I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good

The headline in the arts section of the morning paper makes Jesse choke on his hot coffee, burning a searing path down his tender throat as the newsprint seems to warp in the corners of his vision, black and gray blocks shimmering with vibrato, pulsing out at him from the usually innocuous Sunday paper—

Has Jesse Helvig lost his groove?

Here is what he knows: It's 1968, his name is Jesse Helvig, he lives in New York City, he is a jazz pianist with the Pepper Haven Quintet, and a scathing review in the

New York Times

of their show last Friday night has cut him straight through to the marrow.

Jesse Helvig sat perched at his upright with hawk-like precision, notably foregoing his loose and easy manner that so often makes a gathered crowd of jazz enthusiasts enamored with him. At Half Note, usually Mr. Helvig's bread and butter, he glared down through the stage lights with a frosty gaze that left a rime of ice over those unfortunate enough to be his audience.

So he has

one

bad performance and—Jesse checks the byline—

Harvey Harris

of the arts and culture section decides he ruined jazz for the rest of New York City. In Jesse's defense, he'd had a hell of a day—bills due that he doesn't have the money for, compositions due that he hasn't started on, a leak in his upstairs neighbor's bathtub that he hasn't addressed—so

excuse you Harvey Harris

if a last-minute showcase didn't go quite as usual.

Even while plunking through the Pepper Haven classics, Mr. Helvig's sour attitude did not discourage the familiarly cheerful demeanor of his band leader.

Oh, so Pepper gets out unscathed, as always. Jesse half expects to find a scribbled heart in the margins of the article that reads

Harvey Harris Loves Pepper Haven

.

He can't even finish the article, throwing down the paper and running his hands through his shoulder-length blond hair. He needs a haircut, and he needs to shave, rubbing his palm over the scruff that has grown in the past week. Before he can get up to head to the bathroom, though, his phone rings, loud in the relative quiet of his apartment.

"Yeah?" he says when he answers, tugging at the coiled cord anxiously.

"What's wrong with you?" Pepper Haven says over the line, her high-pitched voice more shrill than usual for the hour.

"I guess you read the paper," Jesse replies.

"Damn right I read the paper," Pepper says, and Jesse can almost hear the way she's standing—hands on hips, feet planted, phone held between ear and shoulder. Defiant. Angry. "What the

fuck

is wrong with you?" she says again.

"I'm just—" Jesse starts. He can't find the words. "I don't know."

"I can't have you goofing off like this and getting us sunk in the papers," Pepper says, but then her voice suddenly goes softer. "I need to know what's going on so I can help."

"There's nothing going on," Jesse replies. "I'm just—stressed, I guess. And kinda lonely."

"We're going out," Pepper says, matter-of-fucking-fact, and Jesse startles.

"What do you mean? Is there a gig?"

"We're hitting Half Note—don't give me that!" Pepper says when Jesse groans. "There's no gig, we're just going. Amos will be there, he says he's got something new, so we're going to listen, drink too much, and then we'll play a little something to impress a hot piece of ass to fuck the loneliness out of you. You got that?"

"You know I hate when you get raunchy like that," Jesse sighs.

"Deal with it," Pepper replies, but there's love in her voice. "Half Note, 8 o'clock. Ciao, sweetheart." And then she hangs up, and Jesse is left with whiplash, as he usually is when he talks to Pepper. His thoughts swirl, and he feels a little sick, so he lies down on the couch where he promptly falls asleep again.

—

The night is Autumn-chilly as Jesse steps out of Half Note's front door to have a cigarette. Outside is peaceful compared to the cacophony inside—Amos Murray was wailing on his sax last he heard, trying out that something new. The crowd was clamoring for him in a Bacchanalian haze, and Jesse had to nearly fight his way through to the front of the club. Now that he's out he takes a deep breath, crisp air filling his lungs. The whine of sirens from a couple streets over grounds him in the present, familiar sounds of New York City filling his head and clearing the cottony fog that had gathered there.

He has a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, patting down his pockets for a match, when he hears a sweet voice behind him say, "Need a light?"

Jesse freezes, a squiggly shimmer of surprise in his gut because he thought he was alone out here. However, that voice does something else to his gut, too—sultry, yet innocent, with the curl of a flirt on the question. He turns, and there's a figure leaning against the brick wall bathed in the muted glow from the marquee. He's small, much shorter than Jesse, and probably skinny under his bulky coat. It looks like a hand-me-down, most likely from an older brother. A head of floppy black hair and equally dark eyes that glitter under the soft lights. There's a quirk of a smile on his mouth, a lit cigarette dangling by his side, and his hips are canted away from the wall and straight in Jesse's direction. His other hand holds a lighter out in the air between them.

Jesse has to swallow hard against the sudden lump in his throat. Never in his 38 years of life has he seen a boy so beautiful and so obviously trying to seduce him. And, against his better judgment, it's working—the realization hits him like a runaway freight train.

"Um, thanks," Jesse stammers like an idiot. He forgot his coat, so he rolls the sleeves of his shirt down over his strong forearms. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the boy looking. Just to show off, he flexes his fingers, knowing exactly what he looks like—he doesn't have a typical piano player's hands; his are strong with wide palms and blunt fingers. He'd have been great at baseball, his mother always said, but his grandfather was a vaudeville pianist and he got the gene.

He still has his cigarette hanging off his lip, but instead of taking the lighter from this strange, intriguing boy, he leans forward and offers the cigarette for him to light himself. The boy plucks it from Jesse's lips and puts it to his own, and Jesse is left gaping like a large-mouth bass as he lights it, delicate hands cupped tightly around the flame. The spark lights up his impish face and reflects in his dark eyes like two burning coals. He places the lit cigarette back on Jesse's bottom lip and he finally closes his mouth, taking a drag hands-free and exhaling through his nose.

"Impressive," the boy says, a tiny smirk on his mouth that Jesse can't stop looking at.

"Thanks," he replies. "I'm Jesse," holding out his hand. The boy takes it, and even his handshake has the barest hint of a flirt.

"Andy," he says, and the combination of their hands touching, engulfed in the catcher's mitt of Jesse's palm, and the sound of his name in the cold air between them makes Jesse feel pleasantly weird in his belly. "I saw you play," Andy continues. "You're pretty good."

"

Pretty good

?" Jesse replies, mock-incredulous. Andy could say he sucked and he'd agree just to spend more time outside with him.

"Are you fishing for compliments?" he asks, smiling, and Jesse feels himself smiling back.

"No," he says. "I just think you're underselling me a bit."

Andy rolls his eyes, but the smile remains. "Don't worry," he says, "I'm sure all the girls are still just as crazy about you."

Shrugging, feeling half out of his mind, Jesse takes a risk and tells him, "That's alright, I don't really care too much about that anyway," ducking his head to make sure he sees his eyes, how honest he's making them. How much he's trying to tell him with that one sentence. Andy's dark eyes meet Jesse's bright green gaze, peering up through his girlish lashes with a coy sweetness that sends Jesse's head reeling.

"You don't say," Andy murmurs softly, playing at nonchalance, but Jesse can see how his fist has tightened at his side like he wants to grab something and there are spots of splotchy pink high on his cheeks. Jesse shoots him a sly smile before taking a sensual drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke to the barely visible stars.

"Bet you've got a pretty girl somewhere hanging off your every word," Jesse says, deciding to tease, daring to meet Andy's eyes out of the corners of his own. He sees Andy swallow hard and shift against the brick wall, smoking in a brief moody silence.

"Not exactly," he finally says, voice low.

"A pretty boy, then," Jesse adds, and Andy looks at him with such a dark, sudden intent that he almost has to take a step back, shocked out of his teasing mood. His head spins with it, and he finds himself saying out loud, "No, you

are

the pretty boy, aren't you?"

Andy's tongue peeks out to wet his lips, a quick flash of pink in the muted marquee lights leaving behind a glistening wetness on his mouth, and Jesse thinks he's going insane.

"Do you like that?" Andy asks, so quiet Jesse has to lean into his space to hear him, which puts him close to his mouth, his endlessly dark eyes, the strong slope of his Roman nose. "Do you like that I'm pretty?"

Jesse can't stop himself—he's overcome by the need to touch, so he threads his fingers through Andy's floppy hair, cupping the back of his head and watching his eyelids flutter. Andy's head tilts closer, mouth parting like he wants to be kissed, and Jesse notes with glee that he would have to bend down to do it—he's always liked his boys smaller than him. It's hard to find, but when he gets it, he's a downright animal. Andy is the perfect size to tuck under his arm as they walk down the street together, to hoist up on the kitchen counter and kiss breathless, to cover with his body in bed, sweaty and youthful and blissful.

He closes his eyes against the onslaught of images, but they don't stop—he imagines how Andy's black eyes would look in a shaft of sunlight; how his hair would tousle boyishly after a long nap, pillow creases on his cheek and t-shirt riding up as he stretched; the sight of him wearing Jesse's clothes, boxers folded over, shirt unbuttoned over his bare chest and a little too wide across the shoulders; his face twisted and frowning in overwhelming ecstasy as Jesse leaned over him and pressed kisses to his neck, his cheeks, his mouth—

Jesse feels a tap of a finger against his forehead and opens his eyes slowly, feeling shy and embarrassed and turned on. His hand is still at the back of Andy's head, fingers tangled in his hair, and Andy is just smiling at him like he did something particularly sweet.

"I see you," he says, voice hushed like there's a spell he doesn't want to break. "I know what you're thinking about."

"And what's that?" Jesse replies in the same quiet voice, resisting the urge to press their foreheads together. Andy leans up and barely brushes their mouths together instead, lips dry from the Autumn cold and dragging against each other.

"You want me," he murmurs against Jesse's mouth. Jesse audibly groans, giving in and leaning his forehead against Andy's. They've probably been out here together for ten minutes, maximum, and Jesse is already thinking of waking up next to him in the morning, rolling over and kissing him until he giggles.

"Come home with me," Jesse mutters, his head spinning with the smell of cigarette smoke and spearmint and something dark and heady. Animalistic, denlike. He wants to take this boy to his bed and fuck him until he screams and cries and falls in love. Something deep down in Jesse's chest, something he's long decided to stop picking at, something cold and hollow—that something suddenly blooms with warmth at the sight of Andy closing his eyes and sighing against Jesse's mouth. His heart beats wildly against his sternum, sent into a frenzy at how

different

this feels, how right it is to hold Andy by his hair and breathe the same breaths.

Andy says simply, "Okay," but his mouth is turned up in the most brilliant smile Jesse has ever seen. He's radiant, but in the way starlight winks and glows against the black velvet sky. His light is cold and ancient, unknowable, and Jesse finds that he wants to touch his fingertips to that light to see if they come away glistening.

Jesse's cigarette has burned down to his fingers so he crushes it against the wall and tosses it in the alley. Andy takes a final drag before dropping his own to stomp it out under his boot. Finally, Jesse drags his hand out of Andy's hair, trailing it over his cheek and thumbing his bottom lip. Andy lets his tongue peek out to lick the tip of Jesse's thumb, and Jesse's knees almost give out.

"Jesus," he mutters, and Andy chuckles.

"Are we going or not?" he says, catty and coy, eyes intense with a simmering lust that Jesse can feel in his gut. He pats the pockets of his jeans until he finds his house keys, spares a quick thought to grabbing his jacket from inside, then decides

fuck the jacket

and grabs Andy's chilly little hand.

"We're going," he says, resolute, and Andy's clear ringing laughter echoes down the street.

—

Andy's lithe body is a stark line of heat against Jesse's frigid back as he buzzes into his apartment building, little hands pressing against his stomach, fiddling with his shirt buttons. They laugh down the hall, up the stairs to the third floor, Jesse grabbing Andy's hand and dragging him in front, crowding him against his front door as he almost fumbles the keys. Andy leans his back against the door and runs his hands through Jesse's hair, standing on tip-toe to press his lips to his neck.

Jesse has the presence of mind to wrap an arm around Andy's waist as he finally opens the door, almost picking him up as he ushers them inside. The heat between them changes once the door is closed and Andy is firmly pressed against it again. He has his arms draped over Jesse's wide shoulders, deft fingers playing with the ends of his hair, and Jesse realizes he hasn't kissed him yet. That won't do at all.

Kissing Andy with intent is like staring into the sun—burning hot, too close, almost too much. Jesse nuzzles their noses together and Andy melts in his arms, pressing impossibly closer, chasing his own sunbeams. Jesse flies too close to the sun and doesn't care when he nose-dives back down to earth, because Andy is doing the same. They're both in freefall, letting the wind whistle past their ears, closing their eyes and embracing the ground hurtling closer and closer.

Except the impact never comes. Jesse and Andy kiss and keep kissing, pressed tight against the front door, and for the first time, Jesse feels like he's floating instead of falling.

"Baby," he murmurs against Andy's cheek once they part, lips shiny with spit, and Andy groans into his ear, digging his fingers into Jesse's shoulders. He doesn't know what makes him say it, but the pet name falls easily from his mouth, like it was meant to be muttered in the close holy space between their bodies. He tries another one, "Sweetheart," and Andy trembles in his hold. Another, "Beautiful," and Andy grabs his face and smashes their lips together again, letting out a tiny whine into Jesse's mouth. Jesse wants to hear that sound all night. He wants to hear every little sound Andy is willing to give him.

He hoists Andy up into his arms suddenly, forcing him to wrap his skinny legs around Jesse's waist and cling to his neck, letting out a surprised squeak. Jesse chuckles low against his ear, but it turns into a groan when Andy squeezes his legs tight around him.

"I've got you, baby," Jesse murmurs. "Tell me what you want from me, sweetheart, tell me everything." Andy buries his hot face in Jesse's neck, suddenly shy, and Jesse encourages him as he starts to walk them to the bedroom, cooing against his ear, "You're so perfect for me, baby, you can tell me anything, I want to hear you say it, honey," laying it on thick with pet names and affirmations that make Andy shiver in his hold.

"I want—" he starts and stops, but then seems to gather his courage and looks Jesse in the eye when he says, "I've never done this before."

This statement, uttered in the sweetest little voice, stokes the already simmering fire in Jesse's gut until he's raging with a lust he doesn't think he's ever felt before. He presses in close and nudges their noses together, barely brushes his lips against Andy's.

"Oh, my sweet boy," Jesse whispers, heart clenching for him. That flirty bravado he had back at the club is gone, and in its place is a scared little boy. But Jesse doesn't mind, already knows he's going to keep him, thinks he knew before they even got to this point. The moment he threaded his fingers through Andy's hair outside of Half Note and his eyes rolled back in his head, he was Jesse's.

Andy's face is flushed pink with embarrassment and he hides in Jesse's shoulder again. Jesse can practically hear him thinking too hard.

"It's okay, I'm gonna take care of you," Jesse says, feeling high on anticipation and promise. "Gonna make you feel so good, baby, gonna teach you everything, show you how it's done. You'll be begging so pretty for me by the end of the night, and I'll give you everything you want. I want to give you the world, sweetheart."

Andy whines into Jesse's shoulder, and Jesse hoists him up higher to keep him from slipping. "That's it," Jesse says, unable to stop the flow of encouragement, not wanting to stop. "Let me hear all your pretty sounds. I'm gonna ask you a question and I want you to be honest with me, baby."

Andy nods where he's tucked his face away, and Jesse asks, "You want to sit on the couch with me or go straight to bed?"

Andy freezes like it's the hardest question he's ever been asked and he can't even begin to make up his mind. Jesse stands in the hall between his bedroom and the living room and waits patiently, swaying gently with Andy in his arms. He's overcome suddenly by how much he's enjoying this—just standing there holding him. Images come to his mind unbidden once again. Visions of dancing in the kitchen to that Beatles record that just came out that Jesse has been listening to non-stop; wrapping his arms around Andy from behind as he stirs something over the stove, making dinner together; reading the paper at the sunny kitchen table under the window, Jesse flipping through the arts and culture section and Andy doing the crossword perfectly in pen; waking up in Jesse's bed, tangled in body-warm sheets, spooned up like nesting bowls; Andy's tired, dark eyes the first thing Jesse sees in the morning and the last thing before he falls asleep.

Recently, under conventional circumstances, these things would scare him all the way down to his marrow, settling like bad lunch meat in his stomach that he definitely shouldn't have eaten. With anyone else, if he thought about waking up together and doing silly little domestic things like the

god damned crossword

, he'd run as far away as he could get. Not here, though, not now. Something is different, but Jesse can't pinpoint exactly what. It nags at the back of his mind, but not unpleasantly. Just there, like a hand scratching at his scalp, simply reminding him of its presence. He doesn't even know this kid's last name, isn't exactly sure how old he is or where he came from, but Jesse

wants

with such an ancient urge that he's unwilling to put Andy down even for a second. Unwilling to be parted from him for even a moment.

"Bed," Andy says, mouse-quiet into Jesse's neck, and Jesse has to ask him to say it again because he's not sure he heard him right the first time. "

Bed

," Andy repeats, peeking up from under his lashes to look at Jesse with such an open honesty in his eyes that Jesse almost crumbles.

Almost

.