“I like your wardrobe,” Jamie tells him plainly, almost absent-mindedly, in between drinks of his beer. Michael Jackson still plays loudly around them, Rock with You fading out to get ready for the next song, but Jamie barely registers the sound with Gil sitting in front of him like that. He’s always demanded Jamie’s full attention, whether Gil’s been aware of it or not.
Jamie subconsciously adds that to the long list of things he admires about him– optimism and effortlessness finding themselves at the very top. (Incidentally Jamie’s list of things he admires about Gil and envies about him are identical.)
He smiles as Gil reminds him that everyone should dance– a Gil phrase, if there could ever be one– but doesn’t say anything of it. Ask me again, Jamie thinks, and I’ll do it.
“Hey,” he pouts in mock-defense, making a sweeping gesture around the messy office, as if it were a palace and not a tiny room in desperate need of some TLC, “I’m living the dream, baby! They only wish they could be me.” He sinks back into the couch, half-expecting it to swallow him whole, and takes another drink. The can is nearly empty now, but the refrigerator feels miles away. (For the record, he doesn’t know who they is.)
“Up to my ears in debt with a store that sells shit nobody but us wants anymore,” he finishes. It’s angry and bitter and entirely unlike him– or rather, it used to be unlike him. He talks as if he’s all but given up. Maybe he has; his guitars have been abandoned for nearly two years now, left to gather dust on his bedroom floor.
The truth is that Gil is infinitely better than Jamie, at damn-near everything: hopefulness and success and just life in general, if he really stops to think about it, and it’s Jamie who should have to fight to keep Gil around. He wonders why he hasn’t given up on him yet. He never asks, of course, for fear it’ll finally make him come to his senses. You’re right, Jamie, I don’t know why I put up with you. Have a nice life! Good luck with the store.
“Sorry,” he says a moment later. The thought is dark enough to pull him back to reality– they’re supposed to be celebrating– or at least scare him enough to genuinely mean it. "God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” he adds, but that’s a lie. Don’t leave me because I can’t seem to get my shit together is what he’d really like to say. Instead, he picks the easier excuse: “Long day. And too many goddamn bills I need to figure out how to pay.”
A pause, allowing a light chuckle to fall from his lips and into his beer. “Well, that’s a relief. All this time, I was starting to worry my attempts to impress you weren’t paying off.” It was always: Is this a gay thought or a jealous thought with Jamie. Since the summer before college, Gil had walked that thin tightrope.
For as ready for anything as Gil presented himself there were somethings he’d rather not risk.
Gil watched Jamie deflate, turning to face him. An arm propped up on the back of the couch, chin resting in his hand, “That’s not true. Music? Music’s like books or art. It’s -- Rob’s?” He waved his free hand, “-- This shop is a cornerstone of this community. You...” He exhaled.
You never give yourself enough credit anymore.
“Don’t apologize.” Was all Gil could respond, shaking his head, “Never apologize.” It took the place of all the things he wanted to say but didn’t have the words to. Gil was a smooth talker until he wasn’t. So he would have to improvise. “Forget about bills for tonight.” A pause before standing, “Alright? Alright. Come on then.” even going as far as to turn the music off, abruptly ending their party, “We’re movin’ this shindig,” Out of Rob’s where Jamie felt trapped, and away from bills and debt, “Don’t fight it.” a grin, walking backward towards the door, “This’ll be good for you. I promise.”
It wouldn’t take Jamie long to decipher where they were going. Gil’s house was very distinctive -- One, by the people on his street who hollered at him from their porches and windows, and two, by the green door (and seashell windchime not too far from their heads that was definitely from the 70′s and definitely his mother’s from whatever peace and love commune she was apart of at that time.
“My mother always got some kind of proverb she wants to beat you over the head with but some of them I do stand by.” he held the door open for Jamie, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door, “She would say: Your food is supposed to be your medicine. And I say good music goes with good food. So by this logic what we need right now is a good jam session in the kitchen and you can’t convince me otherwise.” Gil’s home looked about how you would expect it too: lots of orange and wicker and art on the walls.
He moved to his record player, long fingers flipping through the vinyl until he found what he was looking for, “While I set this up can I task you with seeing what I have in the fridge?” Looking over his shoulder, “Listen, if you hate it. We’ll stop. But just... Try for me, ok? Trust me.”