Chapter 2
They're right that hockey is Jesse's "special interest" of course.
Kirill's pretty sure Jesse's obsession invented the concept.
But some of Hartley's fans theorize that he secretly has a collection of fidget spinners, and Kirill doubts that.
Actually, the more he reads, the more Kirill's certain that his own dick is a stim toy for Jesse.
And his fingers of course.
And his hair.
And, well, him.
He doesn't exactly hate the idea of being one giant toy to Hartley.
Of being his to use, to self soothe with as he pleases.
Ugh, great, now he's horny.
He grabs lube from his bedside and pulls up the video of Hartley's post game interview.
He's already this deep, there's no sense pretending he'll be able to get off to porn tonight without his mind wandering here.
He stares at the pout of those lips.
Clearwater lost to Meridian tonight, so there's a lot of that pouting.
It's subtle, but easily recognizable to Kirill.
Kirill thinks about those lips wrapped around him.
About the fact that in a few days time, they will be.
He'll be here in this bed, clutching these sheets.
Maybe he'll ride Kirill.
Maybe he'll grab Kirill's hair when he's close to coming.
Kirill loves when he does that.
Sometimes he gets so lost in the moment that he yanks it hard and makes these soft little whines and—
Kirill spills over into his hand.
He always comes fast when he's thinking of Hartley.
Really, it's the most efficient choice.
He grabs a tissue to lazily clean himself off, the video playing on a loop as he does.
"It's, um, you know.
It's never fun to lose," Hartley says seriously.
Like this is a necessary statement that he needs to go on the record with.
Kirill smiles to himself.
Autistic
Maybe the stupid internet's right on occasion.
He drifts off wondering if this is another secret Jesse carries tight to his chest—or if he doesn't know.
Kirill's considering fist fighting the Google search bar.
He's eating breakfast (a greasy pretzel croissant sandwich from Dunkin' and a large iced coffee, which he sends a picture of to Hartley just to get a rise out of him) and staring at his screen.
He wants to look up how to support Jesse, but he doesn't know how.
He's no expert on search engines, but he's pretty sure there wouldn't be many results for:
how to support your booty call with autism that he may or may not know he has.
His thumbs stay still as he stares at the screen.
He almost does it.
He almost types
how to support your boyfriend with autism
or
how to support your lover with autism
Just for ease.
Definitely not to see how it feels against his fingers.
No.
How to support someone with autism
, he types, hitting search.
There's a wealth of results.
He takes out his laptop, opening a Google Doc so he can track the articles he reads and make a list of the most relevant points.
He's considering color coding it when he realizes with a startled laugh that this is something Hartley would do.
Well.
What's the phrase?
You are what you eat?
He moves onto the next article.
He's glad that he's picky and bought so many lamps.
Dim lighting is good, apparently, and at least this way Hartley will have options.
He just has to figure out how to let him choose without asking outright.
He's pretty sure Hartley would be weirded out if Kirill said,
"Now hang on, don't suck my dick just yet.
Tell me, is this lamp dim enough?"
He'll just go with the dimmest one, he decides.
One in the living room, one in the bedroom.
Actually, he should put one in the bathroom too.
The light is so bright in there now that he thinks about it.
He'll go to the antique store today and buy another.
Gloria, the woman who runs the place, probably thinks he has a lamp fetish, but whatever.
He needs one for the space that's small and soft enough.
He's reading about sensitivity to texture and re-thinking the blankets on his bed when Hartley responds to the breakfast picture.
Gross.
I can't believe you put that shit in your body
Kirill smiles, sends back:
It's as yummy as what you put in yours
Then, he remembers the article he read about how autistic people sometimes struggle to get jokes.
Hartley's always seemed to understand his humor fine, but just in case, he adds:
I mean my dick
Jesse replies:
Jesus.
It's not even 8 AM yet
And immediately after:
Your place tomorrow, right?
Kirill's smile widens.
He loves the way that Jesse always double checks plans.
God, he must have been so stressed during that snow storm years ago that prevented them from meeting up.
Did he know why?
Did his parents (Sara and Tom, his encyclopedic knowledge of Jesse unhelpfully provides) get him diagnosed?
Did they notice the way that Hartley folds his clothes in neat little piles?
The way his voice veers into a monotone when he's stressed, the way eye contact is the only thing he's ever failed at, the way he'll happily eat salmon and rice for every meal?
Did they take him to an expensive therapist's office with a chair that was too big and a white noise machine that made him cringe?
Or did they do what Kirill did until last night and think to themselves:
Oh, that's just Jesse.
Charming, sweet, perfect Jesse.
He hopes it's the former.
He hopes Jesse has always had the answers, has never had to ask, "why am I like this?" while tearing himself to shreds.