"Tissues?"
"Please," I hiccup, and Jaime reaches forwards and passes me the box of tissues from the coffee table. I rapdily take a handful and so does he, and then I readjust the headphone slightly, as it's popped slightly out of my ear. I sniffle, rub my eyes and nose harshly with the tissues, and then reimmerse myself in the soundtrack, taking Jaime's left hand in my right for comfort.
We're sitting on the floor of my living room on a Saturday morning at the end of November, the week before Mike finishes school for Christmas, and Jaime is having me listen to the Dear Evan Hansen soundtrack for the first time - although I read the synopsis first to understand the plot, I didn't expect the music to floor me like it did.
But I started crying at the second song, a song called Waving Through a Window, and Jaime told me it was the one he related to most. I listened and started to weep a little, moved rather than emotionally broken; but by the time we got to the midway finale (You Will Be Found) we were both a mess. And now we're listening to a song coming to the end of the second act called Words Fail, and something about the combination of Ben Platt's voice and the lyrics and the chord sequencing of the song is blowing my heart to oblivion.
"If you're crying at this, just wait for So Big/So Small," Jaime manages through his own tears, and I close my eyes and scoff.
"Oh, God."
"Oh God," Mike says as he wanders through from down the hallway, dirty laundry in his arms, taking it all to the washing machine. "You guys look like you're listening to all of the last puppies get murdered."
"Kind of feels like it, not gonna lie," I croak, and he laughs to himself before leaving us to it. Since the day of the mystery incident with Phil Green the Drama Queen, he hasn't mentioned it again once. He talked to Alex, and Alex told me they worked some things out, and they didn't work out other things but talked about them anyway, and that eased my nerves a little but not completely. Now every chance I get, I drive him to school, no longer caring so much about saving on fuel money. My brother is a lot of things but one of the things he is not is alone, and whatever is happening, whatever he's sweeping under the carpet, I'm going to make sure he knows that.
Jaime pulls a cushion down from the sofa behind us and hugs it to his chest as the track changes - this is So Big/So Small.
Sure enough, it has us both bawling like babies, and I'm sure I didn't know what I was talking about when I thought the other songs were emotional. This is the worst one and halfway through I whine and roll over, hugging Jaime like a teddy bear, getting his top wet with my tears. He laughs, crying himself, and wraps an arm around me.
"Why are you making me listen to this?!" I sob. "This is the best thing I've ever heard ever. Ever."
"Good grief," a voice rumbles in the background, and we both look up to see Dad standing with his newspaper in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Baffled, one eyebrow quirks. "What's going on here?"
"We're listening to Dear Evan Hansen," I explain, snuffling as I do so, and he blinks.
"What is a Dear Evan Hansen?"
"It's a musical. Which I now desperately have to see live on Broadway or my life is never going to be complete, so..."
"Well, son," he chuckles, sitting down with his cup of tea, "I will let you know when we win the lottery, and I'll take you to New York on the first plane we can get."
"Or," I counter, still huddled into Jaime like a penguin, "you could just buy a private jet and fly us out."
"Ah. Yes, very good point. Although I doubt we'd get very far, I'd likely crash before long."
"Well, we could buy a pilot."
"Another excellent point. Where would I be without you, Vic?"
"Probably dead in a jet crash, by the sound of things."
I quiet down to listen to the rest of the song, and by the time it gets to the part that goes; "your mom isn't going anywhere, your mom is staying right here, no matter what" we're both crying even harder, and I whine softly at the lyrics and Jaime pulls me back in for a hug, kissing the side of my head.
"It's the second to last song, we've almost made it," he laughs.
The finale is simple, short and sweet; it begins with: "Dear Evan Hansen, today is going to be a good day, and here's why; because today...today, you are you, and...that's enough..." and then leads into a soft and quiet reprise of the third song from the soundtrack, For Forever.
When the final note trails off and falls silent, Jaime is the first to move and turns his phone back on, pausing the track before it loops around to the beginning again. As the music cuts out, we sit still, completely in silence - and then, after a while, the only noise I'm capable of making is a strangled; "oh!"
"Isn't is amazing?" Jaime gushes, and I rest my head back against the sofa, tears still on my cheeks, mouth open.
"I'm so...that was...I think my whole life has been changed..."
"Glad I had an impact."
"I...I need to go to New York, like...now...I need to see this...it's so perfect I just..."
Jaime laughs again, and I just stare blankly into space. Unsure what else to say, I just lean my head on his shoulder and blink. "Wow."
"What was your favourite song?"
"If I'm measuring by which one made me cry most, either You Will Be Found or So Big/So Small. But I honestly can't choose. The woman who plays his mom..."
"Rachel Bay Jones? She's incredible. She's just perfect in her acting and her vocals are insane..."
"Totally! And I love that you can hear the emotion in her voice. She's so in tune with her character..."
He chuckles, kissing me once more on my cheek. He's remarkably affectionate today. "I knew I'd make a Dear Evan Hansen stan out of you."
"Seriously, how much are Broadway tickets?"
He huffs, amused. "They start at $119."
"...oh. Alright, never mind."
"Here you go," a voice says behind me, surprising me, and then my vision is obscured by dark, soft fabric that smells of flowery conditioner as Mike drops all of the clean laundry on top of me.
Jaime and Mike both instantly burst into laughter as I struggle to untangle myself from the clothes, and Dad scoffs in the background. "Michael Christopher!"
"Get folding, Vic," he says, uppity and smug as I remove a t-shirt from over my face and glare at him, and he claps his hands in an indication. "Laundry isn't going to fold itself."
"I'm going to slap you."
"You never would."
"Wouldn't I?"
"No, because you're the responsible older brother and you love me."
He sits down cross legged beside me, gathering some of the laundry into his own lap, beginning to help me nonetheless, and I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's what you think."
"Oh, so you hate me really?"
"Yep."
"Gosh, same," he says, blank-faced, and then we both smile and I start actually helping him fold. Jaime, ever eager to please and help, starts folding my mom's blouses.
It's not much of a date - in fact, I think the closest we've got to going on an actual date, to a restaurant or some such place, is the lunch we had in Azucar months ago. Since then we've done many things - been for ice cream by the pond, baked biscuits in his kitchen, seen a movie, listened to music together, had breakfast...not conventional dates. But that's alright, actually; I think I rather prefer this method of relationship navigation, where we're enclosed from the outside world. Jaime has a bubble of intrigue and a definite spirit, and I'm part of it now. I'm inside the bubble, and it's so peaceful and tranquil here, and I like our quiet dates hidden from everything else. It's special and private, and perfect the way I want it.
Jaime was my window for normality, and Goddammit, now that I've somehow miraculously landed him, I can taste it. When he sits beside me like this and puts his right headphone in my ear and plays us music, when our hands touch and brush together, I almost feel like I'm out in the normal world. I almost forget, and even when I remember I'm not normal and that my hair is still falling out like nobody's business, it's not as terrible. He's my outlet and my skylight - through him, there is light I couldn't see before. My normalcy and my candle in the wind.
I backtrack as I think - I hesitate to use the word perfect. Nothing is ever perfect, but this is all feeling damn near close to it.
"Got any homework?" I ask Mike after some silence, and he scoffs, pulling a face at the laundry.
"Of course."
"Why are they still setting homework in the last week?" Jaime asks. "Nobody ever pays attention in the last week."
"They enjoy watching us suffer..." he trails off, humour fizzling out and turning damp. For a moment he stops folding, and then sighs . "This is Miss Elliot's last week...and Mr Lincoln's...I don't think Clairemont is going to be quite the same school in January. I want to get them all something. Flowers for Miss Elliot, and chocolates for Mr Lincoln because he's allergic to pollen. And I'll write them each a thank you card."
"That's a lovely idea, Mike," Dad nods approvingly, having a sip of tea. "When do you want to get them?"
"Sometime before the end of this week. Can we afford it?"
"We can afford some flowers, son," Dad chuckles softly.
"Cool." He goes quiet again for a second, folding clothes, and then sags and closes his eyes. He thinks nobody's watching his face falling - I see it, but I don't say anything. Mom and Dad are both still clueless about the trouble Mike's been having.
I have barely seen Mom in three days. She managed to find work at the job agency - although she's receiving redundancy pay, it's not as much as she would earn per month if she was working, so for the sake of petrol costs, feeding the family and paying off bills (as well her own sanity and peace of mind) she's taken a small, fairly well-paying job as a hotel housekeeper - good old, reliable pink-collar job, straightforwards and steady...only she's away all the time now. And as much as I'm supposed to be very independent by now, I really miss her and I want her home.
Because I can talk to Alex. I can talk to Jaime. I can talk to Mike too - but I will always hold back, because I'm extremely aware of their own life problems being at the front lines of their mental battlegrounds. Alex is right - I need a support system, and without Mom, Mom who helped brush my hair with a very fine comb when I was young, who styled it to cover the patches and make my hair look thicker, who picked me up as a five year old and swung me round to make me giggle, who cried at my high school graduation and posed with me for pictures and took a day off work just so she could take us all out for a fancy lunch to celebrate...without her, my support system falls through, a massive hole in it.
I'm a kid. Nineteen, yes - driving, yes - working, yes. But I still need my mom, and I always will. Almost every kid does.
"Mike," Jaime starts, frowning as he picks up another band tee; this one is Green Day. "This one still has a stain on it."
"Oh, don't worry about it," I jump in, passing the top over to Mike. "That's the infamous Curry Stain. It's been there for years, never comes out."
Jaime giggles, and with that one sound my mind clears up a bit. A boy with a bubble of intrigue to keep me grounded for now.
I only wish I didn't feel so guilty about how well I've been getting on with his parents. Jaime's been accepted into my family straight away, which is nothing less than I wanted and expected...but I didn't expect it reciprocated on the other side, and it delights me when Sarah settles down with her cup of coffee and her book on the arm of the chair and takes an interest in my life and treats me like I'm family myself, and when Andrew jokes with me, comfortable and easy, and laughs about his scatterbrain tendencies. And I feel awful about that - almost like I'm betraying my own parents by feeling so comfortable in somebody else's home.
Trying to shake off the odd and confusing mix of guilt and joy, I reach forwards to the coffee table and pick up my sketchbook, which has been staring at me for quite a while, and sigh. "I need to do art. But I don't want to do art. But I do, but I can't think of anything."
"Inspiration for your art running drier than my enthusiasm for school at the moment," Mike laughs bitterly, and we share a moment of melancholy humour before we both go back to misery. I've almost finished my pieces of Jaime, and sure enough, they turned out as brilliant as I wanted, which hardly ever happens - but I need to keep going and fill the pages, and now that the joy I got from drawing him has worn away at the end of the project, I can't really bring myself to do much else. I've come full circle - from believing my art is good and will send me places, to thinking nothing else I'm producing is good enough.
"Can I look at your sketchbook?" Jaime asks, handing Mike the last of the laundry, and I stop fiddling with the corners of the thick, ivory paper pages and nod, handing it over.
"Sure."
"Whoa," Mike gapes beside me, and I frown as he stares wide-eyed at the sketchbook.
"What?"
"You hardly let anyone touch your art."
Slowly, I just smile at him, and he rolls his eyes, disgusted by this oh-so-casual display of affection, and when I cast a glance at Jaime he's blushing a little.
Mike gets up and dusts himself down, collecting a pile of laundry and heading upstairs with it. As Jaime flicks through the pages, shaking his head in disbelief at some of them, awe-filled, Dad sighs and rubs his forehead. "I suppose I better go out and buy food shouldn't I?"
"Would be helpful," I reason. "What's for dinner?"
"Son, I do not know. What would you like? Or, rather, what do you think your mother would like?"
"How about that chicken thing in all the nice spices and lemon juice stuff? If you buy the food I'll cook it."
"I have no idea what's in it, but sounds good."
"Recipe book is in the kitchen."
He says nothing else; just watches me and blinks, trying to stare me down - so I just smile my most innocent, charming smile, and he eventually scoffs and gets to his feet to retrieve it rather than asking me. He grumbles as he walks away, but I catch the hint of amusement in his twinkling eyes.
And it's only quiet for a moment before Jaime laughs quietly, setting the sketchbook down open in his lap on a very basic little crayon I did quite a while ago of the Hufflepuff house shield. "You're so amazing," he says softly, and I look down at the picture to avoid blushing under his big hazel eyes.
"I'm by no means the world's best artist, Jaime."
"But you're amazing. Do you know how good these are?"
"I know they're good. But they could always be better."
"You're very hard on yourself," he says quietly, almost like he was going to think it to himself, but it came out of his mouth quicker than he could haul it back in.
He looks back down on the page and turns it over - here, I've drawn a fairy of sorts, stylised and in colours of pale green and blue, almost a water nymph or an ice pixie. The pencil lines, probably drawn in HB pencil by the looks of things, are still prominent under the soft, pale crayon colouring, and give it an impression of an image thrown together. It's okay.
"This is beautiful," Jaime gushes, tapping the page with one finger. "It's like you've captured movement in it. It's like you've captured some kind of expression of...lightness, and gentleness at the same time as ferocity...like there's intent here. How is that even possible? That's a gift right there. Where do you get your inspiration from?"
I hesitate, and then half open my mouth - and then close it again, and he looks back at me and grins, head tilted. "What? Go on. I'm interested."
"It's stupidly nerdy," I laugh, and one corner of his mouth twitches up.
"Try me."
"...alright. Well, in Victorian England, there was this art movement. They were called the Pre-Raphaelites and they aimed to totally modernise art. Basically, people of the time intensely disliked them because they were so different and even called them blasphemous, especially because of this one painting they did of a young Jesus Christ depicted as a red-headed kid in a working-class household, as opposed to the traditional evangelical depiction...anyway, they were big fans of this new and revolutionary idea of 'art for art's sake' and sought to express art as something to be celebrated, not...not adhered to. They had a huge interest in literature as well as material art, purely because...they loved it. So they wrote poetry too. That's my inspiration, the Pre-Raphaelites movement. I draw inspiration from the desire to create art for art's sake, from the simple wish to express."
"Wow..." he says softly, almost too quiet to hear, watching me speak intently, mopping up every word. "That's...brilliant. You love it so much."
"Thing is," I continue, half lost in the flow of my conversation, "I could have done anything. I know I could have done anything, I could have studied law like Alex the same I could have studied biology or sociology. But I didn't want it. Art...art, I really wanted. My heart was in it, and...look, when I first started doing art with Miss Christie in ninth grade, I was hardly an amazing artist. I was good at art, but my technique was all over the place...anatomy. Oh god, my grasp on anatomy was tragic. I was drawing eyes in the eyebrows and eyebrows in the hairline. And I took on foundation level art, and it was like...Miss Christie brought out the artist. And when I realised how to do things, how to piece things together, when I got my form right...I realised how much I needed it. I just loved creating. It clicked with me, I couldn't imagine doing anything else. Art is hard - it's difficult and intense and sometimes it drives me crazy, and I have a limit to what I can produce and if it's more work than fun I won't commit...but at the end of the day, my sketchbook will always be able to hold a piece of my mind I can't get my hands on."
Jaime looks down again at the page with the fairy, and traces a finger along the outline of a wing, careful, as if the fairy is real and he doesn't want to hurt it. "That's fantastic. It's the best thing, when you fall in love with your future like that. And you're just...amazing."
"I'm a perfectionist," I say, hesitant. "For me, nothing is ever quite good enough."
"But if your heart is all over it, why does it matter?" He says brightly, looking up at me again. We're close enough for our noses to just about be touching, and for me to see the smile crawling into his eyes, and for me to be able to smell the orange juice we had with breakfast on his breath. The bubble, the definite spirit, back once again, holding me still in time and space, slows me down. Eventually, I can just twitch up one corner of my mouth.
"Good point," I whisper, and kiss him softly, slowly, remembering the taste, drinking him in like I won't get the chance again.
"Ahem."
"Sorry," I exclaim suddenly and we spring apart as my dad reappears in the doorway holding a recipe book, eyebrows raised, and I blush as he smirks and goes to sit down again. His gaze momentarily averted, Jaime and I look at each other again and snort, laughing quietly in our embarrassment.
"You have your own room for a reason, Vic," Dad says shortly, sending is both back into giggles before he attempts to reign in the conversation. "Say, Jaime, do you intend to stay for dinner? Vic is an excellent cook."
"Undoubtedly, sir," he smiles shyly. "But I'll be going home for dinner, no need to feed another mouth."
"You're welcome if you ever want to join us. And please, none of this 'sir' business. You may call me Victor. Or, if you so wish, señor."
"Can I call you señor?" I ask, and Dad scowls.
"Certainly not, young man. You may refer to me only as Dad or The Last Jedi. No señor for you."
"Rude," I mutter, and Jaime laughs again.
It isn't quite midday yet - Jaime is going home in half an hour to help Sarah with the shopping, and then I'll be left to my own devices. I'm going to reorganise my room; try to organise all my sketchbooks, sort out the old and new paints, get rid of the failed pieces of art I've long abandoned that are still cluttering the desk. Figure out what new materials I might need, if I'm out of paint or if my copic markers are drying out. When my Christmas leave starts in about three weeks, I'm going to start looking at applying to universities, and pretend that thought isn't making me a little bit sick with nerves.
My portfolio is more than halfway complete now, sporting a variety of styles and techniques, with written additions that I write up neatly on black card in silver pen to explain the pieces and influences and types. It's impressive - it showcases the things I'm best at, depicts the things I love. When I was leaving school I asked Miss Christie if it would be a problem that I don't have a definitive style - she said no, because my style was love. My style didn't involve particular sketch patterns or colour schemes I was drawn to, or even a theme; my style was simply passion for art, and she said that came across in every piece and that it was enough. I've been thinking, as of late, that maybe it's not.
But Jaime has served as a peculiar reassurance on that front. If love is in it, what does it matter?
"Do you have a favourite Pre-Raphaelite painting?" Jaime asks quietly all of a sudden, and I pause and then nod.
"I do. It's called The Annunciation, and it was painted in 1880. That one, or perhaps Ophelia, which was 1852."
"How come?"
"Well, The Annunciation because I just find it captivating. It's a painting of Mary, as in the Virgin Mary, and she's curled up on her bed and she looks scared. And then beside her bed is the angel Gabriel, but the depiction of him is totally different to anything that had come before. He looks like a totally normal human, and the only hint that he's in any way ethereal is these little flames on his feet. And he's holding a lily, which of course is the symbol of fertility and purity in this context, and he's holding it so the stem is pointing at where her womb would be. It's basically a depiction of the moment she begins to carry Jesus. It's just...it was beautifully done and so clever and far ahead of its time."
"That is clever. What was the other one?"
"Ophelia? Ah, that one is completely different. It's a painting from the Shakespeare play Hamlet, based on the scene where one of the characters, Ophelia, drowns herself in a river. It's a painting of her floating in this river, and it's quite morbidly lifeless, but it's surrounded by this beautiful setting of flowers growing on the riverbanks and grasses and this very clear water, and Ophelia herself is a beautiful figure. I love it because it's art inspired by art, and I just think that's...really cool."
I don't realise how freely I've been speaking until I stop staring into space before me, waking myself up. Beside me, Jaime shakes his head. "You get so passionate when you talk about art."
"Well," I shrug. "To me, there's a whole lot to be passionate about. You know?"
"I know. So...I mean, do you consider yourself something of a Pre-Raphaelite?"
I tilt my head. "How so?"
"The way you make art, that's quite revolutionary I would think. Many people manufacture pieces for the sake of expectations or conform to styles...you do 'art for art's sake' as well."
"I suppose," I half smile, thinking about it, and then scoff and chuckle. "But only in an ideological sense. I'm far too high wired to be a Pre-Raphaelite. They were so incredibly loose in their attitudes."
"To what?"
"To everything."
"Like?"
Amused by his inquisitiveness, which grows every time we're together, I sigh and consider, the corner of my mouth twitching up. "Well, they were loose towards drinking, drug use, sex..."
"Ew," he grimaces, looking away again, and I laugh wholly at that, kissing his cheek, and then we fall back to silence and I play with his silky chiffon scarf; cream, covered in black images of feathers.
The birds sing outside. The day ticks on, time rushes by, that invisible magician on silver wings. Mike reappears once or twice to take up the rest of the washing and then vanishes for good, trying to get on top of his homework. He tells me to watch for the door - Nick is supposed to be coming round to help him study.
Dad heads out to go shopping. I sit on the floor of my living room, carefully paying attention to the rhythmic rise and fall of Jaime's chest as the minutes slip through our fingers. The future does as future does; looms before me, threatening. But for now, at least. That's alright.
* * * * *
Just as I'm about to turn off my lamp and cuddle beneath the blankets and get some sleep, a little red bubble appears on the corner of my mail icon on the home screen of my phone, with a "1" inside it. Curious as to who could be sending me emails at this time of night, I frown and open it, sitting up again.
From: f.christie@clairemont.net
Subject: Just a wondering...
Hi Vic,
Apologies for the far too late email, but this is a matter of utmost importance and having completely forgotten till now to contact you, this really can't wait till morning!
Nothing terrible, don't worry (I know you); quite the opposite. It has come to my attention that the San Diego Museum of Art is putting on a display over the Christmas period showcasing the best young artists from around the state. A number of schools were contacted to put forwards one pupil - now I may be bending the rules slightly, but I've put your advanced level coursework forwards for submission.
Perhaps, from a political viewpoint, I should have put forwards a current pupil - but since not one of my pupils holds so much as a candle to your talent and hard work, it really wouldn't have been fair. I've been saying since you were a sophomore that your work deserved to be seen by the masses, and now that the opportunity has come along I really couldn't pass it up on your behalf. Besides - I only remain employed at Clairemont for a further week before I trek on to pastures anew, so I may as well do something productive with my time.
You'll be getting an email from the museum fairly soon to confirm they've received the submission and then a subsequent email to tell you if they are accepting it for display - which they would be fools not to do.
As always, hope you're doing well, Vic! I have to say, being able to show off your work to angsty ninth graders is one of the things I will miss most about Clairemont.
Miss C
"Uh..." I say softly to myself, jaw dropped, eyebrows raised. As I read the email, my heart starts to race a little, speeding up with unbelievable excitement flowing through it.
"Oh my God," I mutter, starting to laugh, and I cover my mouth with one hand, rereading the email, making sure I haven't read it totally wrong. "Oh my...oh my God."
I jump start slightly, limbs instantaneously energised, and then, when I realise I really have read the email correctly I have to clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself making too much noise and waking up the entire house.
My art is going in the San Diego Museum of Art? Are Prince and Bowie back from the dead too?
Before I get too ahead of myself, I try to get myself to simmer down - being submitted is not acceptance, after all. They might decide my coursework isn't in-keeping with their theme, or just that it isn't good enough; but imagine if they did accept it.
That would be slightly cool.
"Oh Miss Christie, you brilliant person," I gush softly, unable to stop smiling, almost feeling able to cry. It's half eleven at night, so I'm desperately trying to cap the hysteria erupting in my stomach and making my head light and giddy.
I need an outlet for the high - so to my number one supporter I go, and whip out my laptop from beside the bed, knowing that even though it must be half one in the morning where he is, he'll probably be awake and he'll probably still answer.
Sure enough the dark blue of the call screen lifts to reveal Alex's face, and I smile broadly. "Alex!"
"Good evening, Fuentes, my friend," he says brightly, sipping a hot drink - it's probably coffee. I don't think I even remember the last time I called him and he wasn't halfway down some caffeinated drink. He sits with the laptop on the desk and his headphones in to hear my voice without it booming into the room, and in the background I can see both his and Jack's beds - Jack is nowhere to be seen, but his bed is a mess and covered in books and notes. "What brings you to the phone at this time of night?"
"I got an email," I start, buzzing slightly, almost shaky with excitement. "I've just now picked it up. It's from Miss Christie."
"Miss Christie?" He tilts his head, curious. "What's she after at this time of night?" He pauses, takes in my expression, and then grins slowly. "You look like the cat who got the cream."
"Oh my God," I say again in hushed tones, and cover my mouth for a moment to control myself, eyes closed, and then I reopen my phone and hold the email up to the screen, making sure it's close enough for him to be able to read it. He goes quiet as his brow furrows and his lip juts out slightly, concentrating on the text, eyes darting over the words, and then halfway through his eyebrows fly up and his jaw drops. "Holy shit!"
"I know!" I burst, turning the phone off and tossing it aside again, hands going to my cheeks as I feel them flush red.
"Vic that's amazing! Congratulations!"
"It's not a guarantee though," I buffer quickly, and Alex snorts.
"Yeah, because they're totally going to turn you down. Vic, your art is going to be on display in a museum! That's incredible! And you deserve it so much, I am so proud of you, dude."
"I'm actually buzzing," I whisper, because I know if I try and say it in a normal voice it'll come out as a squeal. "How many people get this opportunity? This is mad."
"I'm happy for you, but I'm not surprised," he says knowingly, with a wink. "Well done, buddy. Your hard work is already starting to pay off."
A warm feeling buzzing in my stomach and dissolving in my veins and being carried to my fingers and toes in my blood settles me and causes my cheeks to start hurting from smiling - but I finally reign myself back in and breathe out, trying not to vibrate. "Thanks man. Argh, God, I'm sorry, it's like, half two where you are."
"Don't worry, my sleep schedule is fucked anyway," Alex shrugs, having another sip of his drink, and then motions with his thumb to the wall on his left. "Rian and Zack are still up too. We all decided it would be a good idea to procrastinate our work till last minute and then die trying to get it done in the early hours of the morning."
"Wise," I nod, and then frown. "Is Jack not around?"
"Oh, he's around. He's at the Student Union services room, he's talking to Nightline."
I tilt my head. "Nightline?"
"Volunteer listening service," he explains. "He's having a hard time. His confidence is pretty low and he feels he's letting people down and not clever enough for university, feeling pretty lonely in his own head. Nightline are fantastic though, they'll take care of him. And we'll all take care of him too, when he gets back here."
"Poor guy," I frown. "I'd hug him if
I was there. And how are you getting on?"
"Actually, I'm alright," he says, half in disbelief. "Law is hard but I think I'm starting to warm to the course. It's difficult but quite interesting sometimes. I'm thinking I'll probably stick with it."
"Fantastic!" I chirp. "I'm glad you're settling into it dude. But hey, Christmas is coming up...do I dare ask about any plans?"
"I'm coming home with the folks," he winks, and just like that, the bubbles in my stomach start up again and start bursting and releasing little air pockets of warmth and sheer, unbridled joy. Jesus. This must be what it's like to be Mike.
I have to physically restrain myself from leaping into the air and instead clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut and wriggle slightly in celebration instead, and he laughs. "Thank fuck! When?"
"I won't be there for Christmas itself, but I should be there for a week either before or two weeks before. We'll meet up, for sure."
"You bet your ass we will!...Oh God, Lex, you look fucking exhausted. Look, I'll leave you alone, stop studying already, get some sleep. I'll probably speak to you tomorrow when it's a decent time for both of us."
"Don't know how well I'll sleep after drinking this," Alex holds up the cup, voice taking on a realistic note, but then smiles. "But I suppose it's worth a shot. Goodnight, Vic. And well done! I'm so proud of you."
He's said it before in this conversation - but somehow, on this signing off, I instantly switch from happy and joyous to somewhat tearful. I'm glad he's proud of me. I'm glad I'm making someone proud.
We sign off, and I fall asleep fairly easily. I dream multiple times, waking up after each spur of images in my brain. In the first one, the images are very blurred and non-memorable, but the soundtrack of Dear Evan Hansen crops up on several occasions. In the second one, it's equally nondescript but I'm very aware that in this dream, there is a paintbrush in my hand and I'm painting blue watercolour swirls onto something - it might be paper or a canvas or a wall. It doesn't matter. And then in the third one, my mom is there. Little happens - I only know I'm very young and that my mom is by my side, and she tells me she's proud of me. After that one, I wake up a little sadder - and then I force myself to think of my art in the museum and of the way Jaime smiled at me when I told him about Victorian art, and I cheer up a bit.
* * * * *