to the exact same extent that I do need him.
I'm so close I can feel his breath hitch. He's concentrating so hard on saying the right thing. Sometimes I can sense him treating me with kid gloves, and inside, I'm shouting, No! I don't mean to be high maintenance.
I want to be easy, and, heh, I've been too long in the boy's commonroom not to rephrase that. Easy to be around. Not hard work. It's like I'm in a shell. Constant effort for Hamilton; I don't mean it to be this way. Why does he put up with me? I'm not loveable. I mean, I can hardly stand myself. If he knew me better, he'd never want me.
He's holding me so tight. Is this love, or pity? And for this moment in time, I feel so cherished I hardly care. Please Hamilton. Don't let go.
END