Loneliness

This one was written to be the romantic counterpart of ( http:/desdemonakakalose .deviantart. com/art/Never-Made-Sense-Anyway-186552697 ) because something happened in November that didn't get mentioned in "Interlude", but it was definitely not supposed to be that sexual. Where is my mind these days?

"Love is for losers," Jimmy said.

Edgar nodded indulgently and handed him a cup of tea.

It was November and they were sitting in Edgar's classroom, watching the sun setting through the window after three hours of hanging out—man he was such an awesome influence—and basically doing nothing constructive in the slightest. Theoretically, at least, he could have been doing his homework.

He also could have been swimming the English Channel, you know, theoretically.

"Don't you nod at me, Mr. Vargas. I'm straight serious. Only idiots fall in love."

Edgar sighed and poured a shot of tequila into his tea. It looked kind of foul, but then, Jimmy wasn't exactly a connoisseur of alcoholic beverages. If it got him drunk, that was good enough. He suspected that in that regard, they weren't actually so very different.

Edgar was such a friggin' alcoholic. He loved it.

"You won't say that when it happens to you," Edgar said, stirring the unusual concoction.

"Oh yeah? You ever been in love?"

Edgar sighed again and propped his chin on one fist. The late afternoon sunlight reflected in his glasses, yellow lenses over soft brown eyes.

"I thought I was, once," the older man murmured, "but I was wrong."

"Who?" Jimmy asked, settling back into his chair. By this point in conversation, they tended to have wound down into something almost unbearably intimate, and Jimmy didn't want to move too quickly—Edgar would tell you a lot of things, but he never really explained himself. Never told you the whole story. Never offered more than the surface of the ocean, leaving any depths below obscured by the glare of sunlight on water.

You think you're seeing the whole story, but it's only an illusion.

In that regard, also, the two of them were a lot alike.

Edgar glanced back at him for a split second, and then his gaze returned to the horizon. "A girl. I've forgotten her name now. I'm terrible with names."

"…That's kind of pathetic, dude."

Edgar shrugged. "It was ten years ago. A lot happens in ten years."

Jimmy counted off in his head. Your mother dies, your father dies, you graduate from college, you get a job… Did that count as a lot? Somehow, he didn't think it was so much the big landmarks that Edgar meant.

"What was she like?" Jimmy asked, because Edgar was like this too-holy-for-his-own-good sort of saint sometimes, and picturing him in love was sort of like picturing Jesus in a porno. It didn't quite mesh.

(That'd change in the next few months, but he didn't know it then.)

"She was attractive, I suppose," Edgar answered, sipping idly on his tequila and tea. "I met her at the place I used to work, back in high school. Her mother was a… customer."

Jimmy raised a brow. "Edgar, man, y' didn't work at a brothel or anything, did you?"

Normally that would have snapped his councilor into a fit of embarrassed shouting, possibly derailed the conversation and ruined the moment forever—he regretted the question as soon as it came out of his mouth—but today Edgar only shook his head.

"Not likely."

The younger man reached tentatively for the bottle of tequila, expecting something to prevent him from grabbing it. He was surprised to find that Edgar hardly even glanced his way.

"So," he said, pouring a shot into his own tea—because, well, he had it now and he ought to use it. "You dated whatshername?"

"No," the older man replied. "I saw her sitting in the waiting room with a volume of E.E Cummings' poetry. I tried to ask her out, but I couldn't. We used to go places together, hang out in the parking lot after I got off work. She told me she loved me, once."

"That's sad, man."

Edgar nodded vaguely. "I always wanted to ask her out. I really did think I was in love, you know. But every time I tried to, I would think about spending the rest of my life with her and I'd get scared. I just wanted her to want me so badly, I wanted somebody to want me. I wanted her to love me.

"I loved being loved."

Jimmy looked down at his cup, not feeling so enthusiastic about cheap rule-breaking anymore.

"Everybody wants to be loved," the kid almost said, almost managed to choke out. Everybody wants to think they have some value, that somebody cares about them, that someone would miss them if they were gone.

But he didn't say it.

"The worst thing," Edgar said, at last, "is knowing what it's like to be loved… and then being alone."

The sun sunk behind the jagged line of the city.

Three days later, it was Friday and Jimmy was driving himself crazy.

He was eating breakfast, and it was like Edgar was across from him again, saying "I wanted somebody to love me."

He was zoning out in math class, and all he could think about was Edgar sitting alone in church, whatever church he went to, praying to himself while all the other families crowded in around him with kids and grandparents and boyfriends. All alone.

And he couldn't stop replaying the scene in his head, wishing that he'd said something. Fuck, he should have said something.

"I know what you mean"

"I'm sorry"

"I'm alone too"

But he was shit with feelings and making people understand and nothing sounded right, nothing sounded right because he didn't know what to say except that he needed to say it. If only he could have explained.

He got it. He really got it.

He spent the last four years of his life thinking the same things, bashing his head against the same walls, trying to break through to some kind of answer, something to make it all make sense. He understood. The worst part was being alone.

He thought he was alone.

Maybe he wasn't.

And he should have said something, he should have said, "Edgar, man, I know exactly what you mean and I feel that way all the time," and then it would have been okay, and maybe he would have slapped his heart down on the cutting board but at least he wouldn't have been alone—even for five minutes, someone would have understood him.

But it's so hard to bust down your own walls.

And shit, what could he have said, really? It all sounded cliché, even to him, and he couldn't imagine pushing the words out of his own mouth, hearing them out loud like they were real and they had power. He'd sound like an idiot. 'Course, Edgar wouldn't laugh at him—they'd known each other for a couple months at most, then, but he would have trusted the man with his life, if it came down to it. But even so, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

And it was driving him crazy.

Every time Carmela had told him he was worthless, he started to believe it more and more. Nobody loves you, kid. And he'd fought back because he saw what was happening and he wasn't going to break, but sometimes he wonders, when he's the last guy standing outside the bar or he wakes up alone in the morning, sometimes he wonders why nobody gives a shit about him. If somebody ever will.

And now he thought he understood Edgar for the first time, like a cloud had passed over the sun and he could see down into the dark caverns of the ocean for just a second.

It was driving him crazy.

It was Friday afternoon, and Jimmy had Edgar's keys held hostage.

"Just this once, man," the kid was saying, standing on the exact other side of the classroom. "You won't regret it!"

"For the love of God, Jimmy, I'm not going to sleep with you!"

His student tossed the keys from one hand to the other. "Hey, I just said we should go out. You're the one who went an' made it all sexual. Shame on you."

Edgar pinched the bridge of his nose. "What am I supposed to think? I know you pretty well by now, you know."

"Well, maybe you don't. Now, are we goin' out or what?"

The teacher eyed the stolen keys. "You're really not going to give those back, are you?"

The younger man grinned. "Nah, I really don't think so."

And that was how Jimmy convinced his councilor to pull into the school dorms four hours later, swearing out clouds of warm breath into the late fall air. Jimmy stood at his window for a moment after the horn blasted down the street, watching steam disappear into the evening as Edgar let loose muted curses.

Edgar wouldn't have agreed to this if he hadn't really wanted to.

So Jimmy wasted a few moments just watching, grinning down through the blinds. He liked the way his councilor's cream and coffee colored skin turned pink from cold and annoyance. He was pretty sure he'd never seen that happen before.

And then he was strolling down the stairs, the myriad of chains around his waist clinking dully.

"Aw, darlin', you're on time."

Edgar swore at him and opened the passenger door.

The car was a blue Volvo, and Jimmy sort of thought it was fittingly non-descript. He liked Edgar's car. It was so… boring. Or at least it looked like that. Inside, you could find half a dozen essays, psychology text books, and leases of bail at a time.

Fun fact. Edgar was the guy you called when you were stuck in jail at two in the morning and you couldn't bring yourself to call your parents. It was something that everyone in the academy knew.

Jimmy was still waiting for his turn.

"So, where we goin'?" the kid asked, settling into the worn leather.

"Don't look at me, this was your idea."

"Huh. Well, we could always abandon this plan an' head up to my room…"

Edgar gave him the world's least impressed look. "If you try to tell me that wasn't a sexual solicitation, I'll throw you out of the car here and now."

"Okay, okay, jeeze. Uh, y'know what? Let's… let's go out to dinner."

The older man's brows flew up. "What, no clubs? No bars? No brothels?"

"Whadda I look like, a prostitute? I happen to enjoy other activities than banging my teachers. Eatin' is one of 'em."

The engine fired up. Edgar gave him a fleeting bemused look and then reached for the radio.

"I hope you like Journey."

Twenty minutes later, the Volvo was parked outside of an Italian restaurant with an embarrassingly kitschy Mom and Pop name. There was a dry cement fountain in the grass outside of it, and Jimmy was trying to decide whether he was appalled or amused.

There were Italian flags hanging off the walls.

"Don't you dare laugh," Edgar warned him, stepping out of the car. "My father was good friends with the family who owns this place, and if you embarrass me I may have to kill you."

"You're a hard man t' please," Jimmy muttered, slinking out his door. "Not worried you'll look like a faggot in fronta daddy's friends, draggin' me in there with you?"

Edgar actually laughed. "Oh, these people know me," he said, with the astounding confidence of a man who has never looked in the mirror. "It's fine."

Almost the second they stepped through the front door, a huge man was flying towards Edgar and wrapping him in the most iron-locked bear hug Jimmy had ever seen. Ever. His spine winced in sympathy.

"Edgar Vargas!" the massive man cried, grinning like a crazy person. "Hell, it's great to see you! How've you been?"

Edgar wheezed a little bit before the stranger took the hint and let go. Apologetic grin. Jimmy hung back, a little uncomfortable and a little entertained.

"Um," Edgar coughed, rubbing his neck, "I'm great. Jimmy, this is Gian Vargas, he was my dad's friend in high school. Gian, this is Jimmy Eurige, my—my friend."

Gian spared a second to eye Jimmy's chains and eyeliner. "Hey, you must be one of those goth type people," the huge man announced, looking pleased with himself. "Never met one of those before! It's a pleasure to meet one of Edgar's friends, real great. Let me get you a table!"

Jimmy watched him dash off, distinctly confused. He had definitely seen anybody that big move that fast before, and he was… not quite sure what just happened. Not at all.

"You guys have the same last name," he observed, running a hand through his spiked hair.

Edgar smiled and palmed a peppermint off the host's podium. "That was how they met, him and my father. They always ended up sitting next to each other. Back then, Gian didn't speak English very well—as it turns out, Spanish is just enough like Italian that they were able to carry on decent conversations. Some kind of pidgin English-Spanish-Italian."

The smile faltered for a second.

"Gian gave a speech at my father's funeral."

And then the mountain of a man was practically dragging them off to the curtained off alcove of the room, where a table sat lit by a dim little candle. Jimmy raised a brow at Edgar, wondering how the heck this didn't qualify as a textbook romantic dinner. The older man pretended he didn't see the question.

Gian slapped Edgar on the shoulder and told them that he'd send a waiter over with some wine, grinned and pulled the curtains closed behind him.

The world narrowed down to two chairs and a table top.

In the new space, everything was shades of yellow and black and the sounds from beyond the cloth wall were culled down to a cocoon of indistinct voices. Across the table, the older man settled into his chair with a soft sigh.

"Uh… wine?" Jimmy inquired, hopefully.

"Yes," Edgar sighed, "you get some. It's a European thing. Drinking age in Italy is sixteen. He wouldn't do it for just any customer, but Gian knows me, obviously, so nobody's going to ask how old you are."

"Aw, Edgar, that's the sweetest thing a man's ever said to me!"

The teacher shook his head. Music was playing somewhere in the back ground, and he cocked his head for a moment, listening, and then smiled.

"A bottle of red," Edgar half sang, "a bottle of white… whatever kind of mood you're in tonight…"

Jimmy rolled his eyes.

In the timely way of restaurants where they know you, soon enough the table was stocked up in wine and bread and promises to bring dinner right out, sir. And Edgar was smiling, and that made Jimmy smile, weirdly enough, and he realized that in that moment that he was happy—happy, for no reason except he just was.

Edgar sipped his wine, waving newly sooty fingers over the little yellow candle.

"So, why did you want to do this, anyways?"

Jimmy knocked back his own glass, just to piss Edgar off. Apparently, you were supposed to savor it, or whatever.

"Maybe I was hopin' you put out on the first date?"

The older man's hands twitched for something to throw, but it looked like public places quelled that particular instinct. Jimmy let an insufferable grin slide across his face.

"It wouldn't kill you to give me a straight answer, you know," his councilor sighed, at last, releasing his hold on the sterling silver spoon.

Oh, but it would. The difference between the two of them was that Jimmy knew what he wanted, and he didn't care much what he looked like trying to get it. He had a feeling Edgar liked him.

Edgar did not know about this.

And you can't just tell somebody woops, hate to break it to you but you totally dig me, because that almost never goes over well and this was not something he wanted to screw up. For once. He suspected that if he tried to push this thing, whatever it was that they had, it would break into pieces in his hands.

He probably wouldn't have been able to explain it if he tried, anyways. Words weren't his strong point.

By the end of dinner, the two of them were decidedly tipsy and Jimmy's tongue was feeling a little looser. He looked over at Edgar, his councilor—teacher—fantasy—friend, and gave him a crooked smile.

What the hell.

"You remember…" he started, reaching for the wine bottle, "You remember what you said couple days ago, 'bout bein' alone?"

Edgar frowned at him. "Yes, I… ah… 'm sorry about that. It wasn't very professional of me."

Jimmy made a clumsy dismissing motion. "Nah. The funny thing's… like, I know what you mean. 'Bout bein' alone an' stuff. 'M alone too. Why'da think they sent me out t' the goddamn Academy? It's not 'cause they want me to have a… education or nothin'."

The candle flickered. Edgar nodded, slowly, and set down his glass.

"Wanted to go out tonight," Jimmy went on, "'cause you don't got anybody an' I don't got anybody, an'… well, I always thought I was the only one."

After a moment of contemplation, Edgar smiled vaguely and tapped the green glass between them. "We're sharing a drink called loneliness," he quoted, "but it's better than drinking alone."

"Somethin' like that."

The older man looked down into his drink, brows furrowed. "For what it's worth," he sighed, "I… you know, I'm glad you're assigned to me."

The next day, he wouldn't remember exactly how they left the restaurant—he did remember, though, sitting in the car as they raced through yellow lights, making fun of Edgar driving under the influence, offering to settle for a go in the back seat if Edgar had changed his mind…

He remembered the feeling of driving in the darkness with the windows down, freezing and laughing like an idiot. Unlike his friends, Edgar wouldn't leave him in a gutter somewhere or wander off with a low class stripper. It was just the two of them, being stupid, forgetting for an hour the lines between teachers and students and councilors and patients, and the lines between twenty-seven and eighteen.

They just were.

And suddenly it wasn't about getting laid or proving Carmela wrong, if it had ever really been about that at all. Maybe at first, it had been about distracting the hot psychologist, maybe it had been about showing his stepmother—wherever the hell she was—that she didn't control him, that he could deal with people without remembering her spider thin hands, and goddamnit, he wasn't worthless—

Maybe it was like that in the beginning.

But that was suddenly a long time ago.

Tonight, he was in a different world than that: orange streetlights and autumn parking lots, and a tipsy older man who thought that Jimmy was a good person, deep down, who worried about him when he did stupid-ass shit.

The Volvo parked outside of his dorm, and Edgar leaned back against his seat, smiling. Jimmy didn't have a roommate, but his neighbors would be demanding to know who had dropped him off tomorrow, and suddenly he really wished he wouldn't have to lie about it. This shouldn't be something you have to lie about.

Something had shifted. Maybe that was the night it started, maybe that was just the first time it rose up close to the surface.

He turned to Edgar.

What he wanted to say was something he didn't have words for. It was a something where there had only been a lack before. It was a future glimpsed in full screen. His chest and his head ached with something that wasn't physical in the slightest, and he never wanted to leave. There was a phrase, out there somewhere in the English language, to describe what he was feeling. He knew there had to be.

He was pretty sure it wasn't "can I suck your dick."

But, for lack of alternatives, he said it anyways.