Title: Everything is Never Enough
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, post-Clerks
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: NC-17 for masturbation, extreme language
Status: posted 4 December 2004
Archive: You must send an email to me and let me know where you
intend to archive. Private archiving allowed as long as you
don't intend to publish. Behave.
Email address for feedback:
Kelandris
Series/Sequel: Part I of an actual trilogy. At friggin' last.
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Kevin Smith and the View
Askewniverse. If I really get into this, I probably will too. Or
at least go into hock when I walk into a video store, go into
rut, and buy all the DVDs at once.
Notes: Woke up with this first story in my head this morning
and wrote the next two straight. Kind of cool. This is, btw,
entirely the fault of Dead Grrl's plot bunnies.
Outline: Jay wakes up with a typical problem.
"Everything is Never Enough"
by Kelandris the Mad
Jay shook his head, shaking his blond hair out of his eyes, and
sat up in bed. He glanced over at the bedside clock and
groaned. Christ, it wasn't even noon yet. What the fuck was
he doing up?
He reached by instinct for the pack of cigarettes and the
lighter, lit one by reflex, tossing the pack aside. He kicked
free of the jumble of bedding and walked over to the closet.
He swung the door open slowly, staring into the mirror bolted
into the other side.
Nineteen-year-old boy. On the skinny side, but some muscle
definition from fighting. Pale. Fuckin' goth pale, he
thought, shaking his head, but fuck if he could ever be one of
those posers. Girlfriend had handed him a clove cigarette
once, and he'd liked the taste, he'd even liked the way the
first inhale had calmed him *right* down, like someone'd
pinned him to the floor. But the only black gear he owned
was his boots, bought secondhand in a military surplus shop
over in Trenton, and his collection of fine band shirts, which
he wore with pride. And most of the band names on 'em would've
caused any of those Bauhaus-lovin' motherfuckers to shriek and
run for the nearest dark alcove to huddle in lacy despair.
Poser fags.
He smiled ironically, looking at the boy in the mirror. Oh
yeah, like you have room to talk, sweet stuff, gettin'
chubbies for your chubby roommate. Goddamned fat motherfucker,
had no fuckin' clue how hot he was, no clue how everyone
started lustin' after him when he walked by. Striding through
life in that black trench that fit him so damned well. Man had
style, definite style, and class, but no clue.
Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair. Five years. Five
years he'd lived with Silent Bob, and he'd been dropping hints
since six months in. And fuck, he knew Bob was brilliant, and
who needed a statutory charge, he got that. Not that his
family would fucking care one way or the other--Dad was dead,
Mom was drunk, his one sister had run away from home a year
before he had. But still, somebody could've said *something*;
one meddling social worker would've been enough. And
especially two years in, in their line of work, who needed
trouble from the cops. Fucking cops.
But then he'd turned eighteen, and it wouldn't have mattered,
and hadn't he made that fucking clear at least? Silent
motherfucker. Either he didn't know, or worse, he didn't
care.
He looked down with a sigh. Shit. Clear to this point, and now
one thought...The front of his shorts were tenting out. Sighing
again, he reached down and began beating his meat, thinking of
Silent Bob. That soft, kissable red mouth. The soft
shoulder-length hair, seal-dark and shining. Uhh...yeah...He
closed his eyes, leaning against the doorframe of the closet,
t-shirts brushing against his bare back. Oh, yeah...Fuck, Bob,
yeah...
Two precise knocks on the door, quick and succinct.
"Coffee," said the soft voice, and Jay bucked forward, hearing
it. Hot come splashed his hand, and he grimaced, shaking his
head. One fucking thought, one fucking word, and it was all
over.
"Be out in a minute," he gasped, reaching for a discarded
t-shirt to clean up. Shit. *Shit*. Fat motherfucker...Why the
hell couldn't he be normal, and fall in love with someone had
tits for God's sake?
His mind skittered nervously towards one of the times he'd
walked in on Bob in the shower. Well, Bob...
*Fuck* that. Fuck that. He glanced towards the clock again,
realizing it was just past noon. He'd been mirror-gazing for
twenty minutes. Shit. He was sick of this, *sick* of it. He
got dressed quickly, shoving his shorts and the tee into the
basket by the bed. Hurt, and feeling the need to wound, he
walked out of his room.
"Hey, fat ass, what do I have to do to get some food around
here?"
He watched Bob sigh, and point towards the fridge with one
cigarette-holding hand. Master of the elegant fucking gesture,
thought Jay, sneering. Then Bob slid a mug of coffee towards
him and he swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. He
stared down at the inky black liquid and knew that when he
drank it, there would be enough sugar to kill four diabetics in
the mug. Just what he liked. And Bob knew. Bob just knew.
Five fucking years, Jay thought. Gives me everything and it's
never enough. I only want what he won't give me. Shaking his
head, Jay walked from the kitchen, falling onto the couch as he
watched Bob fix breakfast. As both of them had known he would.
**Jesus, how does he stand me?**
END
************
Kelandris the Mad
oh yes there are sequels
If you wanna go back, go back. If you wanna read the next one, read the next one. If you wanna go somewhere else...hey, I ain't stoppin' you.
Or if you want, write me.
